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dreamdrbbles · 8 months ago

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so here’s my first drabble! interpreted from a very fun dream i had. it’s definitely a fantasy, so if you don’t mind suspended reality a little bit with me.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve finally convinced yourself to go back to school and get your degree, you’re late to your first class and your professor doesn’t take too kindly to tardiness. or, does he?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: aaron pierre as dr. pierre & the black!fem reader as you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: heavy smut, power imbalance, daddy kink, crude language, a bunch of grown folks things. minors do not interact.

Going back to school was your greatest accomplishment to date. At thirty, it wasn’t easy to take the leap and register for classes. You were terrified of being seen as the old freshman, but your dreams held more weight than your ego. You were proud of the life you’d built, sacrificing your own education to work and save so your younger brother could have the college experience he deserved. At just eighteen, you stepped up for your family, getting a full-time job to help fund his education. Now, ten years later, your baby brother was well on his way to earning a master’s degree. It was finally time to center yourself for once.

“Shit!” you yelped, bolting upright in bed. Your alarm hadn’t gone off, and the panic was immediate. You were supposed to be up an hour ago, but now you were going to be late for your very first college class. The one everyone told you not to take because it was at 8 a.m. You’d brushed them off, thinking, I used to wake up earlier than that for work. I got this. Clearly, you didn’t. It was 7:15, and you had 45 minutes to pull yourself together and get to Magnolia A&M University, your local HBCU.

Luckily, you’d picked out your outfit the night before. You had work later at the country club, and tennis lessons were on the schedule. That meant your Nike tennis skirt and matching top would have to do. After a rushed shower, skincare routine, and throwing your hair into a curly pineapple, you grabbed your keys. It was a ten-minute drive to campus, but with your luck today, who knew if you’d make it on time?

Magnolia A&M wasn’t just a school; it was a deliberate choice. Your family had always valued community and Black excellence, so an HBCU was a no-brainer. Every time you stepped on campus, you wished you’d started right after high school. Now, at thirty, you felt too old for frat parties or the Battle of the Bands, but you still loved the sense of unity. The royal blue and orange school colors? You wore them with pride.

You sped to campus like you had a getaway driver’s license, thanking the ancestors you didn’t get a ticket. After finding the right building, you made it to the lecture hall only 15 minutes late. African-American History was your first class of the day—and your minor. It had been the first course you registered for, the one you were most excited about.

As you pushed open the lecture hall doors, all eyes turned toward you, including those of your professor. You couldn’t see him clearly from the back of the room, but his posture alone radiated disapproval. Your stomach sank as you scanned the rows of seats. Of course, the only open spot was smack dab in the front row. Middle seat.

You braced yourself for the walk of tardy shame. Muttering “excuse me” and “sorry” at least ten times, you maneuvered your thick frame between tables and chairs. The awkward ordeal felt like it dragged on forever, but finally, you slid into the empty seat, heart racing.

The professor’s voice was what caught your attention first—deep, rich, and laced with a smooth British accent. You froze mid-search in your bag for a notebook and pen. When your gaze finally lifted to meet his, you nearly forgot to breathe.

Goddamn.

The word echoed in your mind before you could stop it. Beautiful wasn’t a word you usually reserved for men, but no other word fit. His sharp, masculine features contrasted with a pair of thick lashes framing aquamarine eyes. His neat facial hair outlined full, pink lips, and you couldn’t stop your thighs from pressing together as a very salacious thought crept into your mind. one that started with his wet duo on your first set of lips, and ending on your second.

Focus, girl. Eyes off the man and on the syllabus.

You forced yourself to listen, trying to ignore the low hum of his voice that made your spine tingle. Curiosity bubbled up as you wondered what a man from London was doing teaching African-American Studies in Texas. Almost as if reading your mind, he began explaining.

He told the class how reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X in middle school ignited his fascination with race relations in the West. That fascination led him to pursue a bachelor’s, master’s, and doctorate in African-American Studies. The name “Dr. Aaron Pierre” on your schedule had conjured an image of an older, graying professor who had more experience than book knowledge. You weren’t expecting a thirty year old Adonis who looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ.

The class went on like normal, an introductory first day of school. The hour ticked by as you gawked at your professor’s arms in the fitted black polo shirt he wore. It wasn’t until everyone around you had gotten up that you realized class had been dismissed. You followed suit, only to have your name called out in that deep baritone. How had he remembered it? Your introduction was one of the first of at least seventy-five.

“Can I see you in my office? You missed the first few minutes of class, just want to make sure you’re up to speed.”

Your throat was suddenly rivalry for the Sahara desert, your stomach hollowed. You were about to get kicked out of your first college course, all because your stupid alarm didn’t sound. You followed him to his office in silence, he opened the heavy wooden door for you and you ambled inside. Once the door closed behind you, you turned on your heels with an explanation at the ready. Until you realized his eyes were scanning your frame.

“The outfit… it’s different.” His comment caught you off guard, making your brows knit together. Was he picking on you? You glanced down at your tennis skirt. It hugged your curves, sure, but it wasn’t like you’d rolled out of bed in pajamas.

“I work after class,” you explained, tone sharp but polite. “I’m a tennis instructor.” His eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of interest flashing across his face. “Tennis?” He asked as he walked past you, to the other side of the cherry wood desk.

“Yeah, tennis.” You straightened your back, meeting his gaze. You’d been playing since elementary school. Your parents always joked that you could’ve been the next Venus or Serena, but you were realistic. You weren’t that good, just good enough to teach seven and eight year olds the basics.

Dr. Pierre leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. “Let me be clear. Lateness will not be tolerated in my class. I take my work very seriously, and I expect my students to do the same.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. He really expected a room full of teenagers and young adults to be on time for an 8 a.m. lecture? Cute, and delusional. “Dr. Pierre,” you said, softening your voice. “I apologize. My alarm didn’t go off, and I worked late last night. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

His gaze lingered on you, and then he said, with absolute confidence, “I know.”

Your head tilted slightly, trying to figure out what he meant. He didn’t know you. And he sure as hell wasn’t your daddy. “Uh, okay. Whatever that means,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

He smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips—and then, to your utter shock, said, “You’re beautiful.”

“Tha-thank you,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Pierre’s expression remained unreadable as he began to close the distance between you. Each deliberate step sent a jolt of electricity racing down your spine, rooting you to the spot. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think—completely stunned by his actions. By the time he was within arm’s reach, your breath was shaky, uneven. His hand reached out, wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. The warmth of his touch sent a spark up your arm, and before you could process it, he pulled you closer.

Your chest brushed against his, and the faint, intoxicating scent of teakwood and cedar enveloped you. The combination was rich and grounding, but it wasn’t just the cologne—he smelled good. Too good.

He leaned down slowly, his aquamarine eyes locking onto yours, heavy with intent. You were hyperaware of everything in that moment; the way his grip lingered, the heat radiating from his body, and the way his lashes framed those impossible eyes. Your faces were so close now that your noses barely brushed. The faintest touch, but enough to make your heart race like you’d run a marathon.“Can I?” he murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth, like a secret meant only for you. The words hung in the air, and without hesitation, you gave him what he needed, your consent.

The moment his lips met yours, the world seemed to fade away. His kiss was slow, deliberate, and impossibly soft. He moved with care, as though savoring every second, every touch. You felt your knees weaken, and for a fleeting moment, you feared you might melt into the floor right where you stood. The scent of him, the warmth of his lips, the way his hand slid down to cradle the small of your back—it was all-consuming. Time slowed, and the only thing that existed was him. When he pulled back, just enough to let your noses brush again, his eyes searched yours as if waiting for a sign. Your lips still tingled from his kiss, and your heart thundered in your chest.

“I-I’m going to be late for work.” You stumbled, he laughed, amusement of the irony coming from the depths of his diaphragm. “You didn’t give a fuck about being late to my class, am I not just as important? Hm?” He inquired, tilting your head up so that you were staring in those oceanic orbs. He subtly pushed you backwards until the bend of your knees collided with his desk. With ease, he picked you up and sat you on top of it. He kneeled down before you, as if your body was an altar he would pray to. “You smell so good.” He uttered as he leaned in and pressed his nose to the center of your now soaked panty, taking in your aroma. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to you.

“I can’t believe this…” You meant to keep that inside, but clearly your mind had other plans.

“Believe it.” He responded with a laugh. “I wanted you the moment I saw you walk in my class, baby.” Skillfully he pulled your panties off completely, opening the drawer next to him and dropping them in there as his own personal souvenir. He pushed your skirt up onto your body until it was damn near a belt, balling up the pleats in his hands as he devoured your center, lick by lick.

He feasted on you as if he would never be nourished again, sipping your waters as if they came from the finest of natural spring. hell, clearly they had. “Oh my fucking God!” You squeaked as his lips wrapped around your pulsating clit, giving it a sweet, sloppy french kiss. His middle and index finger grazing your drenched slit as he slipped both inside. his thick digits filled you up, causing your muscles to tighten around him. He grunted against your pussy, imagining how tightly you would grip his manhood.

“That’s not my name princess, I’m not God.” He was to you, in this moment. he had sucked your free will right out of your coochie. What was his fucking name? “What’s my name?” He inquired as if he was reading your mind once again. His fingers continued to please you, grazing his smooth tips against your ribbed g-spot. This nigga had a Ph.d in more than just some history. “Doctorrrrrrrrr….” You whined out, dragging out the profession as he pressed sweet kisses right above your gushing mound while you smothered his digits in your sweetness.

“Doctor….daddy!” You cried out, hoping that there was no one in the near vicinity that would’ve heard your outburst. Another laugh as he slowly slid his fingers out of you, now covered and dripping in your cum. “Doctor daddy..I like that.” He retorted before slipping his fingers into his mouth, cleaning you off of him one by one as you watched in awe. Stunned by his insistence of eye contact. Removing his fingers, he used the same two to beckon you to come close to him, once you sat up he leaned over you, his lips ghosting yours before he spat the mixture of your cum and his saliva into your mouth before engaging you in a messy lip lock.

The kiss was the distraction. You had completely missed the unbuckling of his belt, the sound of his zipper or him removing his hard inches out of his dress pants. Before you realized it, he pulled you to the edge of the desk and slipped inside of you. Your walls reacted before your brain could, gripping onto him for dear life. So surprised by the intrusion that it felt like you would push him out all together. Your breathing hitched, in a way to relax your body so that he could continue exploring the depths of you.

“Augh!” You groaned out as he worked the first few inches of himself in and out of your throbbing center. He pressed his lips to yours repeatedly, whispering for you to hush every now and again. “Be a good girl, take this dick…if you can be late to my class, surely you can handle dick.” He mumbled, his accent causing a chill to run up your spine. He was gentle, despite his rough approach. He fed you little by little until your pelvises collided and you were completely full of him. He laid you on the desk, hands on each side of your head, eyes connected as he began to stroke, deep and powerful. “Look at you, such a pretty girl. Wrapped around me like you love me.”

‘I DO.’ You wanted to scream. But instead melodic moans escaped your warm lips, words were inconveniently absent. You can tell your lack of verbal participation was bothering him just a bit, by the way the swing of his hips picked up with every new thrust. After a moment or two, he was fucking you relentlessly. His thick crown had found your spot and was no longer caressing it with care. He was beating your shit.

“Are you gonna’ be late again?” he asked, every syllable being drilled into your guts. Your stomach twisted and turned with each pump, but he peered down at you like he expected an answer, like your brain could comprehend what he was even saying.

You parted your lips to speak, but failed once again, a moan being the only verbalization you could produce. the strokes came to an abrupt stop, he pulled out of you without so much as a warning. “Wait!” you called out, desperately, holding your hands out like you could put him back in your damn self. he chuckled darkly. “You think you can ignore me and cum?”

You couldn’t realistically promise you’d never be late again, you didn’t control traffic, or flat tires, or bad hair days but you would’ve said anything to feel him again. “I’ll never be late again, Doctor. I promise. Just please…let me cum all over you.” You purred, making empty promises.

“I don’t believe you.” He added curtly, slapping the head of his massive erection against your clit, watching his pre-cum glaze your bulb. “But your pussy feels too good for me to argue.” He concluded as he entered you again, continuing his euphoric pillage of your body. The knots in your belly felt permanent, your toes curled as your legs wrapped around him. Your climax approaching with the volt of a thousand watts. His wood throbbed inside of you, pulsating with the same intensity. He was meeting you at your peak. “Fuck…” He grunted, proving your theory right. You draped your arms across his neck, leaning in and pressing your lips to his jawline, placing kisses until you reached his ear. “Cum with me, Dr. Pierre…I wanna feel you dripping out of me.” Your salacious words seemed to do the trick as both of you unraveled at the very same time.

You should’ve felt shame, or even disillusioned. But you felt nothing short of satisfied and empowered. Your legs were shaking and you were full of a strangers seed, but dammit was your first day of school memorable.

“8:00 AM, Wednesday. Don’t be late…” He spoke as he buckled his belt, looking up at you with those piercing orbs. “Oh, and that seat in front of me is now your assigned seat.” He added, prompting a laugh to fall from your lips.

“See you Wednesday, Dr. Pierre.” You concluded as you exited his office and back into the real world.

Fuck, you were late for work.

#aaron pierre smut #aaron pierre x black!reader #aaron pierre x black reader #black writers

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saiilorstars · 1 month ago

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The Snack Fairy

Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary: You run the behind the scenes for the new Avengers and Bucky tries to make your life a little easier.

Taglist: @arrthurpendragon @maaaaarveeeeel @stareyedplanet @gloryekaterina @lenonizi @averyhotchner @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @castielscaplan

i’m keeping the usual taglist but since this is y/n/reader work, please let me know if you’d like to be removed from this specific taglist!!

Bucky and the rest of the team dragged their feet into the living room. Another day, another mission. Everyone was exhausted. All they needed was five minutes just to close their eyes and rel—

"You guys have about 2 minutes before Valentina walks in with your next assignment," you announced and every single person snapped their eyes open.

"Oh, c'mon, when the hell did you get here?" John groaned. A little down the couch, Ava grabbed a throw pillow to cover her face.

With his eyes opened, Bucky could see you standing at the threshold with your trusty tablet in hands. Unlike him and everyone else, you stood in crisp and neat clothing, hair definitely put together, ready to work like always. You always were.

"I'm not kidding. She's on her way," you repeated and walked a few steps into the room, your heels clicking behind you.

"Y/N, we just got back," Yelena groaned. She laid on the sofa chair, her legs dangling over the armrest. "You should tell her if she walks in here with another stupid assignment, she runs the risk of being thrown out the balcony."

You smirked. "That would be very un-Avenger of you." You walked up to them at the couches and took in their rugged and worn out states. "I'm sorry, I wasn't able to hold her back. She says it's important."

"Every mission is important, according to her!" John exclaimed.

"This one's easy. Alexei already took off to take the lead."

A collective groan left everyone's mouths.

"Of course he did," muttered Yelana who closed her eyes. "Ten minutes. I want ten minutes to take a nap. Is that too much to ask for, y/n?"

"Guys, it's not y/n's fault," Bucky cut in, earning your appreciative nod. "Valentina works her as much as she works us."

God knew that y/n had to deal with Valentina's crap almost as much as the team did. You were the 'new avengers' publicist and more than that, Valentina's coordinator for just about everything. Anything that had to be done went through you, and you always got it done.

"Minus the deadly fighting stuff," you added. "But I do work very hard, thanks Bucky. I'll see you in a bit?"

Bucky nodded at you. "We'll be in the meeting room in ten."

You smiled. "Thank you." She eyed the rest of the team before leaving.

As soon as you were gone, the rest of the team started groaning again, throwing multiple jabs at Bucky for his interference.

"You always do this!" John exclaimed.

"Stop dragging us into your love life!" Ava's muffled cry was perfectly heard by Bucky.

"Seriously, Bucky, if you like her, take her out on a date. Don't give us more work to do just to get on her good side!" Yelena gave Bucky a stink-eye.

"What?" Bucky looked at all of them annoyed. "She just told us that we had work—"

"That's her job, she's always going to tell us we have more work," said John, deadpanning Bucky. "But we would really appreciate it if you got on her good side without dragging the rest of us into it."

Ava raised a silent thumbs up beside him.

"Okay, you're all stupid and we have work to do. Now hurry up," Bucky got up and walked past them, kicking Ava's leg that was dangling off the couch.

She pulled the pillow off her face, revealing glaring eyes, and sat up. "Seriously? We don't get those 10 minutes?"

"Let's go!" Bucky called.

True to your word, Valentina had arrived within the next 2 minutes and was waiting for the team in the conference room. Bucky could hear her start complaining to y/n about their tardiness and how incompetent it was from your part.

"Knock it off, Valentina, we're here," he said as he walked (faster) into the room. He hated hearing Valentina talk down to you. She liked to think that everything could be done perfectly without you when everyone knew that by herself, Valentina couldn't do three things in a row without messing up.

Bless your heart, though, you never complained. You were used to it and usually brushed off the snide comments.

Bucky, however, never forgot each comment. It was why he always tried following your instructions and plans on the first go, why he always made sure that everyone else never gave you a hard time for all the work you asked from them. You were the sweetest, most professional person he had ever known and you only deserve the best.

So…maybe he did like you a little bit. He thought he was a little more subtle about it but according to the others, he wasn't. Still, you never seemed to catch on so maybe he wasn't all that obvious.

Valentina presented their newest mission, which in truth wasn't that bad as the one they had just come from. It was a simple collection mission with an estimated short time duration. They would be back in two days tops. No one was happy about it but they each went to shower and get ready.

You were in the living room again going over a few details on your tablet when Bucky re-emerged freshly changed. You looked up from the couch with a kind smile.

"You're looking better," you remarked, "Sorry you have to hop on another plane again."

"Not your fault," Bucky said, coming over to you. You straightened up and shifted to face him once he sat down. "I don't think you're in charge of the mission schedules."

"The rest of the team seems to think I am," you said, scrunching your nose. "Trust me, if I was, I'd be spreading them out way better than Valentina."

"They're idiots, trust me," Bucky said, and you chuckled softly. He smiled at that. You were very pretty when you laughed.

"If you need anything, let me know," you said after a while. "I'm making the weekly order tomorrow. Bob's requested more frozen fruit for smoothies. He's really into them right now. I won't tell you what Yelena requested."

Bucky smiled with you and agreed it was best to keep that request a secret. "What about you?" he asked suddenly and caught you off guard.

"Huh?"

"What about you? What do you need this week?"

You blinked at the question and chuckled out of sheer confusion. "I don't really — I don't really make personal orders. Val would kill me if I used 'Avenger' money for my own needs."

"But you're here like 24 hours anyways. You should get what you need and leave it here. What's your favorite go-to snack?"

"It doesn't really matter, Bucky…"

"Yes, it does. C'mon," he gave you a little gentle nudge on your side, "first thing that pops into your head. What is it?"

You gave it very little thought, honestly. "The apple-cinnamon fig bars from the Nature's bakery brand."

"See? You should add those to the list!"

"I'm-I'm not doing that, Bucky," you insisted, "Valentina would literally kill me."

"Over fig bars? You've stayed at the tower anyways when we're all working late."

"Exactly, for work," you reminded, though memories of late night movies with the team and take-out dinners didn't exactly fit with the 'work' idea. "Usually anyways…"

Bucky knew what you meant and chuckled. "C'mon y/n, you and I both know that this team — Valentina herself — would not be able to function without your hands."

You flushed and chuckled, this time very, very nervously. "I mean…that might be a little bit of an exaggeration. I can't do half the things you guys can. Not even a quarter of it, actually."

"Brains over bronze any day," said Bucky clearly. "And you definitely have the brains, y/n. Don't let Valentina tell you otherwise."

Your flush grew stronger and you found the only way to fight it was by ducking your gaze and focusing on your tablet. "Thanks, Bucky."

The sound of footsteps and indistinguishable murmuring broke the moment. Bucky and y/n looked over just as the team started coming in. Soon, the team was gone and the tower was empty again.

These were, as you called it before, 'slow days'. You wouldn't say it out loud but you came to miss the chaos that the new Avengers typically brought on a daily basis. Whether it was the usual arguments between Ava and John, Alexei's constant pushes for "more advertisements", Ava and Yelena finding ways to ruin John's day, or poor Bob trying and failing to keep the peace amongst them — it was always chaotic, never boring.

The slow days were just that — slow. This was the time where Valentina pushed you even more to have things ready for when the team returned. These were the 'behind the scenes', if you will.

Unbeknownst to the team, these were also the days you spent the most time in the Tower. You definitely slept over sometimes, which was why Bucky's suggestion of adding your own personal things to the list was more present in your head than ever.

You would love some snacks right now, but God knew how much John would explode if you touched any of his things. Ironically, he was the one who ordered the most snacks. Bob, on the other hand, wouldn't mind if some of his things went missing. You would replenish it in the next weekly order.

~ 0 ~

The team was in and out of the tower after their last mission. They spent possibly about a day or two before they were shipped off again. You, unfortunately, missed out on seeing them.

When you finally returned, you found Bob reading a book in the lounge room.

"How fortunate we are to see you out of your little cave," you joked on your way in.

He peered up from his book with a grin on his face. "It's not that sunny today." He made a slight nod at the windows. He preferred to put himself up in a sunny spot when he read. It made things feel less…cooped up.

You glanced at the windows covered in rain. It had not stopped raining the whole day, making things feel about ten times more gloomy. "Yeah, I know," you sighed.

"Where've you been?" Bob said, propping himself up more on the couch. "The team was here for a bit, Bucky asked for you."

"He did?" You tried not to let the excitement be so evident on your face. To help, you made a beeline for the kitchen. "Did he, uh, need something?"

Whether or not your efforts of casualness were decent, Bob didn't poke at it. He just answered simply. "Think he wanted to tell you something."

"Me?" You came up to the cabinets for a drink. That was up for grabs for sure. "About the team?"

With the cabinet doors blocking your face, you missed Bob shrugging from the couch.

"I don't know. I didn't really ask. Sorry!"

"It's not your fault, Bob. If it was important, he would've left me a…message…"

Bob noticed the sudden pause in your words. He tried peering as much as he could on the couch without falling but he still couldn't catch your face. "Something wrong?"

You had frozen for a moment, eyes catching the familiar green snack box. Apple-cinnamon fig bars. Your hand reached out for the box and pulled it off the shelf. "Bob…" You closed the cabinet doors, "Did you order these?"

Bob saw the box in your hands and immediately shook his head. "No, why?"

"No reason…" You set the box down on the counter and stared at it for a long while.

Bob thought you were acting weird but he didn't want to be rude and point it out. He picked up his book and pretended to read, his eyes glancing up from it every second or so to keep watching you.

You picked up the box again and turned it around. Your name was written on it in a black marker. You recognized the handwriting instantly. You had definitely not ordered them, but you had an inkling suspicion of who had.

You felt the stupid grin spreading across your face. Something warm blossomed in your chest at the same time. It was dumb as hell, feeling like this over a little box with 6 bars inside.

So what if Bucky ordered them for you?

So what if it meant that he had thought about you in the short period he had returned from his mission?

So what?

Bob, who had been staring at you from the top of his book silently, finally gathered the courage to call your name (gently). "You okay?"

With a face on fire, you met his gaze and nodded fervently. "Yup! Aha! Just — you want a snack, Bob? A drink? A—?"

"Pretty sure I probably shouldn't be drinking…" Bob reminded her awkwardly, prompting you to enter a stammering phase.

He thought you were acting seriously strange going through the kitchen trying to come up with a good snack for him. He didn't even pick up when you asked him when Bucky was supposed to get back from this new mission in such a nervous-y voice.

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simp-ly-writes · 6 months ago

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A Noble Act

─────── · · For All Time: The Series (pt.6)

─ · · PAIRING: The Doctor x F!Time Lord!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: There are two definite things in this universe. One, Donna Noble will get the Doctor and the Lady back together. And two, she was going to do whatever it takes to make it happen.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, second person perspective, canon divergence, soulmate au, mutual pining, emotional angst, ✨ jealous!Doctor ✨, suggestive themes, kissing, eventual happy ending, not beta read.

─ · · A/N: sorry that it skips around a bit, was trying to fill in the time between events but nevertheless I hope you all enjoy this second-to-last part!

─────── · ·

~ Prior to the Gardens...

Donna Noble has had quite enough to put it simply. She was sick of the Doctors constant moping and pouty stares off into space like a lost puppy caught out in the rain. Sick of his defensive quips and strike-backs to make her stop asking about you. And she was most certainly sick of nobody doing anything when you both obviously just needed to kiss and make up already.

So when she stepped foot back onto the TARDIS, Donna Noble had a plan... to get two Time Lords back together like some romantic-comedy gone wrong. How exactly would she do this?- she had to do some research first and brew herself a bot of tea to enjoy with it.

The Doctor was suspicious of why his companion all the sudden was digging through the deepest of storage rooms and climbing up the highest shelves in the library to stick her nose into dusty books and boxes yet in the grand scheme of things, this was the least weird thing he had encountered and so he let his companion be.... for now.

─────── · ·

The Lady is a member from one of the most powerful houses on Gallifery who are thought to be descendants from the original Time Lords line and thus is where her title was established. Her house oversaw smaller states across the red planet and acted as the main conductors for interplanetary relations. Originally, she was set for a political marriage to ensure the lineage of her house but after careful consideration another member was pulled. The reason for why this change happened was unknown to the public for many years and many suggested that the cause was her finding her soulmate. It wouldn't be until several years later until answers were provided as the Lady made her relationship with rivalling house member, the Doctor, public. It was very well known how their parents detested one another so to see this union was a shock to all socialites and papers.

Donna held onto every word of the textbook fixed between her hands, cooing and aw-ing at the Doctors seemingly 'love story for the ages' as this writer put it or as Donna read between the pages, a 'jealous love story of the ages'. As she snickered at the rivalry between the Doctor and the Master for your hand. To be fought over, Donna sighed before shaking her head and Flipping forwards to the next page, she saw an old portrait of yourself from regenerations ago.

Yet falling out onto her lap between the pages was a chain of paper flowers and hearts, it is all sickly sweet, too sweet, she thought to herself and she would be correct in picking up her next book, The History of the Time Wars, that crushed her high spirits.

Said to be the true war to end all wars and to some part it was to an outsider looking in. Two greatly evolved species, the Daleks and the Time Lords in a tale fundamentally as old as time set to an end by their mutual destruction. Many tragic stories have came out of these loveless fights, some even too dark and sad to be placed into words. Yet amongst these all, the Lady and the Doctor stands to be the saddest of them all, their tale connecting across language, time, and species of a man driven to absolute destruction thinking their love to be lost as they trash out against the universe, a tale as old as the Time Wars itself found repeating across storytellers everywhere. Nowadays only singular survivors of these wars remain with limited resources to reconstruct their once great fleets and nations... the only question remains on which species is stubborn enough to wait for the other to die or to die trying to kill the other... the answer, if you are reading this, is already found.

So entrenched into her readings she didn't notice the Doctor leaning in the doorframe a sad and contemplative look upon his features as he stared at the array of books he spent many of his younger years reading- hoping to gain a closer connection to you in some way by the mere mention of your name against a white page.

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor pivots, closing the door softly behind himself unknowing to Donnas stare following him out the room. 700 years of waiting... and not a year more, she told herself with determination.

─────── · ·

After easily convincing the TARDIS to track your signal in which it happily complied, lights flashing brightly and engines singing, the Doctor could do little to control where the blue box was headed as he scrambled with the controls that appeared to be moving on their own violation.

Donna just sat back in her chair with a large grin on her face, ankle press atop her knee with a cup in one hand, saucer in the other. "Are you seeing this? I've never seen her act like this before, maybe someone has hacked- no thats impossible..." the Doctor was threading his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots as he paced. A part of Donna wanted to tell yet the better part of her knew that it would only add to the reaction so she kept her lips shut, nodding absent-mindedly with each of the space-man's complaints.

"Oh yeah I know, terrible blue box not working for the blue-box man, right?" she pouts before shoving a scone in his face. "I find stress eating helps sometimes, you ever tried it?"

Crumbs falling out of his mouth, the Doctor tries to talk, raising a pointed finger before chocking on the dryness of the pastry, signalling for some water instead. "Both ladies have lost their mind today," the Doctor grumbles to himself receiving a quick swat to the back of his head by his companion.

"Oi! the only mind being lost is your head when I take it if you keep up this attitude, I swear sometimes I'm like your mother, grandmother, and great grandmother," Donna retorts, sitting back down with a huff. The Doctor stays silent, taking a seat beside his companion and finishes the rest of his scone as the TARDIS descends.

"I don't even know if I have a great grandmother," the Doctor takes a look towards Donna out of the corner of his eye.

"Well I'm not going to help you with that one."

─────── · ·

Donna had planned a myriad of excuses yet tried to not act stunned as she didn't need to use them, the Doctor had decided himself that he would be staying within the TARDIS to try and repair whatever 'damage' had been done from the automatic flying.

Setting off down a hill from where the blue box had parked she stumbled into a garden where coincidentally enough she found you getting your portrait done? Donna furrowed her brows, I didn't know you to be so narcissistic. Yet those thoughts are quickly dissolved in seeing your shock ridden face whilst staring at yourself in the painted frame that only grows when another man steps into the frame that you seem to recognize almost instantly that has Donna frowning deeply.

Who are you, what do you think you're doing? She stares at the bow-tie man sharply, ducking out of sight as his eyes chase over the landscape- jumping right past her head. She cannot hear your conversation yet follows at a distance conjouring up another plan on sight.

If memory serves me right... the Doctor asked for your hand after seeing you with the Master more... so if the Doctor sees you now with him... she quickly turns back to the TARDIS, not bothering to say hello to the Doctor as she grabs her camera and storms back out just in time to- she nearly drops her camera at the sight but manages to snap a quick albeit blurry picture.

"Oi! Minster! You get your hands off her! I can’t have you ruining my plan so off you go, shoo!” She watches as you both freeze, glaring at his hand placed high above your raised knee. After what she had seen on the Titanic, Donna's mind was working on overdrive on how quickly you could move on from the Doctor to whoever this was feeling up your leg in an open field.

She watches as the man leans down to whisper something into your ear that has you blush, covering your face in his chest as he grips you tighter. That is the opposite of what I wanted to happen! Donna panics to herself, I need something more threatening...

“If you think I’m playing around that one there has a very angry alien friend that is looking for something to rip his teeth into and it could be you!” Donna tries to persuade further, taking a step closer and she swears to hear you both laughing that only fuels her dissatisfaction with your actions.

So lost in her own anger she does not see you shoving the bow-tied man away from you, her world clattering down at the mention of her name not from your lips... but from his in a warm recognition, “and yes, hello Donna. I’ll leave in a moment just have to make sure the Lady here gets to where she needs to go safely.”

Donna opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water, how on gods green earth does HE know my name? Yet before she could receive any answers she notices you both had disappeared like mere figments of her imagination. So this is what I get for messing with aliens! Donna sighs, kicking stones back to the TARDIS before remembering the camera strapped around her neck. Maybe things just like work out after all...

─────── · ·

Darting back to the TARDIS will laughing a little bit evilly to herself, she kicked the bottom on the Doctors converse- signalling him to roll himself from out underneath the TARDIS.

He looked a right mess, hair sticking out on all awkward angles a few drops of dried red oil staining his collar and his tie askew. "Whatcha need?" he stands, stretching at near impossible angles that Donna debates being more painful than relieving.

"I have something that you need to see," her face hides nothing on her racing heart as she unfolds the picture from her pocket and is at first met with silence.

The Doctor looked at the blurry image of you being kissed by this random man that somehow knew her name, she explained to the Doctor who did not look to be breathing and made no response. Simply taking the image from her hand and inspecting it closer.

At first she saw how the edges began to crease as his grip tightened, his eyes confirming this to be in fact you. Next was his brow, coming down alongside the corners of his mouth into a deep frown. His head tilted to the slightest degree, suit becoming smaller as his chest heaved and soon the image was crumbed and kicked into the heart of the TARDIS underneath the console, Donna could smell the ashes.

"How long ago was this?" his voice cold and distant and receives no answer, the Doctor asks again, "Was this recent?"

Donna clears her throat, raising her head to meet his darkened stare, gotcha, she smirks to herself, stepping forwards eyes darting towards the door and back to his challenging gaze, "just now-" and the Doctor storms off, door slamming behind him.

The TARDIS whoops and cheers as Donna laughs, "I guess kissing in a TARDIS is close enough to a closet... give or take that its bigger on the inside." The TARDIS does not respond, simply humming contently to itself.

"You sound excited to have them possibly back," she pats the console gently seeing as the buttons press themselves rapidly showing the machines excitement and little did Donna know just how excited the Doctors TARDIS.

─────── · ·

Donna was beginning to be worried after a day had passed and there was still no signs of the Doctor or you returning to the TARDIS nor anywhere near it. Taking on a light jacket Donna walked back up the hill to find the same shed you disappeared in front of hours ago.

Hesitantly raising her hand to knock on the chipped wooden door she hears no movement nor response inside as she pushes the door open and is shocked to find it greatly larger on the inside.

It amazed her how different your TARDIS looked to the Doctors. The warm lighting, various plants and books littered the walls with art from throughout the ages. It looked like a true collectors dream and at the centre of it all, unknowing in their bubble of bliss Donna saw you wrapped in the Doctor's shirt and a pair of socks as you leaned against your console, mug in hand.

The Doctor looked drunk, absolutely plastered, the companion noted to herself in seeing how lazily spread out in an arm chair he was before you, pants all creased and a simple undershirt that did little to cover up the marks upon his cheeks and necks. Donna stayed quiet once seeing her best friends look of pure, softened adoration as he picked up your hand, kissing every knuckle before flipping it over to place one last lingering kiss to your palm.

In response you fell into his lap with a chuckle, fixing his hair gently as he closed his eyes in response, humming in thanks as you both shared a silent conversation that soon was imposed upon when Donna accidentally kicked over one of your smaller plant pots, the clay shattering against the floors as you jumped and reached for your sonic- the Doctor immediately standing and pushing you behind him, a scowl present on his face.

Holding her hands up, Donna took a few more steps forward, "sorry love birds! Just-ah checking in that the two last time lords aren't dead so I can make it home eventually," Donnas tone raises with every word she speaks, embarrassment evident as her cheeks become the same shade as her hair.

She peers around the Doctors back and watches as you press your forehead between his shoulder blades, arms circling around his waist as you giggle to the Doctors annoyed huff as he places his screwdriver back in his pocket. "You two seem to have been... busy," Donna smirks, the initial embarrassment quickly wearing off as you cast her a playful wink.

The Doctor sputters, "Well I-uh, not like that I..." for a response as you move and pick up his arm, placing it across your shoulders. "We were just getting to know each other again," you smile towards the companion your husband had told you all about.

Donna snorts before horror flashes between her eyes, "but what about the other-" you cut her off, "Oh him?" you smile, the Doctor groans, removing himself from the conversation as he sits back down in his chair and reaches for his jacket, placing it across his lap as he smooths out the creases in the fabric, "he was also the Doctor," you smirk.

"But he knew my name?" Donnas statement comes out more like a question that you step forwards, placing a hand against her shoulder in reassurance.

"You are his best-friend after all... are you not?"

Donna hugs you tightly, overjoyed about the news, "so he never found a way to get rid of me- this was better than I was expecting!" You throw your head back in laughter as does Donna.

"Did the Doc ever mention anything about me on your travels?" you question once your laughter dies down, Donna stills, taking a step back as she grits her teeth together, "uh... well..." you raise a brow in a silent ask for her to continue as you sit back in the Doctor lap, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"...well I don't know, he was rather cryptic, something about destroying universes and committing atrocities, you know, the usual for a man with a load of power," and her sarcastic answer tells you all as you turn your head to glare at the Doctor. "You didn't tell her about me?"

The Doctor tenses and presses a kiss to your cheek, "well love I-I- there was so much to say and so little time to say it all in," he smiles confidently at his words as you rolls your eyes and look back at Donna.

"we are going to be good friends," the Doctor shakes his head watching as Donna nods enthusiastically.

"You two are going to be the death of me."

"Like I wasn't already," you jab him in he ribs before offering your hand, "so my ship or yours?"

─────── · ·

The Doctor for the first time was a bit embarrassed that he turned of the chameleon function of his TARDIS leaving you to change yours to a piece of luggage that you carried aboard reassuring the Doctor and Donna that you would in fact not create a paradox as long as you didn't open it inside the Doctor's TARDIS, you just didn't trust leaving your house out in the open, something about human locks Donna remembers you mentioning.

You and the Doctor acted like an old-married couple that Donna swore to grow grew hairs because of. You both bickered endlessly in the morning on where to go, who too meet, what to eat and who got to wear what- it was maddening.

Donna later that day found you both making out on your joint afternoon travels, walking hand in hand down alien streets like no time had passed, and by evening you were back to fighting over who controlled what part of the TARDIS before working in tandem- it was chaos to say the least yet above all, she had never seen the Doctor so... light.

He practically skipped with every step, twirling you every outfit change to take in your appearance, kissing your face every time he would spark a brilliant idea like he couldn't control himself but you controlled him in a way that he needed.

Donna noticed your special ability to keep the Doctor from being his worst self, from becoming just another one of his many enemies. You reminded him of light, love, and most of all... hope. A word that the spaceman had long since forgotten until reuniting with you.

It inspired Donna to know end and to some part she was jealous of seeing others have such a pure love for one another that they couldn't help but spread across the universe. So many times everyone had gotten saved that it became the new regular and even when it was not possible, you held one another on the floor of the console room, a silent comfort in knowing that the other wouldn't have to bare the pain alone.

─────── · ·

On one of your late night conversations as the Doctor steered the TARDIS, you sat in Donna's room, a plate of snacks on the bed for you both to share.

"So... what was the Doctor like as a child?" you smile before taking a big sigh.

"He was a downright menace," you begin with before heavy footsteps can be heard running down the hall stopping at the door.

"You take that back!" the Doctor burst through the door, finger wagging in your face that you swat away yet he can't contain his smile.

"I only speak the truth," you shrug, casting Donna a wink as she smirks from behind her cup watching as the Doctor slips into the bed, sitting behind you.

"If that's the truth than your father loved me to death and Gallifrey was blue," the Doctor scowls, stealing a bite of your biscuit from your hand, "I was a perfectly normal time child."

You wipe away the crumbs off your lap and onto the floor before mouthing to Donna, he set a tree on fire during TARDIS driving lessons 101.

"I hope you know dear that I know over a thousand languages and can in fact lip read." You shift to look up at his face, a finger crooking his chin down to meet have your lips meet, "and what did I say now?"

The Doctor hums contently, "That you love me?" as Donna begins to feel uncomfortable in her own space. You nod, "always.," before gasping in surprise feeling as the Doctor picks you up in his arms.

"Have a goodnight, Donna!" the Doctor calls as you wrap your arms hastily around his neck, cursing his name as the Doctor echos your own.

"Doctor!"

"Lady!~" and you both burst out into giggles. Donna shakes her head as the TARDIS shuts the door behind the couple, they truly will never grow up... will they?

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: Gonna miss these guys!

─ · · FOR ALL TIME TAGLIST: @posionapple24 @azriel64290 @smallerontheoutside @soniiyi @spirit-of-the-hollow @f0x33 @blackoutdays13 @dlljdhsh @staygoldsquatchling02 @athenxt @whatislifebutlemons @cardanxjude20 @zara-aliza08

#fanfic #fanfiction #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes #x reader #doctor who #doctor who fanfic #tenth doctor #10th doctor #doctor who fanfiction #doctor x reader #10th doctor x reader #doctor who x reader #tenth doctor x reader #david tennant x reader #for all time

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olive-treeeee · 3 months ago

Text

Strings of the heart - The Toymaker x Reader

Hello Mein Lieblings! This fic was requested by Anon who asked: “hi, im kinda new to requesting so im not sure if im doing things correctly, but is it cool if the reader could be like the daughter of the toymake? (not sure how that will work, but please bear with me!) and is currently the companion with 15th doctor? i want the fic kinda centered around the mr. ring a ding ep bc it's currently my favorite. the rest is up to you!”

I’m so sorry that this took so long to post, but I hope it was worth the wait! I had a great time writing this one, I actually really like writing for the toymaker!

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Daddy issues, James Corden

As always Requests are open!!

“Where to next, babes?” The Doctor beamed at you, leaning lazily over the side of the console, his smile glowing slightly as he tilted his head. There was that spark again, in his eyes, in his voice. Mischief and genuine curiosity, hand in hand.

Where to next? With all of time and space sprawled before you like a buffet, your mind went completely blank. “You’ve put me on the spot!” You laughed, hands flying up to cover your face. “That’s cruel. I need options.”

The Doctor stood tall, dramatic as ever, tapping his chin with exaggerated thought. “Options?” he repeated, striding around the console. “Please. You don’t need options. You need flair. You need drama. You need… fashion!”

You raised a brow, grinning. “Fashion?”

He clicked his fingers. “Exactly! The absolute best fashion in the universe. A place where style is stitched into the very air. Silkier than a sonic thread, glitzier than a Gallifreyan gala, and darling, just wait until you see the shoes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his infectious energy. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Why listen,” he said, turning sharply on his heel and offering you his hand with a wink, “when you can just trust me?”

You took his hand, and he was already off, pulling you up the ramp toward a large circular archway built into the TARDIS wall, a tunnel you hadn’t noticed before. “Wait, where are we going?”

“Not where, babes,” he called over his shoulder, “what are we wearing?”

The Doctor took you by the hand, and before you could utter any kind of sound of objection, off you both went, feet tripping over themselves as you ran up the steps and through a large circular doorway, leading to a tunnel?

The moment you stepped through the tunnel, something shifted. You felt a light breeze, a shimmer in the air, and then–just like that–you were back in the TARDIS. Same floor. Same lights. Same humming console.

You turned around, confused. The tunnel you’d just lpassed through was still glowing behind you. “What just happened?”

“Look down,” the Doctor said, his voice like a secret.

You did, and gasped.

Gone were your T-shirt and jeans. In their place, a stunning 1950s-style dress in sunshine yellow flared out from your waist, cinched perfectly, every pleat and detail pristine. You gave a small spin and the skirt twirled with you, soft and light as air.

“How did—?”

The Doctor leaned against the console with a smug little shrug. “Don’t ask. The old girl has a flair for the theatrical when she’s in a good mood.” He tapped the console gently, and the TARDIS responded with a warm hum, like a cat purring in approval.

You turned back to him, still twirling. “Is this really necessary?”

He gave you a dazzling smile. “Oh, it’s absolutely unnecessary. That’s what makes it fabulous. Now, ready to strut through time?”

You held out your hand. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

With a grin that promised trouble, style, and maybe a little danger, he pulled a lever.

The TARDIS lurched, and the adventure began.

***

You emerged into an idyllic, sun-dappled, 1950s street, picture perfect and overflowing with charm. Pastel-painted shops crowded the thoroughfare boutiques, diners, a record store and smelled of fresh bread and motor oil. From the chrome diner, a jukebox hummed faintly, and the laughter of roller-skating kids rolled past. In the distance was the LUX Picture Palace, with its name emblazoned in lights like a down-the-line. All was glittering with nostalgic warmth too perfect, even, almost rehearsed. There was the soft breeze, and there were the smiles, too wide. And beneath the music and light, something in the air hummed strangely, slightly out of reach.

“Where are we?” You asked, your eyes wide as you turned in a slow circle, taking in the all the pastel storefronts and the gleaming chrome of the lights. You could faintly smell the soft scent of warm popcorn drifting in the breeze. The town looked like it was out of those glossy magazines. It was Sweet, it was surreal.

“Miami.” The Doctor said brightly. His hands shoved into the pockets of his perfectly tailored coat. “1952 to be precise. Sunshine, swing Music and scandalous Hemlines.” He tugged at your dress playfully at the last comment, making you giggle. “Fabulous!”

You Spun again, right towards the glowing marquee at the end of the street. Your eyes lit up like a kid at christmas. “Look! There’s a cinema! Can we go, Doctor? Oh, Please!” You tugged at his sleeve with barely contained excitement, practically bouncing on the spot.

He Glanced at the glowing lights then back down to you, and that smile bloomed again. “Of course we can, Sweetheart.” He said, his voice full of sparkle.

The two of you strolled through the bustling street, your heels Click Clacking on the pavement, The LUX picturehouse Gleamed in the street lights at every step you took.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

You Whipped around to see an elderly woman, who had stopped beside you. She wore a floral hat and a woven handbag, her expression dark beneath her cat eye glasses. Her voice, soft but heavy.

“Sorry?” You asked, blinking.

She leaned in sideways, Her eyes never quite catching yours. “Fifteen people went missing in that cinema, all strange to me, very unnatural.”

You stared at her. There was something about her… she looked ‘eerily’ like your neighbour, Mrs Flood?

Before you could speak again, the Doctor stepped forward, Grinning from ear to ear. “Fifteen people you say? Oh ho, I love a good body count.” He rubbed his hands together, gleaming with curiosity. “Maybe cursed, haunted popcorn machine maybe? Who knows? Mystery Is afoot!”

You barely had time to respond before he grabbed your arm and tugged you gleefully towards the entrance. “Come on Babes, what's a little danger between friends?” and Just like that you were swept into the golden glow of the LUX, the door closing with a soft Click.

***

Stepping into the auditorium, you felt the temperature drop as you kept walking down the stairs. The air was surprisingly cool and still with that same faint smell of buttered popcorn and old Velvet. The cinema screen glowed softly, bathed in a silver light that seemed to hypnotise you. It was Magnificent and eerily…Alive? Then, It flickered once, and again, and again.

Then suddenly, a blinding white flash.

It lasted only a second, but it made you and the doctor step back shielding your eyes. Then It was over.

What came after was a grainy background that flickered to life. It was sepia toned, with heavy static crackling at the edges. Music began to play: an upbeat, jazzy but somehow off tone, a little like an old record spinning too slow. A figure emerged from the noise.

Mr. Ring-A-Ding looked like he stepped straight out of a 1850’s cartoon (A cartoon that came straight from your nightmares). He was tall and slender with exaggerated proportions. Arms too long, smile too wide, eyes far too still. He wore a bright red pinstripe suit, it was impossibly crisp, with a bowtie that could spin like a wind up toy. His slicked back hair gleamed under the flicker of the screenlight, and his two toned shoes squeaked as he walked.

A walking sensory nightmare.

As he walked through the cartoon town, the houses rolled past as he marched down the street, big and overexaggerated. His voice crackled as if it has been filtered through a gramophone. Cheerfully hollow: “Well Howdy there Friend!” You’re just in time for the show!”

There was something performative about him, like a forgotten tv host endlessly stuck in rerun. Too Scripted, too chipper. It unravelled you.

“Doctor.” You asked, not taking your eyes off the screen, still hypnotised. “Why have I seen him before?”

“I really couldn’t tell you, babes.” The Doctor tore his eyes from the screen so that he was looking at you. “Where would you have possibly seen him before?”

You shook your head. “It’s scaring me.” Your voice was barely over a whisper.

The minute those thoughts hit your head, almost as if he was reading your mind. Mr. Ring-A-Ding stopped his usual song, mid tune, mid tune and turned slowly to look at the screen.

No. At you.

“It's you.” Mr. Ring-A-Ding Hissed. This time his voice was much lower now. His usual cheerful patter fell away to a grating growl. His head drew closer and closer to the glass of screen until it was practically touching. It looked grotesquely distorted. “He has been looking for you.”

Your throat seized as you Stumbled back a step. “Doctor.” You Gasped.

“On it babes.” He whipped his sonic screwdriver out of his breast pocket and aimed it at the screen. The very second it activated, the screen rippled like a surface of disturbed water. Mr. Ring-A-Ding’s face pushed forward, warping the image. His hands pressed against the glass and his fingers began to claw at it, as if it were wet clay. And then, with a wet Crack, his arm broke through. Then another arm, and then a leg and then, inch by inch, twisting unnaturally. His Torso contorted to fit through a space that shouldn’t be physically allowed, he emerged.

His Pinstripe suit, was smeared with static. His grin never faltered. He landes on the cinema floor with a distorted and cartoonish Boing which somehow only made it so much worse. Almost like reality was struggling to hold him in place.

You backed away, hands rising instinctively to shield yourself.

And then… the world exploded into white.

***

You felt something cold beneath your head, somewhere between damp and earthy. You ran a hand through the surface subconsciously, the gritty wood sending splinters through your fingers. Ouch. Your hands bunched reflexively in pain. The rotting floorboards clung to your skin like a creature as you stirred. The scent of dust and varnish filled your nose and then finally you felt the sharp pain that had been blooming at the side of your skull, Pulsing with each erratic beat of your heart.

Where in the world were you?

Your vision was completely washed in white, like the world was an overexposed polaroid photo. But as you slowly gained consciousness, shapes began to bleed through the haze: first, they were faint shadows then the shapes began to bleed through the haze. Then colours began to bloom. That's when you saw it.

It was a toyshop!

But not just any toyshop.

It was still. Too still. As you wobbled to stand, you noticed rows of dolls with wide glass eyes that stared down at you from great high wooden shelves, their painted smiles chipped and cracked, yet it didn’t feel like they looked like this from years of neglect, it looked like this…on purpose?

Mechanical Clowns frozen in mid-laugh were sat upright but slumped in corners. The colours of their bright cheeks faded and peeled as if laughter had long since drained them. Tin soldiers stood in perfect lines with their little muskets raised in perfect salutes. The light overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in a dull, yellowish hue that gave the air a sickly warmth.

There was something about the place. As you crept around the narrow aisles, you felt the toy’s gazes as they seemed to follow you around the palace. Their eyes, always never quite moving but Almost moving. A creak eased through your ears, a rocking horse slowly moved back and forth, despite the air being deathly still and somewhere, just behind the quiet, a wind up music box played a broken lullaby, familiar, slow, looping endlessly.

Someone was watching you.

There was something so painfully nostalgic about this place. It clung to your heart and threatened to never let go, like fingers curling around your heart. Tears pricked your vision, unexpected. Uninvited, yet you weren’t sure why? Was it loss? Loss for all the things you wished you had, a childhood that didn’t quite last as long as it promised, laughter that never stayed, magic that never quite came. It promised wonder and delivered nothing in return, merely fragments. This place made you feel it, like it knew.

It Knew.

“Ah Guten Tag, Guten tag, I am glad to see you’re now awake.” A voice tore through your thoughts, like shears. You whirled around to see, him.

“Do you know who I am?” He asked again, an exaggerated German accent, graced his lips.

You nodded, you stepped forward, tilting your head like a curious bird. He regarded you as your eyes trailed up and down him. Disbelief struck your face and he noticed it.

“Go on then.” His voice merely whispers. “Who am I?”

“Are you Neil Patrick-Harris?”

The gentleman blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His jaw dropped in horror, somehow, as if you had just slapped a custard pie across his face. The music box that was still playing in the background gave a pitiful wheeze, like if you were to run a needle across a record, then promptly stopped.

He clutched his chest like a pantomime actor in the throes of a melodramatic death. “Oh how very dare you!” He squawked. “I have been known as many things by many people.” He began listing them on his fingers. “Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos, The Toymaker.”

The toymaker.

He spun around on the spot, arms flailing. “Do I look like I’ve done magic tricks on Ellen?!”

“Touched a nerve then?” You quipped.

He took a step forward, His voice dropping, German accent Slipping, almost tauntingly. “Now. Shall we try again? Or would you like to guess if I’m James Corden next?”

“Now, I know you aren’t James Corden.” You stepped forward, matching his taunt. Hands on hips, looking down through your nose. “But the question is: who are you?”

He smiled, rising to the unspoken challenge. “Guess.” was all he said.

“Guess?”

“Yes. Where are we right now?” You opened your mouth to speak and he held a finger in front of him to shush you. “No, don’t say anything. Just think…Oh what Fun.”

Your eyes shot throughout the shop. Catching glimpses at the dolls, the soldiers, the clowns, the games. Then you looked back to him. He grinned from ear to ear, mouth twisted like a sausage at the bottom of a plate.

Maestro of Madness, conjurer of chaos…

Wait.

“You’re the toymaker.” you breathed. “I know exactly who you are.”

The Toymaker’s smile spread even further. “Ooh, give the girl a prize!” He leapt from behind the counter, vaulting over it, like there wasn’t an impossibly low ceiling, he could bash his head on. He brought himself mear inches from your face, so quick you could barely react. He grabbed your face with both hands. “And do you know who you are, Mein Liebling?”

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Of course I know who I am. My name is (Y/N) (L/N). I live at 44 Randell street, I work in publishing and I travel the universe with the Doctor. Of course I Know who I am.”

The toymaker’s expression Shifted, it was as subtle and sharp, as if he knew a secret, you didn’t. “Tell me about your parents.” He demanded, syrupy smooth, sickly sweet. It circled around the question like a trap.

“Why?” You asked, warily, instinctively stepping back, though he didn’t let you go far.

“Do you remember them?”

You Hesitated. “My mother’s Name is Helen and my father is-” You mind drew a blank, like a bottomless pit.

“You don’t remember him do you?” The toymaker delighted, he was still close, still touching, parental almost. His thumb ran over your cheek. Kind but mocking. “Think.” He murmured, wrapped in lullaby

“You aren’t-?”

“Maybe I am.” He purred, tilting his head in theatrical glee.

“How?”

“Play a game with me and find out.” He threw himself back, arms outstretched, propelling back to the countertop. His grin spread again, unable to contain his excitement. He clapped his hands once and the lights went out. Leaving you in the pitch black.

There was a whirl of gears and a gust of mechanical steam. Before you could react, a vintage style puppet theatre rose from the floor, equipped with crimson curtains that were drawn tight.

“Let's play a game, Zuckerpuppe. Its like guess who? But not the boring kind with the plastic faces. No no, this one is all about you.”

You.

Then, the curtains part.

Inside the theatre, the puppets begin to perform. Short, twisted tableaus. They were fragments of your memories, scenes from your childhood play out in an exaggerated pantomime: your mother singing happy birthday to you, candles lit, just you and her in your own little world. Tears falling in an empty corridor. Your first writing competition.

Yet something felt off.

The figures moved like broken clockwork toys. Your mother’s puppet was warm and familiar but your father’s was always obscured, masked, scratched out, obscured, sometimes not even there.

“Each round, one clue.” The Toymaker purred. “One guess. Win, and I’ll answer your questions. Lose, and well, who knows what you’ll forget next?”

A shiver ran down your spine.

As the game continued, your memories began to distort. The toymaker starts inserting himself into them, first in the background, then closer, then completely and unmistakingly present. Always watching… always there.

Then, in the final round, the puppet curtain falls only to rise again, revealing a full length mirror instead of the usual theatre.

You step forward, hesitantly. Catching yourself in the glass.

But you are not alone in the reflection.

He stood behind you.

“I have seen you before.” You whispered, voice breaking.

“In your dreams, in the corner of old photographs. In the silence, when you asked, where your father had gone.”

Your breath quickened, then a pause.

“I did not leave you, (Y/N). I have been waiting, so, so, patiently for your return.”

Emotion overcame you. You sniffled. Sniffles turned to shaky breaths, turned to full sobs. You sobbed for the empty ache within your heart, for all the melancholic nostalgia. You sobbed for the empty parts of your life, the times where you felt oh so different from the rest of the world.

“Oh, please don’t cry mein Knuddelbar.” The toymaker cooed. “Daddy is here now.” He stretched his arms out wide, waiting for you to step in. To finally hold him.

“No!” you snapped, sudden and sharp. The Toymaker Flinched but soon he straightened with the grin slowly slipping from his face, replaced by something… human. A line etched with worry across his lips “Why now? Why here?”

The Toymaker’s throat bobbed. For a moment, he didn’t answer. The bravado had melted away finally, just slightly and something softer flickered behind his eyes. Regret? Doubt? Underestimation? Was this merely another trick?

The silence between the two of you widened, not just in sound but in presence, the physical space felt like a chasm, that only grew and grew every passing minute. It was an invisible rift that neither of you could bring yourselves to cross. The hush that settled over the room wasn’t empty; it was thick, humming the words unspoken. But beneath that, was there…regret in his eyes?

The Toymaker shrank beneath it, his shoulders hunching inwards, no longer the eternal trickster or cosmic tyrant. It was something else. Someone else. Like a child after being told off by a scolding parent.

“You must understand,” he said, muttering, voice cracking under the weight of it all. Brittle and tired. His eyes, which were once sharp with mischief, now looked cloudy with something dangerously close to sorrow. “Why, I couldn’t be with you.”

He didn’t look powerful any more. Just… human. Fragile in a way that frightened you more than any games of his could.

You swallowed hard, the lump that had been forming in your throat, threatening to choke you. Standing in front of you was the one person you had searched for, in the back of your mind. Across half-formed memories, years of crippling loneliness like a clock ticking in an empty house, a mother that could only care for as long as she could pretend to. And still, he wasn’t the man you had pictured. He wore a face that carried history but something essential was missing or perhaps broken?

It was you.

“What are you?” Was all you could say, waiting with baited breath.

“Some have called me a god,” the Toymaker said, slowly straightening from the place he had been hunched, as if pulling himself out of a long-forgotten memory. He stepped forward, leisurely, every movement deliberate, measured, as though he were walking through a game board only he could see.

“I’ve been called many things, in many tongues. Trickster, architect, illusionist. A whisper behind the veil. A shadow stitched into the fabric of time.” His eyes gleamed with something sharp and ancient. “Others can’t quite put me in a category: and that’s precisely how I like it. I am not bound by your little labels, your timelines, your cause-and-effect.”

He stopped just short of you, his presence folding in like a curtain drawing closed. “But you, my dear…” His voice softened, as though addressing something fragile, precious. “You are different. You are my perfect descendant. Oh yes, I have seen you. Moving through the cracks of existence, weaving colour into the grey, with that Doctor, mischief into the mundane. Creative. Restless. Just like me. You love it don’t you? Don’t you want more?”

He held out a pale, elegant hand, palm up like an invitation. “Do you know what that means? It means we don’t have to be lonely anymore. You and I… we’re echoes of the same story. Together, we could craft wonders. Rewrite rules. Build entire worlds from thread and thought alone.”

The air around him shimmered faintly, as if the very concept of reality was starting to bend in his wake.

“Come with me. Let the universe be our playroom.”

A mighty crash tore through the air, slamming through your eardrums, as the door of the toyshop flew open. You spun around just in time to see the frame engulfed in a blinding white light.

Silhouetted against it, stood the doctor. Arm outstretched, sonic screwdriver clenched tightly at his fist. His figure cut through the glare like a blade. Threatening.

“Oh, I might have guessed.” He Snarled, his voice low and dangerous, his face shrouded in darkness, but the fury in his posture said enough. “Snatching innocent people, turning them into your little amusements. Not this one.”

He reached for you, gripping your arm with a firm, protective urgency.

The Toymaker took a single step back, hands raised in mock surrender but his smug, knowing smile remained. He gave a theatrical sweep of his hand, inviting the Doctor to leave with you, as if granting a favor.

But even as you both moved toward the light, the Toymaker’s gaze stayed locked on yours unwavering, unreadable.

And then the world went white again.

***

In an instant, you were back inside the TARDIS, the familiar hum greeted you like a dream, but your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, like you had just remembered how to breathe.

Silence settled in around you. Not the peaceful kind, but a heavy, uneasy stillness. The Doctor leaned against the console, his posture tired, almost slouched, like a frazzled teacher. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, on the walls, anywhere that wasn’t him.

Then, finally, after what felt like hours of silence your voice broke the quiet, soft, hesitant. “Does the Toymaker… tend to tell the truth?”

The Doctor didn’t look at you right away. He exhaled slowly, a knowing sigh. “Why do you ask?”

You hesitated. The words were harder to shape than you expected. “He said something. While I was in there. I don’t know…it got under my skin, I guess.” You cleared your throat, trying to swallow the flicker of emotion before it showed. “It’s silly.”

The Doctor straightened slightly, and when he spoke, there was no humour in his voice. Only certainty.

“The Toymaker is bound by one rule: he can only tell the truth.”

A wave of emotion crashed over you, all-consuming and unstoppable. It surged before you could brace yourself, and all that escaped your lips was a single, breathless: “Oh.”

The Doctor turned at the sound—soft but broken—and his expression fell. Before he could say a word, the tears came again, spilling fast, helpless. You tried to speak through them, tripping over your apology as if it might hold everything together.

“I’m so sorry I don’t even know why I’m-”

“Sweetie,” the Doctor said gently, already crossing the space between you, “you have nothing to apologise for.”

He folded you into a hug before you could fall any further, arms strong and steady, wrapping you in something more solid than words. He smelled like soft fruit, peach, maybe, and something warmer beneath it, with a hint of Dolce & Gabbana clinging to the collar of his coat, subtle but grounding. Familiar.

You clung to him, trembling, the guilt still gnawing in your chest. “I nearly went with him, Doctor,” you whispered. “If you hadn’t come when you did, I might have-”

But he was already shaking his head, pulling back just enough to see your face. He brushed a few tears from your cheek with a gentleness that stopped the spiral in its tracks.

“No. I’m going to stop you right there.”

His voice was low, careful, but there was no judgement in it. Just something warm. Solid. Real.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be wanted,” he said. “And there’s absolutely nothing dark or dangerous about craving love. Especially… that kind of love. The kind you should’ve had. The kind you deserved.”

He held your gaze, searching for the wound beneath your words, and softened as he went on.

“We don’t talk about it enough, do we? The way it twists and turns inside you, to grow up without that hand on your back, guiding you. Without the voice that tells you you’re doing alright, even when you feel like you’re falling apart. And then suddenly, that voice appears, and it’s coming from the last place you’d ever expect… and you’re so desperate to be seen, to be chosen, that you almost don’t care who it’s from.”

You sniffled, holding back another wave of tears. He gave a small, understanding smile.

“Of course you nearly went with him. Of course you listened. You’re human. Beautifully, heartbreakingly human. The Toymaker? He knows how to find that ache. He wraps it up in glitter and games, and he makes it feel like safety. But wanting love doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.”

He let that sit between you for a moment, and then added, softer:

“And if… if the time ever comes again, if you’re ever standing in front of him, or someone like him, with that same choice to make, I promise you, I will never make that decision for you. You deserve your own agency, your own answers. I won’t take that from you.”

His tone turned just a little lighter then, eyes warm with that familiar spark of his.

“But until then? I’m here. Maybe not the most responsible influence, bit too fond of danger, shiny buttons, and spontaneous musicals, but I’m here. For whatever you need. Always.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He leaned in, pressing a soft, kind kiss to your forehead, and then pulled you into another hug, this one quieter, stiller. A kind of promise wrapped in arms.

In the far-off corridors of the TARDIS, just beneath the humming engines, you could hear it: a faint giggle, echoing like it had always belonged there. The Toymaker, keeping watch. Waiting.

He would return.

But so would the Doctor.

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elit-angel · 3 months ago

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going to prom with pete dinunzio would include ..

based loosely (and i mean loosely) off @/smnc45 on tiktok's prom comic with pete and their oc and my own prom night last month lmao

♰ cw : sfw, f!reader, kissing, probs ooc oopsies, situationship ! pete jumpscare, suggestive ending kinda

"ya' sure you don't wanna ditch and go watch some slasher flick or somethin' ?"

- pete isn't that stoked for prom, being surrounded by a bunch of normie strangers, dancing, dressing up all fancy it isn't really his thing, if you ask nicely enough he'll go regardless, but he isn't bouncing off the walls excited to go. (the rest of the club were clueless about the fact that their prom was even coming up in the first place, so they're not the most ecstatic that their secretary of horror is ditching a club meeting for some girl.)

- ditches the cap and finds a cheap black tux with a red button up to match, and brings you some shitty flowers from the grocery store for $5 that he definitely didn't just randomly pick up on his way there because he almost forgot he doesn't know what you're talking about.

- borrows one of his brothers' old worn down car for the night, and shows up late, of course, but doesn't leave you hanging. won't do the whole 'wait downstairs for you to come down and reveal your dress' thing, but as he waits outside your house, resting against his car- he's left a bit speechless watching you step out the door, dress bunched up in your hands as you stroll over to him, huffing at his tardiness. "shit — uh, you.. you look nice.”

- you actually end up not spending that much time at the actual prom, much to pete's relief- you stay there for maybe an hour for the free snacks and the photobooth, you try to get pete to dance with you to no avail, but as soon as you both start to get bored, he convinces you to leave with him and with a roll of your eyes you follow him back to the car.

- he drives you around for a little bit, and you enjoy the intimacy of the orange streetlights fanning over the both of you as you partake in teasing and flirtatious conversation, the radio barely audible underneath the sound of your voices. it's nice to see this side of him- what he acts like outside of his friend group, goofy still, but less cruel- charming, even, in his own atrocious way.

- you end up getting some cheap takeout and pull over at a nearby cliff that looms over the city, and once conversation dies down, you sort of just sit together in silence, not awkwardly — enjoying your time together, despite the night not having gone as you had expected it to.

"... you wanna move to the backseat?"

♰

#the eltingville club #pete the eltingville club #pete dinunzio #pete dinunzio x reader #pete dinunzio x you #sfw

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bad-wolf-blue · 8 months ago

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The Longest Hour

10th Doctor (maybe 11th if you squint) X GN Reader

Description: The doctor leaves the reader in a time pocket to keep them safe but time moves differently than he thought [Angst,Hurt/Comfort]

The TARDIS thrummed softly, its ancient mechanisms alive with an energy that seemed to mirror the Doctor’s own. He darted around the console with his usual manic grace, his brown trench coat flaring as he flipped switches and pulled levers. You stood near the railing, arms crossed, watching him work.

"Alright, explain this plan to me again," you said, raising an eyebrow.

He spun around to face you, his face alight with enthusiasm. "Simple! Well, simple-ish. The planet Kallenyx is in a bit of a pickle—unstable core, mass tectonic disruption, potentially catastrophic for their civilization."

"So, Tuesday," you replied dryly.

"Exactly!" He pointed at you, grinning. "But here’s the catch: I need to go into the planet's central seismic hub—think of it as the planet’s heart—to stabilize the core manually. It’s dangerous, obviously, but that’s where the fun begins!"

You frowned. "What about me?"

His grin faltered, replaced by a softer, almost guilty expression. He stepped closer, hands finding your shoulders. "That’s the tricky part. I can’t risk bringing you along this time. It’s too unstable, and I won’t—can’t—let anything happen to you."

Your heart sank, but you nodded. "Okay, so where does that leave me?"

He straightened, his eyes gleaming with a new idea. "Ah, here’s the clever bit! I’ll take you to a temporal safe zone—tiny pocket of time where you’ll be completely protected. To you, it’ll feel like only a minute has passed, even if I’m gone for hours. It’s perfect!"

You gave him a skeptical look. "And this...safe zone? You’re absolutely sure it works the way you think it does?"

"Of course!" He hesitated. "Well, probably. Ninety-eight percent sure."

You stared at him.

"Alright, ninety-five percent. But those are good odds!"

Sighing, you relented. "Fine. Just...come back to me, okay?" He cupped your face gently, his voice soft. "Always."

The TARDIS landed with a familiar wheeze, and the Doctor led you out into a breathtaking landscape. The ground was covered in soft, glowing moss that shimmered with each step. The sky above was a swirling canvas of purples and blues, dotted with stars that seemed far too close.

"Welcome to the Temporal Nexus," he announced, spreading his arms wide. "Time moves differently here—a minute for you is an hour out there. Safe, serene, and completely outside of danger."

You looked around, awe mixing with unease. "It’s...beautiful. But are you sure this will work?" He nodded, his confidence returning. "Absolutely. Now, I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone." You stepped closer, gripping his hand. "Promise me."

His expression softened. "I promise."

With one last kiss to your forehead, he turned and disappeared into the TARDIS, the sound of its engines fading into the distance.

At first, it was fine. Peaceful, even. You wandered through the shimmering landscape, marveling at its strange beauty. The air was crisp, the silence soothing. You tried to focus on the Doctor’s words: Only a minute. He’ll be back before you know it.

But as time dragged on, unease crept in. The silence became oppressive, the stillness unsettling. Minutes felt like hours.

You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he got held up. It’s the Doctor—he always manages to complicate things. But as the hours stretched into what felt like days, doubt and fear began to take hold.

Your throat grew dry, your stomach ached with hunger, and sleep refused to come. The endless expanse of glowing moss and swirling skies offered no comfort, only a cruel reminder of how alone you were.

By the time the TARDIS returned, Days had passed— you were sitting crouched beneath a tree, trembling, cold and dehydrated. When the familiar wheeze and groan of the TARDIS filled the air, you had not strength left to pull yourself to stand and go to your Doctor.

Once landed The Doctor burst out, his face lighting up at the sight of you—until he saw your condition. His expression crumbled, horror and guilt washing over him.

"No," he whispered, rushing to your side. "No, no, no. What happened? This wasn’t supposed to—oh, stupid, stupid me!" He knelt beside you, his hands hovering over your face, his voice shaking. "I thought it was safe. I didn’t know—"

You managed a weak smile, your voice hoarse. "Took your time, didn’t you?"

"Time?" he choked out. "It was only supposed to be an hour! Minutes for you! I didn’t—"

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. "I know. You didn’t mean to. You were trying to protect me."

His face crumpled further, tears welling in his eyes. "I’m so sorry. I should’ve known. I should’ve checked. I—"

"Doctor," you interrupted gently. "I’m okay now. You’re here."

He didn’t look convinced, but he scooped you into his arms, cradling you as he carried you back to the TARDIS. Inside, he laid you gently on the jump seat, fussing over you like a worried parent.

"Water. You need water," he muttered, rushing to fetch a glass. "And food. And rest—lots of rest."

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, your body too weak to protest as he wrapped you in a blanket and pressed a glass of water to your lips.

I should’ve known," he murmured, mostly to himself. "I thought I was keeping you safe, and instead..."

You reached out, gripping his hand. "It’s okay. You saved the world, didn’t you?"

He shook his head, his voice breaking. "Not if it meant this. Not if it meant hurting you."

"You didn’t hurt me," you said softly. "You were trying to protect me. That’s what matters."

He sat beside you, his head bowed. "I’ll never leave you like that again. Never."

"I know," you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder.

For a long while, the two of you sat there in silence, the TARDIS humming gently around you. Slowly, the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of his hearts began to ease the ache in your chest.

And as the TARDIS drifted through time and space, the Doctor held you close, silently vowing to do better—for you, always for you.

#10th doctor #10th doctor x reader #doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #doctor x reader #tenth doctor #fanfic #fluff #10th doctor x sick! reader #doctor who fandom #10th doctor x gn reader #10th x gn reader #doctor who fanfic #14th doctor #14th Doctor fanfic #14th Doctor x Reader

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chaotic-creator · 4 months ago

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The 14th Doctor's Adventures

So, it's time for a little theory that may spiral into its own AO3 fic. My theory on what 14 uses his TARDIS for in his own time. Like 15 suggested, he uses it for therapy. 14 chooses his solo travel, not for adventure but for closure.

His first stop is to his oldest friend. He takes the TARDIS back to 2011, wearing a perception filter so he isn't mistaken for 10. And 14 attends the funeral of Brigadier, Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. He stands in the back, out of sight. He mourns and grieves, letting himself stop and feel. He pays his respects to The Brig and says goodbye, promising to watch over his family. Then he catches sight of Sarah Jane and knows his next stop, another old friend.

He takes the TARDIS forward from 2011 to 2017, from one funeral to another. Still wearing the perception filter, 14 stands on a nearby hill, watching and hearing the funeral of Sarah Jane Smith. And like his old friend Jo Grant said, it breaks both his hearts. 14 leaves a TARDIS key and a version of his sonic screwdriver on Sarah Jane's grave and turns away. Unlike The Brig's funeral, 14's grief over Sarah Jane is raw and quiet. He steps away and simply whispers

"Goodbye. My Sarah Jane" and then leaves for The TARDIS, to a much happier location. 14 uses The TARDIS to attend every single major event he missed from his companions lives.

He visits Jamie McCrimmon back in 19th century Scotland, finding his old friend regained his memories in his twilight years and the two embrace and catch up with each other.

He attends weddings of his friends, Martha and Mickey, Tegan and Nysaa, Jack and River (that one throws him off slightly). He dances and laughs and lets himself feel.

He visits Chiswick in the late 2000s, standing outside the hospital and seeing Donna and Shaun leave, carrying a tiny little baby that he knows will one day be Rose Noble.

He's there for Kate Stewart after her father is gone, explaining how he was there, that he's a future Doctor. 14 lets Kate scream and shout at him and then cry on his shoulder, just holds her.

14 visits Jack Harkness after he lost both his grandson Steven and Ianto Jones and helps his friend. He drags Jack up out of his depression and helps him, even letting Jack hate him and blame him, for which Jack later apologises for.

14 goes back again to 1970's New Jersey and breaks the rules, visiting Amy and Rory in their later life. He meets their adoptive son and talks about everything that's happened to both of them, reassuring them he saved River in the end and spent 24 years in the same place as her at the end of their time together.

While 15 is off amongst the stars, fighting robots and racism and shapeshifters and Gods of Chaos, 14 is bouncing all around Earth, dropping in on old friends and healing broken trust. He goes everywhere, everywhen for everyone. He is The Doctor in a way he never was before. And he loves every minute of it.

@emilythezeldafan @crypt--creature

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sincerelyhunnybee · 3 months ago

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unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 3

wc: 3k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance

ೀfrom bee: pardon my tardiness on this chapter, had some family visiting me. hope you're ready for some confrontation and dabi only growing softer for reader <3 give this love on ao3

You wake before the lights come on. Again, no sun. No clock. No way to measure time except by the ache in your joints and the smell of your own skin.

You need a shower. Badly.

That fact hits you harder than you expect, how much your body wants to be clean. To feel like it belongs to you again. You feel as if it’s all clinging to you, the still room, reminding you what’s been taken from you and what little control you have left.

Your wrists still ache. The zip ties haven’t been removed since the day you woke up here.

And it’s starting to feel permanent.

You don’t know how long you’ve been held. The days have begun to blur. You’ve done your very best to eat the food that comes and goes. Dabi comes and goes. And every time he leaves, you’re a little more frayed at the edges.

The door creaks open before you can spiral too far.

He steps inside, commanding your presence. Well, there isn’t much to command it anyway. Your eyes shift to his hand, he’s holding something in one hand—a knife. Not drawn. Just resting in his fingers like an afterthought.

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up in your chest. Looks like he’s finally decided to take you out of this misery.

“Relax,” he mutters. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t use a kitchen knife.”

Charming.

He takes slow steps towards you in the corner you’ve found comfort in. You sit up straighter, eyes following the blade. But he doesn’t come at you. He crouches in front of you and holds out the knife.

“Wrists.”

You blink. “What?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours. “You want to stay tied up forever?”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No malice. Just fact.

You hesitate, but extend your hands out towards him.

He gently grabs one of your arms. The plastic tie digs into your skin as he slides the blade between the loop and your wrist. One swift pull, and snap—it’s gone. He catches your wrist when you instinctively jerk back.

“Easy.”

His hand is warm.

Too warm.

He moves to the other wrist, repeating the motion. The second tie falls away. Dabi moves to your ankles, doing the same uncharacteristic movements.

The skin beneath is red and raw, and you flex your fingers, breathing a little deeper.

You’re free. Kind of.

He stands again and tosses the knife back into his coat pocket.

“Get up,” he says.

Your eyes blink at him, like he’s just spoken to you in a different language. “I said, get up. I’m not dragging you.”

You rise slowly, the blood rushing back into your arms like lightning. Your legs are stiff, but they hold. Standing on your own two legs felt foreign.

He walks toward the wall opposite the camera and presses his palm to a panel you hadn’t noticed before. It clicks, swings open, and reveals a narrow tiled room beyond. A shower. A toilet. A sink. A shelf with a towel and soap.

You can’t help it. The relief hits you like a wave.

You inhale sharply, shoulders sinking as the tension you’ve been holding in your body begins to finally, finally let go.

“You’re letting me shower?” you ask warily.

He shrugs, stepping aside. “You smell like shit. It’s not charity.”

Your eyes narrow. “So it’s a favor to you?”

“I like not gagging when I walk in. Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t follow you in. Just gestures with his head. “You’ve got ten minutes. There’s a clean change of clothes in there.”

You hobble over to the opening, then linger in the doorway, uncertain. This feels too generous. Too… human. Your eyes dart back to him, searching for the catch.

“I could lock you in there,” he says flatly. “Or I could drag you out mid-rinse. But I won’t. So just go.”

And for some reason, you believe him.

You step inside.

The door stays open behind you, but he doesn’t look in.

You begin to peel away the clothes that have almost melded to your skin. You had forgotten that you were still wearing your scrubs. The dull blue of the fabric had patches of grime stained by the floor you had been sleeping on since your capture. Standing on the cool tile of the bathroom, naked, felt nice.

The water is hot.

Not lukewarm. Hot.

The first blast stings your skin, so sensitive, so worn, that even clean water feels different. But then the heat seeps in. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel alive. Water running down your body gives another illusion of freedom. Your oasis in the desert.

The soap is plain. You don’t care. You scrub your arms, your legs, your face, wincing when your fingers brush your raw wrists. You stand there until the grime is gone. Until the tightness in your chest eases. Until the air fills your lungs.

You don’t cry. But your eyes burn.

When you dry off, the towel is coarse, but dry. You pull on the clean clothes—gray shirt, soft black pants, socks that fit. Your old clothes are gone. You don’t ask why.

You step out slowly, sheepish.

Dabi is sitting on the edge of a bare mattress, one leg propped up, arms crossed. Wait, when did this room have a mattress? Did he move it while you were showering? Maybe it’s better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He glances at you, then at the floor.

“Better,” he says.

You nod. “Thank you.”

The words fall out before you can catch them. He doesn’t react.

Just mutters, “Don’t make it a habit.”

You stand there. The floor feels a little less unforgiving now. You’re clean. Unbound. Still watched. Still uncertain.

But in this moment, for the first time, you feel like a person again.

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

You both sit in silence for a while. You on the bare mattress, Dabi on a chair.

The mattress is old, the springs biting through the thin padding each time you shift. It's not soft or comfortable. But it’s better than the concrete. Better than nothing.

The air is still thick with steam from the bathroom, warm against your skin like a memory you’re scared to trust. You’re clean now—cleaner than you’ve been since this started. And your body hums with it, the strange afterglow of soap and hot water.

But across from you, Dabi sits like a shadow stitched into the room, a reminder that this isn’t freedom. Just a softer kind of cage.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans back in the chair, arms folded, one ankle balanced over his knee like he owns the room—or doesn’t care who does. His coat hangs open, the worn fabric slipping off his shoulder. In the low light, the staples running down his cheeks and chin glint like old nails in a coffin.

You wonder how long it took before he stopped feeling them. You wonder if he ever really did.

Finally, you break the quiet.

“…You always this talkative?”

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable. “You’re the one who keeps starting conversations.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “Figured if I’m stuck here, I might as well know who’s keeping me in this shithole. You know why that is?”

He leans his head back again, eyes closing like your voice is something he’s tolerating.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, voice flat. “If that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Too bad.”

You roll your eyes, tugging your legs up, arms wrapped around your knees. It’s a defensive position. It’s also warmer.

“I’m serious,” you say. “Why me? Why talk to me at all? You could’ve left me in silence. Would’ve been easier.”

He exhales through his nose—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything. Just a sound to fill space.

“Silence gets boring.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So I’m entertainment now?”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug. “Something like that.”

You study him—his posture, his voice, the way he never really sits still for long, always one breath away from burning through the floor.

“I have a feeling you’re not like them,” you say, quieter now.

That gets his attention.

His eyes open. Sharp. Cold.

“The others you work with,” you clarify. “You act like you’re above it all. But you’re still here. Still doing the same things they do. So why stay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words. Not with movement.

The silence that stretches between you is different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… heavy. Weighted with things you’re not sure you have the right to ask. But you asked anyway.

Finally, he says, “You ask a lot of questions for someone who should be scared of the answers.”

You hold his gaze. “I’m already here. What’s left to be afraid of?”

A dry sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a scoff. Not amused. Just surprised you said it.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a warning.

You shift again, watching the way his eyes flick away from you, to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but back.

“So… Touya,” you say, testing the name like stepping out onto thin ice.

He stiffens. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

You hesitate, then soften your voice. “Is that really your name?”

He doesn’t confirm. But he doesn’t deny it either.

You nod slowly. “You were someone else once. Before all this.”

“We’re all someone else before,” he mutters.

You chew your bottom lip, the next question is dangerous on your tongue.

“Did it hurt?”

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

“Becoming this.”

His jaw tightens. You expect the mask to snap back into place. Expect him to get up and leave again, slamming the door behind him. Honestly, he could just incinerate you here on the spot.

But instead, he’s quiet.

Still.

For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, voice low and flat, he answers, “I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

You let that sit. Let it settle into the quiet between you like dust.

Because in that silence, you hear something that matters. Something he didn’t mean to give.

And maybe that’s why it matters more.

After a moment, you whisper, “I think that’s the worst part.”

He meets your eyes again. And for the first time, there’s no fire in them. Just smoke. Faint. Fading. Human.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You’re both quiet again, but it’s different now. Not guarded. Not hostile. Just two people on opposite sides of the same silence, trying not to drown in it.

You shift on the mattress, fingers running along the fabric of your borrowed clothes. They smell like soap and dust and something faintly medicinal. Not yours. Nothing in here is. Except your voice. That’s still yours.

You let the silence stretch, but it doesn’t ease anything. It just makes the thoughts louder. Thicker. More pointed. Your hands curl in your lap.

“You know,” you say finally, voice rougher than you expect, “no one’s ever actually given me an answer.”

Dabi doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on. “About why I’m here. Why it was me.”

Still nothing.

You exhale hard through your nose, frustration catching under your ribs. “I mean, I’ve asked. Over and over. And the only thing I’ve gotten is ‘leverage.’ But leverage against who? I’m a fucking nobody.” Your voice cracks at the last part.

That gets him. A twitch of his jaw. Barely there, but it’s something.

“I’m not a hero. I don’t have connections. I don’t have money. So what the hell makes me valuable enough to keep breathing in this place?”

His gaze flicks to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You’re already spiraling. Might as well finish it. “Was it random? Did someone point at me on a map? Did I just look like someone who wouldn’t be missed?”

That last question hangs in the air, heavier than you intended.

Dabi leans forward, slow and steady, until his elbows rest on his knees. “You done?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He cocks his head slightly. “You want a neat reason? Some villain manifesto shit that'll make you feel better about being stuck here?”

“I want the truth.” The words come out through gritted teeth.

Dabi scoffs faintly and runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging along his scalp like he’s tired of carrying this conversation. “You were in the wrong place. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

“It is.” He looks at you now, flat and direct. “You were seen. You were close. And someone thought you might’ve heard something. Or might’ve been useful. That’s all it takes.”

“That’s nothing.”

“It’s enough.” His voice drops a notch. “It’s always enough.”

You shake your head. “So I’m here because someone got paranoid?”

“Or bored,” he offers darkly. “Or cruel. Doesn’t matter which.”

You fall silent, the words crashing over you like water too deep to stand in.

Dabi watches you, expression unreadable.

“People get caught in crossfire all the time. Doesn’t mean they’re clean.”

The implication stings.

“You think I deserve this?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. Tired. “I don’t think anything matters enough to deserve.”

You whisper, “This is insane.”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the party.”

Your eyes search his face, looking for something—remorse, doubt, anything—but you don’t find it. Just exhaustion and fire under the surface. A man built from aftermath.

“So why talk to me?” you ask finally, softer this time. “Why even pretend I matter?”

Dabi rises, slow and unbothered. His coat shifts around him like smoke.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice better than screaming.”

And with that, he turns away, leaving your question to echo in the space between his footsteps and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Your hands curl into the mattress, the weight of it all pressing harder now. But part of you can’t let it go. Because if this is all a mistake—if you’re here just because you saw something you weren’t supposed to—then what does that mean for your future? For your chance of leaving?

He shuts the door gently this time.

No slam. No sharp finality.

Just a soft click, like he’s trying not to wake something fragile. He’s afraid it may become a habit.

Boots echo down the hallway as he walks, slow and measured. The steam from the makeshift bathroom still clings to his coat, and the scent of medicinal soap trails faintly behind him.

He shouldn't have let you ask so many questions.

He shouldn’t have answered.

But there’s something about the way you look at him—like you see what’s there, not what’s been painted over with fire and myth and rumor. Like you’re trying to read the smoke.

That’s dangerous.

That’s stupid.

That’s—

“Getting soft?”

The voice comes from just around the corner, and Dabi stops mid-step.

Shigaraki is slouched against the far wall, hood down, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been waiting there the whole time. His red eyes gleam in the dim light, lazy and deliberate.

Dabi doesn't respond. Just stares back.

Shigaraki tilts his head. “You spent a long time in there.”

“They’re not dead, if that’s what you’re checking on,” Dabi mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dabi takes a step closer, posture loose but coiled.

“You bored, or just feeling nosy?”

Shigaraki shrugs. “Just trying to figure out what exactly they are to you. You treat them different. That’s not like you.”

“They’re leverage.”

“You said that three days ago.”

“It’s still true.”

Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t usually bring leverage warm food. Or towels. Or let them shower. Or a fucking bed.”

He pushes off the wall now, “You think I don’t see what’s happening?”

Dabi’s fingernail starts picking at the scarred skin on the side of his fingers.

“You see what you want to see.”

Shigaraki steps closer, and the space between them crackles with static—thick with words they’re both not saying. “They’re not a project, Dabi,” he says. “Not some broken thing for you to fix because you never figured out how to fix yourself.”

Dabi’s eyes narrow.

“They’re a risk,” Shigaraki continues. “You keep feeding it, you get burned. And don’t act like you don’t know how that feels.”

Dabi lets out a low, sharp laugh—humorless. “You’re one to talk about ghosts.”

They’re toe to toe now. Neither backing down.

Shigaraki’s hand flexes slightly—just enough to remind Dabi that he could end this conversation, and the wall they’re standing next to, with a twitch of his fingers.

“I’m not going to tell you how to handle your attachments,” he says, voice low and even. “But don’t let them handle you.”

Dabi’s hands stay at his sides, but his fingers curl.

“You think I’m getting soft?” he asks, voice flat.

“I think you’re forgetting what we do when things get soft.”

His gaze flickers.

Shigaraki grins—sharp, knowing. “Careful, Dabi. You start caring too much, you stop making smart decisions. You start asking the wrong questions. And one day, you hesitate.”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away.

The silence stretches just long enough to make it dangerous.

Then, voice quiet and deadly, he says, “So does pretending you don’t care about anything. Makes you sloppy.”

Shigaraki steps even closer—breath close, red eyes like blood in water. “Keep your head. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve got it,” Dabi mutters.

“Good. Then prove it.”

Shigaraki turns, the moment finally diffusing—but Dabi speaks before he can get too far.

“If you’re so concerned,” he says over his shoulder, “maybe keep your pets out of their room.”

Shigaraki looks back. “Toga?”

“She pulled a knife.”

“She didn’t use it.”

“She thought about it.”

A beat.

Shigaraki smiles faintly. “Then maybe she’s the one who still has her edge.”

Dabi doesn’t answer.

He just keeps walking, fists jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.

Because the truth is—he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

You’re not a weapon. You’re not a spy. You’re not anything but present. Quiet. Observant. Stubborn. And still human in a way he forgot people could be.

And somehow, that’s the problem.

You haven’t cracked yet.

And he’s starting to realize he doesn’t want you to.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

taglist (open + ask to be added): @reggieswriter @d4rlinxs @dabislittlemouse @jelliephia

#🖋.writing #𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀.#dabi x reader #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #touya todoroki #mha dabi #bnha dabi #dabi #bnha x reader #mha x reader #reader insert #dark romance

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shady-tavern · 13 days ago

Text

Clockwork Poison

Chapter Five:

The Grim Keep

A clear knock on wood caused Adelia to jerk awake, blinking blearily as she cast a quick look around the dimly lit room. The fire in the fireplace was almost entirely burnt down and the sky outside was only just starting to gain a first, faint glimmer of the approaching dawn.

A single candle was lit inside the room, allowing Adelia to see Lord Morrow standing by one of the bedposts. His knuckles rested against the wood and he offered her one of his mild smiles. "My apologies for the rude awakening. We are preparing to leave, you are welcome to join us, though alternatively I can ask our mage to pick you up later if you'd like to rest longer."

It was a little startling to find that Lord Morrow intended to vanish so early, usually, after a big wedding event like the one yesterday, many guests stayed overnight and there was a big breakfast before the married couple saw everyone off.

"I will accompany you," she said, her voice a little sleep-rough and she sat up further. She wasn’t going to be left behind and she most certainly wasn't going to be stuck answering the questions of the wedding party by herself, such as how the night had gone and where her husband was. "Does King Harold know?"

"I’ve informed him last night, he wasn’t particularly happy about our early departure, but he’s sending his regards." Lord Morrow stepped back. "I’ll wait outside, let me know when you’re ready to go."

With those words he left, his steps barely audible despite the boots he had put back on and he closed the door softly behind him. Adelia slid out of bed, taking a moment to let her clinging exhaustion and sleepiness recede.

He had kept his word. From the looks of it he hadn't even slept in the same bed as her.

Taking care of herself quickly, freshening up and washing up with the prepared water in the basin, she took off Lord Morrow’s tunic and slid on her linen shift, followed by a warm, dark-blue woolen dress she had embroidered herself with silver leaves up the bodice and little silver cats running along the bottom hem of her dress.

Lastly she fastened her cloak around her shoulders and pocketed the jewelry she had worn previously.

She gathered up the wedding dress and veil and Lord Morrow’s tunic and opened the door, finding him waiting in the hallway beyond.

"Ah, I knew I had forgotten about something," he said, holding out an arm. "Allow me to carry all this?"

He was certainly taller and he'd have a far easier time carrying the dress so the hem wouldn’t brush the ground. Adelia handed the bundle over, along with his shirt.

"Ready to leave?" he asked and when she nodded, he offered his free arm, leading her down the hallway once she took it, hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was downright eerily quiet in the palace halls and while Adelia had only visited King Harold's home a handful of times in her life, there had been a huge celebration during each visit, leaving her with vivid impressions of noise and movement and bright colors and cheerful music and decadent food.

In the silence of the approaching dawn everything looked a little washed out and gray now.

Lord Morrow led her through empty hallways with lavish decorations and down a set of stairs into the palace courtyard, where an old, dark skinned woman was waiting. She was leaning on a wooden staff, the top holding a fist sized piece of polished amber.

Her long curly hair was streaked with white and gray and she wore embroidered, sunflower yellow robes. A necklace with a silver amulet hung about her neck, depicting a rising sun. She had curious, golden-glimmering markings drawn on her cheeks, right below her eyes, and on her hands. She looked up when they appeared.

"Finally," she grumbled. "I have experiments waiting, Rowan. Any longer and I would have had to fetch the two of you myself."

Lord Morrow smiled, soft and amused. "My apologies for my tardiness. Iva, meet Adelia, my wife."

The woman gave her a smile, the wrinkles around her eyes showing she had laughed plenty in her life. "Pleasure to meet you. If he ever gives you trouble, call for me, I will gladly put some sense into him for you."

It sounded more like a joke than an actual threat and Lord Morrow huffed a soft, amused noise.

"Oh, the horror," he answered with a downright dramatic sigh and Adelia was genuinely baffled that they were jesting with each other. Father would have set any mage who dared such a thing straight, no matter how much he would have paid to afford their services. In his eyes he was owed respect and deference by everyone in his employ and especially by those he considered beneath him.

"It’s an honor," Adelia said in greeting, falling back to her manners and the sorceress chuckled when Adelia dropped into a polite curtsy.

"You’re already more pleasant than he is, you’ll certainly do great with us. Come on, gather close, the sun will be rising any moment and I have an enchantment to get back to."

Adelia complied when she remembered something important. "My luggage," she said. "Will that be taken care of later?"

"It already got delivered last night, worry not," Sorceress Iva waved away her worries and snapped her fingers. The world around them became a swirl of dark, streaky gray with hues of dark blue and a faint stripe of the lightness of approaching dawn, as though their surroundings had turned into liquid, shapeless color.

The color surrounding them shifted to something darker, as though blackness got poured into the pool of color, the hint of dawn getting replaced by something silvery, and then it was over as quickly as it had begun, leaving them standing in front of a foggy, dark keep.

The sky showed no signs of the rising sun yet, instead, the full moon was still offering light to see by. Its low position in the sky told her sunrise was three or four hours away.

As Adelia cast a look around, feeling faintly disoriented, she found the keep they had arrived at to be unexpectedly... discomfiting.

A deep chill permeated the air, there were no flower boxes by the windows and no banners hung from the crenellations. The keep was plain and imposing, built out of slate gray, heavy stone and it looked far more formidable than Father’s castle did. It also looked a lot more grim.

"Call me if you need anything else," Sorceress Iva said and snapped her fingers, disappearing in a displacement of air that caused some dead leaves to tumble towards their feet.

An icy breeze blew past them, while Lord Morrow turned towards the entrance gates, giving her another mild smile. "Please, follow me."

He pushed one half of the heavy, iron-enforced doors open and Adelia stepped through, finding the fog even thicker in the front courtyard. Some lanterns were lit, however, casting a nearly eerie glow that made them look ghostly in the fog. Even the round moon above was barely visible anymore.

She managed to make out the shape of stables to the left and a massive walnut tree in the middle of the courtyard. It looked bigger and older than any such tree she had seen before, rising high and spreading it's branches far, as though it wanted to shelter the entire courtyard beneath its boughs.

"Welcome back, Master Rowan," a cultured voice drew her attention as a spindly man emerged from the fog, carrying a lit lantern, which swayed softly with every step.

He was tall and lanky with a pair of thin glasses on his thin, straight nose and while he did not look a day past forty, his hair was snow white and there were some more pronounced wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. "And the Lady Adelia, welcome to my lord’s humble home. I am Steward Lambrecht, it is an honor to meet you."

Adelia would not have called the keep humble. Creepy, in all honesty, but that was most likely because it was cold and foggy and very quiet. That would change once the sun had risen, or so she hoped.

She made sure to dip into an appropriate curtsy as she answered, "The honor is mine." Steward Lambrecht offered her a polite, respectful bow in return.

"If I may, I can take over the tour," Steward Lambrecht said, addressed Lord Morrow, then glanced back at her with a polite smile. "I fear my lord will be very busy this morning, he’ll most likely be unavailable until later tonight."

In all honesty, some time away from her imposing new husband sounded like a good idea. Adelia hoped to regain some equilibrium and getting to know her new home without casting subtle side-glances at her husband the whole time was very much welcome.

"I’m certain we’ll make do," she settled on answering politely and Lord Morrow smiled, looking amused.

"I don’t doubt that," her husband said and turned to her, dipping into a respectful bow and once more, it was a little deeper than she would have expected. "Please excuse me and that I cannot help you get settled in myself. If you have need for anything, Lam here is going to help and provide for you in my absence. May I see you tonight for dinner?"

Did she have a choice, truly? Or was he merely offering empty courtesies and the illusion of choice?

"Certainly, my lord husband." The words were somewhat unwieldy in her mouth, but she managed to get them out without a hitch. She would have had to address Tirn in much the same way, had they gotten married instead. At the very least, she would have to do so in public and around the staff.

Lord Morrow tipped his head, a strange intensity to the way he watched her, before he offered a mild smile.

"No need for such politeness, My Lady. We are strangers at best and while I’d be happy to get to know you, don’t feel pressured to return the sentiment. I am certain we can figure something out to make this situation pleasant for you." He briefly glanced up at the sky. "But Lam is correct, I am quite busy today. We can discuss this further over dinner if you'd like."

Adelia found she could only nod and Lord Morrow left with long strides, disappearing into the mist.

"If you’d please follow me, My Lady," Steward Lambrecht said and Adelia made sure to stick close enough to not lose him in the thick fog as he led her across the courtyard, dead leaves crunching beneath their feet. He led her up a couple of stairs to the large entrance doors of the keep.

The doors were plain, made of thick, black wood, reinforced with iron and small spikes rose from every crossing section of iron bands. It looked foreboding. Adelia glanced up the walls and just barely made out the shape of hulking gargoyles above.

"I promise the inside is more pleasant than the outside at this time of day," Steward Lambrecht said, pushing the doors open and stepping aside to let her through first. "This keep is called the Grim Keep for a reason, I suppose, though it is a warm home to all of us."

The sounds of her feet dressed in soft slippers were usually quiet enough to be rather subtle, but in the utter silence of the entrance hall her steps almost seemed to echo.

Lanterns and candles were lit, illuminating paintings on the walls, one depicting strange creatures that seemed to dance through a field of flowers, silky strips of cloth fluttering in their wake. Another painting showed a pack of wolves in a forest, ravens sitting in the branches above them, glowing eyes staring right at the observer.

There were two portraits as well, one of a woman who seemed to be Lord Morrow's mother, or perhaps his sister, her face was kind and sweet and she looked like she was happy and hopeful, her back straight and a subtle confidence to the angle of her head.

The second portrait was of a snow-pale, elegant woman with equally white hair and lake-dark eyes. She had the same mild smile as Lord Morrow, but there was something to her gaze, as though she was quietly laughing at the painter.

Steward Lambrecht closed the door again and stepped past her, motioning around the entrance hall, the thick carpets and a few set-up decorative pieces on little stands, from vases to small statues.

"The keep is almost four hundred years old," he explained. "It had been built by a rather paranoid warlord, but it went through many hands since its creatioin. My master took it for himself some years ago after the previous owner had proven himself unfit to rule."

Steward Lambrecht appeared proud as he added, "It had been rather run down at the time and we managed to not only restore it to its former glory but add to it. You are welcome to wander anywhere you please."

He paused briefly. "Though I would caution against entering the eastern tower without Sorceress Iva's permission, she has many experiments running up there."

Adelia nodded, carefully shelving the information. She listened attentively as Steward Lambrecht began to explain the keep and its history to her, leading her down hallways decorated with beautiful tapestries and yet more paintings, many of them strange and perhaps a little unsettling. There was something fascinating to them, as well, however, and she couldn't help but feel drawn in a few times.

They walked past rooms with sturdy, thick doors and up and down a number of stairs, as Steward Lambrecht told her what was beyond each door, encouraging her to look if she so desired.

Adelia quickly realized the place was bigger than she had thought, though, with the thick spill of fog surrounding it, she hadn’t been able to see much in the first place.

Lord Morrow really had done well rebuilding everything, the floorboards were smooth and polished beneath her feet and the hallways perfectly clean. None of the carpets or tapestries showed even a hint of faded colors or having been in danger of getting eaten up by either moths or the tooth of time.

"You are welcome to view the gardens once the sun has risen, if you'd like, My Lady," Lambrecht said as he led her towards the personal quarters of the nobility. Her new quarters. "Our cook and gardener are quite proud of them and they will certainly offer to show you around, as well, should you desire to know more about the plants they cultivate."

"I would like that," Adelia was quick to reassure him, though she also genuinely meant it. She hoped that she might befriend the staff a little. "As long as I don't disrupt anyone's work."

"I will speak with them to let them know in advance, though they would also be glad to make time for you spontaneously. The library is through here," Lambrecht said, briefly opening a big, wooden door to reveal a large room with numerous shelves, each filled to the brim with books.

Adelia’s breath briefly caught. Books were a truly valuable thing indeed, not even Father’s library had been half as big as this one and he had been quite proud of it. Steward Lambrecht gestured at the room, "You are welcome to read at your leisure."

Adelia bit the inside of her lower lip to keep silent. Father hadn’t allowed her into his library, citing that there was no need for womenfolk to read about things that didn’t concern them. He had always guarded knowledge jealously, like a bitter, old dragon.

If she ever had to learn something, he had provided the materials, but never anything more. Never anything that would give her or even Mother the opportunity to be better or be more knowledgeable than him at something.

If Lord Morrow had no such reservations she wasn’t going to question it. If anything, if he allowed her to read freely, she was going to take this opportunity and run with it until someone stopped her.

"Here are your personal quarters," Lambrecht said as he led her further down the hallway, motioning to a door that looked newer than the others. It was also the only decorated one she had seen so far, with flowers carved into the wood, growing up and around a strange symbol near the top. "My master’s chambers are down the hall."

She paused at his words. "We are not to share rooms?" Some nobles only shared a bed as often as it was necessary to create heirs and otherwise slept apart, but even then it was expected of the woman to make time should her husband wish to visit her at night.

"No, My Lady," Steward Lambrecht said, utterly calm and polite. "My master will not bother you and you are free to do with your space what you will. We haven’t furnished it much yet, for we wish for your input on what you'd like." He motioned at her to go ahead.

Adelia reached for the door, finding it unlocked and swinging it open. The windows were bigger compared to other rooms in the keep, which would allow a lot more light to fall through once the sun rose. The sitting room she stepped into was mostly empty, with bare bookshelves and a heavy wooden desk awaiting her.

Walking forward, it was hard for her to imagine that this would be her home from now on. She would dress, sleep and keep busy here while finding a way to arrange herself with her husband.

Poking her head through the left door first, she found a bathing chamber. There was a big bathtub and she felt positively surprised to see that Lord Morrow had installed plumbing, most likely with the aid of Sorceress Iva.

Her bedroom awaited her through the right door and held a bed that was honestly a bit too big, though it looked very soft, along with a closet to one side and two chests at the foot of her new bed. Her luggage was here already, as well, carefully stacked in one corner. There was even a glass double-door leading out to a balcony, reminding her starkly of her bedroom at home.

She suddenly had to bite back tears, wringing her hands and breathing carefully, the way she had taught herself over the years, to keep her emotions in check. She had never loved her home, but she had known it and there was safety in knowledge. She had made a place for herself there, finding ways around her father's rules and expectations, carving out freedoms for herself away from his pityless gaze.

The air smelled cold and faintly like lavender, but nothing else. Turning slowly, she realized that her personal quarters were truly left empty, aside from the most important furniture that was immediately necessary. She returned to Steward Lambrecht, who had waited out in the hallway.

"We have quite a few things in storage," he said when she closed the door to her chambers quietly. "And anything else you require we’ll be happy to have commissioned."

"That is quite generous," Adelia said, a little surprised. She honestly could think of very few nobles who would be willing to spend so much money on a new spouse right away, especially with plenty of serviceable furniture already available.

Steward Lambrecht offered a polite, though warmer smile. "We wish to make you feel welcome and comfortable, My Lady. We're all happy to assist with anything you need."

"I see, thank you." She was honestly a little relieved. The texts she had read about the Wilds had left her rather worried if she was going to fit in, but so far her arrival here had been quiet and uncomplicated and Steward Lambrecht was nothing if not perfectly well mannered.

Her new home was strange and new and, truth be told, a bit unsettling, but so far, she had been spared the humiliation and discomfort, if not outright pain, of her wedding night.

Lord Morrow wasn't anything like her father, either, who had always made sure she knew the length of her leash and what was expected of her. At least so far he hadn't said anything to her yet. There was still plenty of time for things to change and for him to tell her what she ought to do.

Steward Lambrecht led her further down the hallway, pointing out the door to Lord Morrow's rooms, and to her surprise, she saw that this one was painted on. It showed the view of a night-dark valley, a full moon below making a winding river shimmer and a bat flew through the night sky, a multitude of stars glimmering faintly, as though the paint had something shimmering added to it.

The doors to the guest suits were next and lastly he led her to a tower at the very end of the personal quarters of the noble family and their visitors.

"Up there is Iva’s domain," Steward Lambrecht said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "You can always approach her if you need anything, though I advise against startling her. She's always working on something and even a small mistake could cause things to turn volatile."

"I would never be so rude as to barge into her rooms unanncounced, but I’ll be careful anyway," she answered, earning herself a small smile from the steward.

A mage’s work was not to be trifled with, she knew that much and even nosy, entitled nobles had learned to grudgingly accept that.

Steward Lambrecht showed her the grounds outside the keep last, since the sun had now risen enough to chase most of the fog away. Only a bit of mist remained, swirling in their wake as they walked.

The main courtyard was a little overgrown with vines and bushes, most of the plants having lost their leaves to the approach of winter. That the plants looked dead didn't really help with the genuinely unsettling and downright creepy air of the keep at large.

There was a little building off to the side and considering the herbs carefully cultivated in pots around it, it must've been the home of a herbalist of some kind. A strange thing to have right on hand, she thought.

Back home, the herbalist had lived in town, not her father's castle, though he had to come immediately if there was need for him and a room would be made ready if he had to stay for any length of time to support her father's physician with any necessary treatments.

The stables housed a handful of gorgeous, sleek horses with warm, dark eyes and two draft horses, all looking ready to be let out into their pastures outside the keep. To her surprise, other animals waited in a built-on part of the stables, a handful of cows, sheep and pigs, all chewing contentedly on their breakfast.

There was a chicken coop nearby as well, with chickens that had a strange grey sheen to their feathers. When she pointed them out, Steward Lambrecht was happy to explain, "They’re a breed of the Wilds, they can easily handle our temperatures and they deal well with the fog."

"Does it get foggy often?" she couldn't help but ask.

Steward Lambrecht nodded and cast her a rather serious look. "Please get used to it, My Lady. The fog is a part of these lands."

That honestly didn’t sound overly pleasant, but she would deal with it. The fact that it was autumn probably didn’t help much and she hoped that spring and summer was going to be more pleasant, even with fog.

Lastly they ended up where they had started, near the walnut tree in the front courtyard.

"There is a town half an hour’s ride from here," Steward Lambrecht said, gesturing at the gates. "If you wish to visit the market or explore the surrounding area, you are welcome to take one of our horses. Are you well versed in the art of riding?"

"I am," she admitted and had to viciously bite down on the bubble of grief that enveloped her heart, digging sharp claws deeply into her, her throat tightening. Her voice was just the faintest bit raspy as she added, "I used to own a horse."

"My condolences for your loss," Steward Lambrecht said and he sounded like he meant it, his voice softening in a way that had her suddenly fighting the urge to tear up and she carefully had to breathe through another wave of grief. "Feel free to choose any of ours for your trips, they're all well behaved and well trained."

Steward Lambrecht tucked his hands behind his back as he tacked on, "Should you feel unsafe in the saddle we’re happy to provide an accompanying handler."

"That’s kind of you, though I doubt it will be necessary." She had to admit that she had missed being around horses, having carefully kept her distance from her father's animals lest she love one of them again and be the cause of its death.

Adelia had to admit that she did wish to explore the nearby town, mostly to familiarize herself with her husband’s lands and a little bit to get away for a little while.

There was just something about this keep, despite all the amenities it offered, that made her slightly uncomfortable. There was a constant chill in the air that had little to do with the frosty cold of approaching winter.

She couldn’t put her finger on why, but sometimes a small shiver raked down her spine out of nowhere. The mist, as light as it had gotten, made the leaf-less plants look like gnarly, ghostly figures. It made her feel as though she had to keep looking over her shoulder just a little.

Lambrecht gestured at the keep. "That concludes our tour for now, we will show you our gardens later. Breakfast will be done in about an hour I believe, do you wish to eat in the dining room or shall we bring it up to your quarters? Oh, and do you wish to select furniture before or after your meal?"

"I’d like to eat first, please, in the kitchen if possible," Adelia requested. She wanted and needed to get to know her husband’s servants and household, to figure out what her role here was going to entail and how they were being treated.

Lambrecht bowed his head in agreeing acceptance. "Certainly, My Lady. Do not hesitate to voice any requests or wishes and we’ll do your utmost best to fulfill them."

"I will," she answered, though she wasn’t sure how far that offer extended and what the limits were. Either way, she had no intentions of asking for too much.

They went back inside and Adelia returned to her new quarters to get a little bit of unpacking done before breakfast. As she closed the door, she was pleasantly surprised to find a key in place so she could lock it from the inside. She did so, some tension easing from her shoulders the moment she heard the tell-tale, metallic click of the lock sliding into place.

Heading for her luggage she dug out her hidden sketches first. Everything was still where she had put it and she hid her work behind the bookshelf in her sitting room. It was made of heavy, dark wood but since it was still empty, she could move it just enough to slide the sketches in place.

Since she had only brought four books with her officially, she doubted she was going to get it filled up anytime soon. There were other books, though, hidden in the folds of a fur cloak. Gifts from her friends and from Tirn that she hadn't wanted to leave behind despite the bitterness she felt towards him now. Books on clockwork inventions.

She didn't really need those books anymore, she had studied them front to back many times when she had taught herself how to create, but there was a certain comfort in having them around.

They were silent teachers, windows out into a brighter, larger world that her father had tried and failed to bar shut. She had no idea what her new life held in store for her, but she was determined to keep that window. To build something out of it, to perhaps even have a better life than before if she played her cards right.

The books got hiding spots as well, though Adelia was going to check for better ones once she had the rest of the furniture brought in. She could look into building false bottoms or secret compartments, so long as she got her hands on tools and materials.

The metal horse was hardest to hide and she kept it carefully wrapped in fabric as she tucked it, for lack of better options at the moment, into the drawer of her writing desk.

After putting away a handful of her other possessions, the sun had risen far enough that she was certain an hour had passed, and she left for breakfast. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she had already eaten very little the night prior and skipping out on breakfast wasn’t only rude to the cooks, it would cause her to feel faint sooner or later as well.

The kitchen was a place of pale grey, solid stone and burnt bricks, with only two people working inside, which surprised her. There had always been a good handful of servants busy in the kitchen at home, preparing meals for the noble family as well as the staff and any visitors they might have.

Did that mean her husband didn't feed his servants? Or was he the cruel sort to give his servants impossible tasks, like expecting merely two people to cook for an entire keep only to berate them when they failed inevitably, basking in their despair and fear?

She did not know him well enough yet to be able to tell for sure. Just because he had shown her some consideration last night did not mean he offered the same to others, especially those who he might view as beneath him.

The head cook was a rough looking, stocky woman with only one eye, the other side of her face scarred badly and whatever remained of her other eye covered with an eyepatch. She looked up when Adelia entered, giving her a quick once-over as though to take her in and then she offered a smile.

"Welcome, My Lady," the head cook greeted her, voice a little raspy and she offered a slightly clumsy bow, as though curtsying wasn't something she did often. "Come on in, we hope you are pleased with the meal we prepared."

The kitchen aid, the only other person present, was a willowy, tall girl who honestly, at first glance, did not look strong enough to even fetch water from the well. Her long, wispy hair was braided and her wrists looked so slender Adelia genuinely worried for her for a moment.

The girl led her to one of the solid, heavy tables at the side of the room and the head cook brought a heaped plate with a truly marvelously made breakfast over. Had the staff already eaten and she was the last to show up for breakfast? Or was she the only one afforded this luxury and the rest of the staff sustained themselves on bread and water?

She was going to find out, with careful questions at first to test the waters. She needed to know her husband's character and it would help to see how loyal they felt to him or if they feared him.

If her mother and father had taught her anything, it was the art of inquiring delicately and asking unassuming questions in order to learn what she wanted to know. Carefully kept secrets especially were best unveiled this way, as was the nature of men who liked to hide their dark hearts behind a veneer of gentility.

"Thank you for your efforts," Adelia said as she accepted the food. Freshly baked bread rolls awaited her, with little jars of butter, honey and jam off to the side, along with nuts and fruits and a bowl of steaming porridge. "This looks wonderful. I take it I'm the last to eat?"

The cook snorted and waved a hand. "In a manner of speaking. The rest of these rascals come in whenever they please and Lambrecht is a weird one who never eats breakfast."

Adelia blinked, noting the utterly unconcerned and very unafraid tone of the woman. Her father's servants would have never spoken badly of the steward, especially not where he could hear. The man was loyal to her father to a fault and no one else ever got to enjoy his regard.

"I hope I was no trouble then, I imagine you had your hands full cooking for everyone," Adelia answered and the woman laughed.

"There is night staff, don't worry, they are kind enough to make all the bread and get the prep started and my apprentices come in later. We held a moon celebration last night, so I don't expect them in before noon."

That sounded quite strange indeed, though Adelia perked up a little. She had read about some of the deities of the Wilds. "To honor the moon goddess and her spouse, the stars? I heard people dance the night away."

The head cook grinned, crooked and pleasantly surprised. "You've studied up on our lot, I see. Yeah, we dance and sing and drink, and later, the ones of us who are wild souls run through the woods to our hearts content."

Adelia wondered how safe that could be in the dark, or if the full moon illuminated the world well enough that people did not fear tripping over roots and injuring themselves.

"Did you celebrate with them?" Adelia asked, curious about the whole thing. In the kingdom celebrations were held at the temples, and while there was dancing and drinking, it had seemed tame in comparison to some of the stories she had read about the Wilds and their worship of unruly and old goods.

The head cook grinned, secretive and amused and answered, "I went out with the other wild souls, but I'm an old hat at nights like last night, so I know how to get out of bed bright and early even if I was on my feet until near-dawn."

At Adelia's surprised, startled expression, the head cook softened. "Worry not, I'll sleep more later, so this doesn't bother me."

"Would you mind telling me your names?" Adelia asked, glancing between the rugged woman before her and the thin slip of a girl.

"I’m Ada," the head cook introduced herself. "This one here is Vera, we’ve been hired by Morrow when he first claimed the keep. I can introduce you to the others later when they arrive, if you'd like."

"That would be lovely, thank you," Adelia said and reached out to take a first bite of her food. It tasted as delicious as it looked.

Adelia found her appetite returning with a vengeance once she had mixed fruits and honey into her porridge and buttered a bread roll, the insides pillowy-soft and the outside holding a pleasant crunch. The head cook and kitchen aid were quiet as she ate, exchanging murmured words on occasion and otherwise seemingly doing their best not to disturb her as they worked.

"This was delicious, thank you," she said as she finished eating what she could and Ada offered a glad smile.

"I'm happy to hear that. Lam mentioned he hasn't shown you our gardens yet, would you like a tour?"

Adelia nodded and Ada left a pot simmering over the fire as she led the way out a door at the side, Vera drifting silently after them. Ada seemed more than happy to do most of the talking as she showed off what plants could still be harvested this close to winter and the kitchen aid only occasionally chimed in, her voice lilting and musical.

The gardens were made for practicality rather than than beauty: there were numerous vegetable beds, though many laid barren at the moment, fruit trees and berry bushes grew along the cobblestone walkways and a massive bed for kitchen herbs, medical herbs and edible flowers had been built along one wall of the keep.

Adelia learned that Lord Morrow had claimed the keep ten years ago, a year before Lord Morrow had saved King Harold’s life. When he had renovated the keep, he had asked for their input and ideas and had even left them entirely in charge of designing the garden they wanted.

They briefly met the gardener as well, a tall, bulky woman who wore a strangely shaped, big hat and who pulled the brim down so her eyes couldn't be seen. All her hair seemed to be shoved up into the hat as well.

"Don't mind our Sera," Ada said, waving Adelia along. "Some shitheads were mean to her during her childhood and now she thinks everyone hates her looks."

Adelia found herself frowning and straightening as she addressed the gardener, the woman's head ducked down, "Beauty takes many shapes and forms, and yours is just another way it expresses itself. Just like all flowers are different, are they not?"

Sera shifted, shoulders hitching up slightly, and then she let go of the brim slowly, gaze downcast before it flit up quickly to meet Adelia's, as though she was bracing herself for something bad.

Adelia had never met someone with golden-green eyes before, as if someone had poured actual gold amongst a sea of emeralds. It was surprising and quite unusual, but it was far from ugly.

Unbidden, she remembered the books on the Wilds and the rumors of the monsters that lived here and she wondered if it was true at all. If maybe the people here just looked different to the stuck-up, visiting nobles of the kingdom, and that was how all those rumors came to be. No one back home would have had eyes like this gardener, that was for sure.

Adelia's smile came easy and was genuine. "Eyes like the sun and spring, I think you have every right to be proud of them."

Sera's golden-green gaze widened and then she was blushing and ducking down, grabbing the brim of her hat anew to pull it down, but not even the hat could hide the trembling smile that appeared on her face.

"Thanks, m'lady," the woman whispered and Adelia found her incredibly endearing in that moment. "You want me to plant anything for you?"

"You're too kind," Adelia said, still smiling. "I wouldn't wish to trouble you." When Sera shook her head insistently, she found herself adding, "I'll tell you if I can think of anything."

Sera accepted that with a small nod and then she turned to tend to her plants again. When Adelia glanced at Ada, ready to continue the tour, the head cook had a downright sweet smile on her face.

"You're a good one," the rough looking woman said kindly. "Come along, allow me to show you the last of our still blooming flowers, though I doubt they can rival your sweetness."

Adelia couldn't help but smile back at her, as they continued on. Ada picked up the stories about the keep and Lord Morrow where she had left off, and Adelia learned that Lord Morrow had rebuilt these lands after the previous warlord had bled everyone dry, leaving many places destitute and people fighting over scraps.

Ada talked about how he had found ways to haul them out of poverty and hopelessness, how he had supported them without asking anything for himself.

People really liked to serve Lord Morrow, it seemed, and he regularly received tribute wagons from neighboring countries, who hoped to put themselves in his good graces. To maybe even negotiate for an alliance or a peace treaty.

The other warlords received much the same offers, Ada mentioned, though none of them had ever signed any contracts with any of the other kingdoms. The Wilds remained apart and independent and very rarely shared their power with anyone.

This, at least, Adelia was familiar with. There had been many instances where nobility had sent goods and riches to another king to foster as non-aggressive a relationship as possible, or even to garner favor.

She could remember that Father, as well, occasionally, sent King Harold gifts, as much as it galled him to spend his money unnecessarily. She herself had handed gifts over to the king's children at her parent's urging.

"He’s not a bad sort," Vera murmured softly during a lull in the conversation. "The master, I mean. At least not to us. He keeps those under his protection safe and he is a loyal friend to some of the other Warlords."

"Though he could do with stopping his early morning violin practice," Ada grumbled.

Vera laughed softly, a sweet sound. "He is getting better every day, let him keep learning and soon our ears won't suffer anymore."

"You're right, he's busy enough as is, taking care of these lands," Ada sighed. "I suppose we shan't take his joys from him."

They spoke freely of their lord, both in praise and in admonishment, even if the latter was fond and gentle. It... it gave her hope, she had to admit. That, rather than being married to a monster like Lord Emmertal, she might have found someone good. Someone who could be a friend one day.

Perhaps, to get to know him better, she could offer to teach him how to play. Adelia, like most noble ladies, had learned some of the arts along with her regular education. It was one of the reasons why she was so good at sketching flowers and her clockwork ideas.

Hope hesitantly blossomed in her heart. Maybe she really could be of use here and if Lord Morrow did not object, perhaps she could support him in his ruling of these lands. Maybe, if fate was kind to her, she might even be able to do some of the things she had dreamed about back before Tirn had ruined everything.

Dreams about properly taking care of her people, about raising them up and being a lady worthy of the wealth and power she had been born into.

"I see," she said, her tone thoughtful. They reached the end of the gardens and circled back to the keep. "Thank you for your time, this has been very educational."

Ada chuckled, while Vera drifted at her side, moving with a sort of weightless grace that would have made many a noble lady green with envy.

"We’re honored, My Lady," Ada said and offered a lopsided little grin. "If I may speak so boldly: you will be a very welcome presence in this keep."

It heartened her a little to hear her say so and she hoped that Lord Morrow agreed. She still did not know why he had married her when he hadn't shown interest in anyone before, but she was here now and she'd make the best of it.

Adelia excused herself when they returned to the keep to look for the furniture Steward Lambrecht had mentioned. She found another servant along the way, who was happy to guide her and said he’d make sure anything she chose would be brought to her rooms promptly.

"I’m Lukas," he introduced himself with a bow. He was maybe a decade older than she, his wheat blond hair cut short and a little wind tousled and he had hands made rough from hard work. "The master said to give you anything you like."

So far, Adelia hadn’t noticed any sort of uniform for the servants, as he wore a pale blue woolen tunic and warm dark trousers along with sturdy boots. Both Ada and Vera had worn different, simple dresses as well.

He opened the door to a large room, filled with a surprising amount of furniture, from simple, sturdy designs to intricately carved and painted pieces. She had more than enough options to choose from. It was all perfectly lovely too and clearly well taken care of.

She selected what furniture she needed for her rooms and Lukas briefly left to fetch more servants to carry everything. Adelia met a gangly teenager, a portly woman and twins so big and built they unwittingly reminded her of sturdy oxen, capable of pulling and carrying anything.

They were all as polite and friendly as everyone else so far, and helped her readily. Lord Morrow had apparently been very clear that she was to be made welcome, and they were rather curious about her, asking her questions about the kingdom she hailed from and how she was settling in.

She answered to the best of her abilities and asked a few questions of her own, learning a few more things about her new home. They were downright eager to tell her everything, eyes brightening and lips pulling into smiles, pride making them stand a little taller. It was easy to see that they loved their home.

At last Adelia stood in her fully furnished rooms, the staff excusing themselves, and took a moment to breathe. In the silent stillness, she could not help but grow a little anxious again.

Everything was new, despite the friendly welcome, and she wished she knew where she stood with Lord Morrow. What sort of marriage he expected and what he would require of her and what would displease him.

Wringing her hands, she turned to unpacking the rest of her things to try to keep busy. Her thoughts weren’t helping, the opposite quite in fact, and she'd rather focus on what tasks she could do.

The more she knew of his expectations, the better she could navigate her new life. She could then carve out what secret freedoms she needed to find at least some happiness in her life.

By the time her luggage was fully unpacked, it was time for lunch and Adelia found herself strangely at a loss. Lord Morrow hadn’t told her what kind of duties he expected her to take on and neither had Steward Lambrecht mentioned anything.

Adelia visited the kitchen once more and found that it was bustling with life now. Men and women flitted about to get a big lunch going and she was greeted with kind friendliness and slightly clumsy bows.

As Adelia was seated at the table, the rest of the servants were all too happy to introduce themselves and answer any and all of her questions as they kept working, only a handful joining her on the table for a quick meal. The people around her also, and happily at that, told her the story about how Lord Morrow had saved them.

The previous warlord had demanded for everyone to go on their knees whenever they saw him, servants hurriedly dropping down as soon as he rounded the corner and townsfolk kneeling in the dirt, their heads bowed to touch the ground.

He had been a man too powerful for them to fight back against and any who had tried anyway had gotten strung up on the road up to the keep, some decapitated, some torn apart, some with their guts hanging out. Some had died on the stakes rammed through them, mounted like grotesque decorations.

Things had been grim and they had felt hopeless and helpless, until Lord Morrow had appeared one night.

"He just melted out of the dark," one of the cooking apprentices said as he swiftly chopped vegetables. "This lone guy without a single weapon on him and no army behind him. To be honest, I don't remember too much, I was still a boy back then, but I remember thinking that he seemed scary even dressed in simple traveler's garb."

"He walked right into the keep, all on his lonesome, not a single stitch of armor on him," an older woman continued as she kneaded dough for some sweet cakes. "We all thought he'd be dead come dawn, but lo and behold, not even an hour later he came back and tossed our warlord's head down at our feet."

"He was talking about giving us back all the hoarded gold our previous master had hidden away," Ada said. "That he'd move on afterwards, leave us to decide who would be warlord next. We declared him the new warlord then and there, instead of him claiming the title." She added the last part with a cheeky little grin.

"We would have been mighty stupid to let him get away," a grizzled servant said with a sage nod. He was the oldest of the group and despite his slightly shaky hands, he was quick to fetch what was needed before he was even asked and he cleaned up just as swiftly, leaving pots and pans downright sparkling.

It was the strangest story to Adelia. No noble had ever been chosen by the people, at least not to her knowledge. However, it was strangely reassuring to hear everyone speak so well about their lord. To find out that they had chosen him and, seemingly, not once regretted doing so.

Adelia was all the more surprised to find out, after some careful questioning, that everyone around her could read and write and do at least simple math.

"Our master funded a school in town," Vera answered, a soft smile on her face. "Everyone is welcome, be they young or old. It was his first project after helping us get back on our feet."

"We're not weak people," Ada said, her voice firm and slightly gritty as she reached for the spices. "We wouldn't have survived our previous master if we had been, but we learned that it is nice to be supported. To have someone we can count on when times get tough."

She sounded as though she truly meant it. It gave Adelia hope and she resolved to speak with him. If he truly was as invested in his people as everyone thought he was, she wanted to aid him.

"But enough of that, tell me, My Lady, what sort of sweets do you enjoy?" Ada asked and when Adelia tried to say that anything was fine, the head cook pinned her with a mock-stern look and she couldn't help but smile and admit that she was particularly fond of fruit cakes.

Ada grinned and promised she'd have some ready for dinner.

As soon as Adelia finished her lunch, she was kindly ushered out, her dirty dishes joining the others to be cleaned.

Adelia found herself flush with warmth and a quiet, tentative kind of hope that maybe this marriage wouldn't be so bad after all. That perhaps she could find joy here, in the Wilds, with a warlord who frightened even evil lords. Returning to her rooms, she wrote letters to her friends.

She did not know if Lord Morrow preferred to read them like her father once had, to ensure she wasn't trying to give away information he didn't want her to, but she'd rewrite the letters to remove anything too personal if he did.

But for now, writing her friends gave her the chance to put some order to her chaotic thoughts. She told Izabel and Katrina about the people she had met, that her new husband had, so far, been nothing but courteous and that her new home was indeed quite a bit chillier than her childhood home.

The fog, whenever she glanced out the window while writing, never quite disappeared. It had receded enough to not directly impede any plant growth, but it clung to the walls and corners of the keep like strange, formless cobwebs, and as the day grew late, she watched as the mist began to spread out once again.

It crawled across the ground until everything was covered and then it grew thicker and thicker until the courtyard could no longer be seen. Adelia didn’t know why, but a cold shiver crawled down her spine once more at the sight, something unnatural to it all, and she fetched a shawl she had brought, wrapping it around her shoulders.

A knock at the door caused her to jump in surprise and she called for the person to enter. Steward Lambrecht stood at the threshold after opening the door, offering a polite bow.

"My Lady, if it pleases you, my master asked if you were willing to attend dinner with him."

Nerves immediately dug into her stomach, but Adelia made sure to offer a polite smile and agreed, "Of course, I will freshen up and meet him in the dining hall."

"I will inform the master, My Lady." Steward Lambrecht closed the door again and Adelia heard the faintest of sounds as he walked away.

She exhaled heavily and went to the washbasin, washing her face to calm down and she fussed over her clothes for a long moment, before she made herself leave. She gained nothing but worries from stalling.

Adelia still remembered the way to the dining hall well enough, since Steward Lambrecht had been quite thorough in his tour, and when she stepped into it, Lord Morrow was already waiting for her, dozens of candles lit around him.

He stood by the windows, looking out at the faint, last shimmer of quickly vanishing sunlight on the far horizon. When she closed the door behind her, he turned around with one of his signature mild smiles.

"Good evening, My Lady," he said, dipping into a polite bow and gesturing elegantly towards the large, already set table. It could easily seat many a visitor and dignitary, though the room lacked the sort of adornments Adelia had seen in other noble homes. The room, like the rest of the keep, was rather cold, making her glad to have held onto her shawl. "Please, take a seat."

"I take it your day went well?" she asked, while Lord Morrow pulled out a chair for her. As soon as she sat down, he pushed it in with ease. Adelia folded her hands in her lap, unsure of herself, as he took a seat across from her.

"Most definitely," Lord Morrow answered leaning forward with curious, dark eyes. "I hope you managed to settle in at least a little?"

"Yes, you were very gracious and everyone has been quite kind to me." Adelia wondered if all new brides felt so wrong-footed when speaking to men they barely knew and who were their husbands now. She imagined that some surely did.

Lord Morrow tipped his head slightly to the side, a small furrow appearing between his brows. "I was hardly gracious, anything you want shall be yours, as far as it is within my powers to give."

Adelia genuinely had no idea how to respond to that and dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you, my lord husband."

At this Lord Morrow’s face briefly shifted into a wryly amused smile. "No need for such a weighty, useless title. Call me by my name, if you please."

Adelia hid her surprise at his words. The times Mother had said Father’s given name could be counted on one hand. It felt wrong to speak with such a lack of courtesy, but she couldn't deny him a direct request either. "As you wish, Rowan."

He smiled at her. "And how may I address you, My Lady?"

"However you wish." She wished she knew better how things were done in the Wilds and hoped that he forgave her any inevitable missteps as she learned his customs.

At her words he sat up straighter and made a low, disagreeing noise before speaking, "No, My Lady, you will tell me what you prefer and it will be what I will adhere to. I also wish to discuss our situation after dinner."

Worried she might have upset him and even more worried about what he wanted to talk about, she hurried to answer, "My name then, My Lord."

"Very well, Adelia. And if I may make another request of you tonight, please drop the lord as well. I’ve not been born into nobility and I’m no noble now, either." Hadn’t he gained the title by becoming a warlord?

She must've looked confused despite her best efforts to uphold her polite mask, since he added, "King Harold was the one who decided I was a lord, but things don’t work like this here in the Wilds."

"How do they work?" she asked, hoping he was willing to indulge her and didn’t point out her lack of knowledge. Despite her best efforts, she heard her father's voice hissing in the back of her mind, scolding her for appearing stupid in front of someone she ought to try to impress.

"Anyone can become a warlord," Lord Morrow answered, not so much as a hint of reproach or disappointment over her lack of knowledge in his voice. "There are two ways to gain the title, you either kill the previous warlord, or you get them to agree to a wager and then best them in a chosen field."

A brisk, sharp knock made him pause and Adelia glanced towards the door. Ada and Vera stepped inside a moment later, carrying two covered trays of food. They set the trays down and removed the domed covers, revealing meat cooked in plums, spinach pies and steamed greens. And a little fruit cake.

"Thank you," Adelia said, genuine and heartfelt, and both women sent her quick smiles in return.

Vera drifted to a cabinet at the side to return with a bottle of wine, while Ada turned to Lord Morrow. The cook raised a very expressive eyebrow and he offered a chagrinned smile after a moment. Ada rolled her eye and sent him a pointed look.

Adelia didn’t know what to make of their silent exchange and murmured another thank you when Vera filled first her and then Lord Morrow’s goblet. Both women excused themselves and left, Ada sending Lord Morrow one more look along with a gesture he seemed to be able to understand, for he tipped his head slightly at her.

"Eat as much as you like," he said, grasping his goblet and taking a sip. "I don’t have much of an appetite tonight."

Adelia put some food onto her plate after a moment, taking a bit of everything since Ada and the others had worked so hard to make these dishes.

She had never been a particularly picky eater, nor was she in the habit of demanding the most decadent meals possible like other nobles. Still, the moment she took a bite, she knew this had been expertly cooked and wonderfully seasoned and it was quickly becoming one of the tastiest meals she had ever had.

Ada must be worth her weight in gold.

Lord Morrow cleared his throat. "I have to admit that I don't often have new company, is there anything you'd like to know?"

She had so many questions she thought she might fill an entire book with them, but her nerves felt a little frayed at the moment and so she asked something she hoped was harmless, "The fog around the keep, is it always this present?"

"I’m afraid so," he answered, a slightly sardonic twist to the wry little smile he offered her. "It comes with the territory."

How curious, she had never heard of such a phenomenon, but then again, Father wouldn’t have let her read any research books anyway. As long as she could be a proper wife for her future husband and no embarrassment for his house, that was the extent of the education she needed in his opinion.

"What can you tell me about the Wilds?" Adelia asked, swallowing her bite and reluctantly admitted, because her ignorance would be noticeable sooner rather than later, "I fear I couldn't learn much, despite my best efforts."

Lord Morrow hummed softly in understanding. "The Wilds are a large land, spanning the entire northern coast, along with a handful of islands and its governed by different warlords."

"How many are there?" And most importantly, were they an enemy or friend to her husband and therefore, to Adelia herself?

"About eight, though there has been a debate over a particularly large island and whether or not it needs its own warlord." He took a sip of wine. "We're mostly leaving each other be, though we have a standing agreement to work together if any surrounding kingdoms intend to conquer us."

His smile was as mild as ever, but his eyes seemed sharper as he added, "No one will take our home from us."

"Of course," Adelia agreed. No one wanted their land stolen or to lose the power and prestige they currently held. That was probably about the only thing all nobles could agree on, even if they couldn't agree on letting others keep their land, too.

"You can, of course, read up on the topic as much as you like," he said, waving vaguely in the direction the library was located. "I have collected plenty of tomes in my time."

"Which of the books may I read?" she asked, because she had to be sure. For as polite and unexpectedly kind as Lord Morrow had been so far, she did not wish to test his temper. Not unless it was for something very important.

He paused, as though surprised, then frowned slightly. "Any you like. If there are more books you wish to have, I’ll see to it that they are acquired." He set his goblet down, an expression of intent seriousness on his face. "Anything in this keep that is mine is yours as long as you wish to stay, and as long as it is not locked away, you are welcome to it."

"Are there things should I stay away from?" she asked. Adelia hoped to find out what he would not tolerate so she could definitely avoid doing that.

"I would prefer if you would not rifle through my office without me present and to leave any locked cabinets or chests in there alone," he said. "Aside from that, ask either myself or Lambrecht if you need anything, we can help you find things faster than if you were to search around by yourself."

His gloved fingers flexed, before he added, "The dungeons should be avoided as well. It is a rather unpleasant place."

Adelia had never liked dungeons much to begin with, so this would be no hardship. "I won’t go there." She hesitated for a brief moment and decided to ask one last important question for tonight, "My friends and family, may I write them?"

A strange expression flit over Lord Morrow's face, something faintly bewildered before it tipped into utterly unreadable. When he took a deep breath, he seemed strangely grim.

"Of course," he answered, perfectly calm and downright soft spoken. "Hand the letters to Lambrecht and he’ll ensure they’re delivered. If you have something that belonged to your friends with you, or they can send you such items, Iva can teleport the letters directly to them."

He paused a moment, as though remembering something. "Actually, I believe she has been working on little delivery boxes that send letters to a connecting box as soon as the lid closes. I will speak with her and see how far along her project is. If it is finished, I will request she make some for you, as well."

That was... that was far kinder and far more than she had ever expected. Magic resources were usually carefully controlled and highly coveted by everyone. Sharing anything a mage or sorcerer had made was only done for gain and prestige.

"Thank you," she answered, feeling a bit baffled and rather grateful and Lord Morrow waved her off. Now that she took a closer look, she could see that the tips of his gloves stretched a bit away from his fingertips. He really wasn’t fond of cutting his nails.

Either that or he had some sort of illness and was hiding it, maybe some kind of rot or infection. Only, shouldn't a mage be able to help with that? Maybe it was something rare or something that couldn't be cured. Magic wasn't the end all for everything, sadly enough.

Silence fell and she felt a little awkward since she was the only one who ate, though when she glanced up from beneath her lashes, Lord Morrow was looking out the window, seemingly lost in thought. When she was done, her plate empty, he glanced at her and offered a small, mild smile.

"If you are ready, please accompany me to my office," he requested.

When she gave him a nod, he got up and Adelia followed swiftly. They walked in silence, though Lord Morrow was in no hurry and Adelia wasn't forced to try to keep up with his longer stride. She still felt a little nervous. What did he wish to discuss with her?

His office, when he opened the door for her, was simply furnished but packed with books and ledgers. Adelia felt secretly relieved to see such a clearly organized space and it gave her hope that Lord Morrow was as good at governing his lands as the staff had said, or, at the very least, kept proper track of everything.

To her surprise, she spied her dowry chest beside his desk. She was quite familiar with it, since her parents had made sure she knew what she was worth in the eyes of the gentry and she had made a few delicately embroidered pieces to add to it over the years. Something to show off and later be passed down to any eventual children she would have to have.

A neat set of papers laid on his desk and he stepped behind it, pushing them in her direction.

"I offer you an annullment of our marriage," he said and Adelia felt sharp shock slice through her. He was quick to add, "You are of course welcome to stay and call this place home or, if you prefer, Iva could take you anywhere you like. Whatever you wish, the choice is yours. I will also return your dowry to you regardless of your decision."

"Why?" she couldn't help but ask, her hands feeling strangely cold and numb. "Did I do something wrong?"

He had specifically requested to marry her and he had gotten the king himself to refuse one of his vassals, so he could have her hand instead. What had changed? Had she messed things up already, somehow? She hadn't been a wife for a full day yet and he was going to get rid of her already?

He grew serious, but there was a soft kindness to his face and voice when he spoke, "You do not know me, Adelia. I am a vertiable stranger and I know you didn't wish to marry me, either. You don't have to sign if you don't want to, of course. You could go back home right now without the annullment if you prefer to stay married and I would merely ask if Iva could take you to spare you the long journey."

It was utterly befuddling and entirely unexpected and Adelia found herself floundering like never before. "Why did you marry me if you don't want me?" she couldn't help but ask, nervously wringing her hands.

"I know of the rumors surrounding Emmertal and I did not wish for you to face that kind of fate." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "You don't know it, but you once did me and one of mine of the greatest services a person can offer and I would be a poor soul indeed if I did not seek to repay you in kind."

The man was mad, Adelia couldn't help but think. She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and no noble had ever simply given up their new wife, while simultaneously still offering all the amenities they could.

He held out his quill to her and she hesitated for a long moment, before she ultimately shook her head. He was right, she did not wish to be married to him, but she couldn't return home, either.

No matter what she told her father, he would consider her a disgrace and might yet marry her off to Lord Emmertal, should he still want her. She didn't even want to go back to her parents, truth be told, she had looked forward to escaping her father's grasp for years, after all.

No, she was safer if she remained married to Lord Morrow, even if she didn't know the man before her at all. If Lord Morrow was speaking true, however, if he truly was the sort of man everyone said he was, this might be a better outcome than she could have hoped for when he had asked for her hand. Or rather, when he had demanded it. There hadn't been much asking involved.

Lord Morrow offered one of his mild smiles and it had a soft kindness to it. "Keep the documents," he said, folding them neatly and handing them to her instead of the quill. This time she accepted.

"If you ever change your mind, you can sign them whenever you want," he added. "Either way, I would prefer if we acted as though we weren't married. I think that will make things easier and more comfortable."

For whom, she almost asked, but bit back the question.

"What now?" she asked instead. "If you didn't want me, what is my place here? What do I do?"

"Anything you want," he answered, simple and easy, as if there was no question about it. "I wouldn't mind some help with my ledgers if you're amenable, or you're welcome to pick up any trade you like." He gestured at the keep around him. "You are welcome to spend your days in leisure, I know this keep can look a bit plain, but it still offers plenty amenities and space to create more."

Her mind immediately went to the sketches in her room, the little toys she had so very carefully built in secret, but she wasn't quite so daring as to mention them. "I would help with your ledgers, if you'd have me."

"Wonderful." He offered her another mild smile, though this one seemed a little warmer and a littler bigger, still without revealing his teeth. "We can start tomorrow evening, if that works for you. I'll be too busy before that."

"Of course, I will do my best to be of aid," she said and he nodded, then glanced at the door behind her.

"Forgive my rudeness, but I still need to take care of some things," he said. "I'll have Lambrecht deliver the dowry chest to you, so you don't have to carry it."

She probably couldn't even if she wanted to, it had taken two of father's footmen to lift it after all.

"Of course." She turned to leave and to her surprise he stepped past her to open the door for her. They inclined their heads at each other, polite even now, though she understood him even less than ever before.

She returned to her rooms, mind spinning and it was only when she washed her hands after putting the divorce documents away, that she remembered the wedding ring on her finger.

Taking it off, she set it down beside the washbasin and stared at it for a long moment. It sat there innocently, made of solid gold and decorated with emeralds. The colors of her father's house, not the red and gold that Lord Morrow so clearly preferred.

What a strange, strange man.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the letters on her desk, adding a quick note to all of them as she requested that her friends send her little things in their possession. If Sorceress Iva was indeed willing to teleport the letters, Adelia would gladly take her up on the offer.

As soon as the ink dried, she carefully folded the letters in a way that would rip the corners once unfolded, letting her friends know if anyone had read them before they had gotten delivered.

She was ready to present them to Steward Lambrecht when he arrived a few minutes later, carrying the chest like it weighed nothing. For someone of his stature, he was certainly far stronger than he looked. It was honestly a little baffling.

"Thank you," she said and he offered a polite smile and a little bow. "Would you mind having these letters delivered as well?"

"Most certainly, My Lady. They will be sent out come morning with our fastest rider," he promised, taking them from her hands. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thank you, you've done gracious plenty already," she reassured him and he left a little silver bell with her, telling her that it was enchanted and should she require anything else, all she had to do was ring it and the closest servant who was working would hear it.

Once he was gone, Adelia closed the door behind him and rubbed her hands over her face, mind spinning anew. Wandering away from the door, through her newly furnished chambers, she briefly considered signing the documents and going... well, home, for lack of other options.

She discarded the thought just as quickly, however. Her parents had proven more than sufficiently enough that they would sell her to death itself if it gave them a leg up. She couldn't go live with her friends either without word getting back to them and then she'd be in just as much trouble.

In the kingdom she was her father's property, to do with as he pleased. No one would or could protect her, not the law and no other noble would either – unless they intended to wed her, of course. King Harold was the only one who had any say and he certainly didn't care enough to do anything.

However, if Lord Morrow meant it, if she was welcome here, if he wished to work with her, then she was willing to stay. She certainly wouldn't have had a better marriage had she married Tirn. A more comfortable one, perhaps, because she knew him well, but not a better one.

She reached one of the windows and glanced outside, the sky covered in stars and the full moon shone brightly, the grounds of the keep filled with a thick fog. Thick enough she only saw the faintest shine of lanterns and a vague outline of buildings down in the courtyard.

She opened the window and took a deep breath of the frosty air. Somewhere, a raven squawked and she heard the sound of wolves howling in the distance. Aside from that, the keep was silent and there was only a faint breeze brushing by, icy and smelling of the approaching winter.

And suddenly she felt tears prick her eyes, as tension seeped from her shoulders. Everything was going better than she had expected. It made her hope, hope for a good life where she might find ways to be happy.

It was good to have some hope after all the fear and worrying. She leaned against the windowsill, pressing her face into her hands as she took deep breaths until her emotions waned again and she could wrangle them back under control.

She remained like this for a while, taking deep, relieved breaths until she began to shiver from the cold. She was about to close the window and retire to bed, to rest after a very long and emotionally exhausting day, when she noticed movement down in the courtyard.

The mist swirled and the sound of hooves on cobblestone and the creaking and clattering of wheels made her lean forward. The mist almost seemed to lighten as a large, night-black carriage was pulled to the front door by steeds even blacker than the carriage itself, driven by a person with a black cloak and hood.

The animals threw their heads and stomped their hooves, their breaths misting in front of them. The horses were large like warhorses and even from a distance and through the mist still remaining around them and drifting beneath them, she could see that their eyes were red. The color of spilled blood that had gained a faint, inner glow.

Those were no ordinary horses, not at all, and one of them lifted its head to stare right at her. It snorted a loud exhale, it's breath misting in front of it and a little shiver went down her spine. Still, as strange as these horses were, animals had never scared her. They had been loving companions instead, a solace in a home where she always had to watch herself.

The front doors opened and Lord Morrow and Steward Lambrecht left with brisk steps, dressed for travel. They entered the carriage and a moment later the horses lunged forward, the one staring at her turning away at long last.

They left quickly and she got a glimpse of them on the road moments later, the horses running far too fast, the carriage downright flying towards the horizon like they were straight out of a fairytale, gone within a few blinks of an eye. It seemed there was some truth to the rumors that monsters lived in the Wilds.

She couldn't help but wonder, though, had something happened? She did not know if someone would think to inform her if there was an emergency, but she hoped to at least receive a message if anything had happened that required the lord of the keep and its steward to leave for a time.

Or, perhaps they were merely visiting someone in town?

She stepped back when she shivered again and closed the window at last. Despite her exhaustion, her mind was churning still. She took a moment to ring the silver bell, but the servant who was quick to answer did not know why Lord Morrow and Steward Lambrecht had left.

"Knowing them, they'll be back soon, My Lady," the stout woman reassured her with a gap-toothed smile. "Our master is likely taking care of a dispute in another town. He sometimes has to leave for that."

"In the middle of the night?" Adelia couldn't help but ask and the servant's smile looked a little forced now.

"It happens," she said and Adelia knew when someone didn't wish to tell her the truth. She could try and needle for an answer, but what would that bring her? The servant would likely keep lying and she'd only upset her and that would not help her in gaining the trust and loyalty of the staff.

"Thank you, apologies for summoning you over nothing," Adelia said and the servant was quick to reassure her that it was fine, the woman's smile looking warm and genuine once more.

She left a moment later and Adelia sagged a bit, the exhaustion gripping her more intensely now. There was nothing to do but rest and try to find out more in the morning. Perhaps she could get some information out of her husband once he had returned.

Getting ready for bed she crawled beneath the blankets and found that the bed was downright perfect, the blankets and pillows soft and sinking into it was almost like a dream. Curling up, she tucked the blanket around herself as much as possible and noticed they smelled faintly like a mixture of fresh, cold air and lavender.

A part of her almost looked forward to tomorrow. She hoped to gain answers and that Lord Morrow would show her his ledgers as he had said, that he might even let her help in governing his lands.

He seemed... kind. Strange, certainly, but also kind.

Closing her eyes she no longer felt quite as alone and tiny and almost unbearably vulnerable as before, but she still wanted to be useful and she still felt a little worried and unsure about her place in the keep.

She never wanted to be a burden to anyone and she wanted a purpose. She wanted to help make things better.

She fell asleep to those thoughts and the muffled howling of wolves in the nearby woods.

*.*.*

<< Previously I First I Next >>

#my writing #vampires #arranged marriage #fantasy #magic #monster romance #monster lover #monsters #clockwork #clockwork poison

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star-chlld · 1 year ago

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Buck turns around, and Bobby nearly breaks his composure. A giggle slips out, and there's a sharp smack to his shoulder as Athena playfully glares at him. And then Tommy is there, giving another apology for his tardiness and up close, the bottom half of his face is significantly less soot covered. Bobby has to stifle another laugh as Tommy greets Athena, making some comment about how happy he is to see them “on dry land.” Bobby gives Athena’s hand a squeeze before letting go and stepping towards Buck. He's grinning widely, and Bobby pushes him towards Maddie and Chimney before offering to take a picture of the three of them. At least nobody can say Bobby is afraid of a little harmless blackmail. After all, Buck had harbored plenty of embarrassing photos of Bobby over the years. It was karma, right?

“Alright,” he says, “now one without the 5 o’clock shadow, Buck.”

Buck, confused, reaches up and touches his face, looking horrifically embarrassed when his hand comed away black. He pulls up his sleeve and wipes across his mouth but it only serves to smear the black around. “Wait, how noticable-”

“Very,” Karen interrupts, leaning over Chimney to offer a makeup wipe. “Like, incredibly noticeable.” Buck looks horrified, but Bobby patts his arm.

“We're happy for you, Buck, seriously. Just maybe wait until he's cleaned up next time.” And he means it, of course. Bobby is partly just happy this one isn't a news reporter, or a “death doula,” but mostly relieved that Buck looks happier than he has in a while Although he does notice Ravi slip Hen a $20.

“Don’t worry,”Karen says playfully, “I totally understand how hard it is to resist a firefighter right off work,” and this makes Hen bark a laugh.

“If memory serves, last time I came home after a fire, you made me sleep on the couch until the smell was gone!” Bobby doesn't hear what Karen says in response, instead distracted by Buck, who is still smiling but tense, almost breathless. Bobby turns, just slightly, and puts his hand on his arm, smiling warmly. Buck’s breath catches, eyes relieved but still a little uncertain. He squeezes Buck's shoulder in response, and the relief is immediate before he's drawn back into the conversation.

Bobby steps back, moving next to Athena and slipping an arm around her waist as she congratulates Maddie. She holding her phone low, discreetly typing something, and as soon as Maddie steps back towards her husband he glances over.

“Are you doing a background search on Tommy?” he asks, which is a stupid question because she clearly is. She raises an eyebrow in response, and Bobby grins before kissing her. Buck makes an exaggerated gagging noise before turning back to his conversation, but Bobby lowers his voice just in case. “Kinard is spelled with one N, by the way."

#911 abc #literally frothing at the mouth over 7x06 #911 spoliers #bobby nash #911 season 7 #athena grant #bucktommy #bi buck #tommy kinard #evan buckley #maddie buckley #chimney han #911 show #911abc #henrietta wilson #karen wilson

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dracomalfoy7 · 11 months ago

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Her.

Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: One shot inspired by the Percy Jackson scene where Percy sees Annabeth for the first time.

Word Count: 1.2k+

Warnings: None

A/N: I saw a TikTok of this scene and really wanted to write about it!! Lowkey though about turning this into a series?

Draco’s third year at Hogwarts, he was almost sure that he’d either end up marrying Pansy Parkinson or, worst-case scenario, the god-awful Astoria Greengrass. It was as if his life had been plotted out like some cursed prophecy, but that all changed during the second week of school.

Draco and Theodore Nott sat in Potions, their heads resting heavily in their hands as Professor Snape droned on about the intricacies of the Draught of Living Death. Another day, another boring lecture—Potions had lost its luster after two years of Snape's monotone voice.

That was until the classroom door creaked open.

At first, Draco didn’t bother turning his head, thinking it was just another late student. Snape had a way of terrifying most people into punctuality, but even he couldn't prevent the occasional tardy Slytherin or Gryffindor from sneaking in.

But then, an arm invaded Draco’s field of view, jabbing lightly at his shoulder.

“Draco. Dracooo. Hellooo, Earth to Dracoo,” Theo muttered beside him, his voice laced with curiosity.

Draco groaned. “What. do. you. want,” he responded irritably.

“Look at that girl,” Theo urged, his eyes gleaming with something Draco hadn't seen in him before—genuine fascination.

Rolling his eyes, Draco lifted his gaze from the pages of his Potions textbook, following Theo’s line of sight.

“Hello, Professor... Snape, is it?” The girl's voice was soft yet assertive, a sharp contrast to the silken drawl of Pansy or the shrillness of Daphne Greengrass.

Snape turned around slowly, his dark eyes narrowing, clearly not accustomed to being questioned.

“Yes?” he responded, a hint of annoyance evident.

“I believe this is my class,” the girl said, unbothered by Snape’s intimidating stare.

“Yes?” Snape responded again, clearly uncertain where this was going.

“Well, where do I sit then?”

There was a brief pause, and then Snape, with a flick of his wrist, gestured towards the only available seat near Pansy.

“How about next to Miss Parkinson?”

“Thank you, Professor.”

It wasn’t until the girl turned to walk toward her seat that Draco truly noticed her. She wore the standard Slytherin robes, the green and silver crest shimmering slightly in the dim light of the dungeon, but there was something about the way she carried herself that made her stand out from every other student. Her dark hair flowed down her back, and her eyes—Merlin, her eyes—seemed to pierce through the dimness of the room as if they could see right through you.

Draco felt his heart skip, and beside him, he could sense Theo had gone equally quiet, entranced by the same sight. His gaze followed her as she walked toward the empty seat near Pansy, each step deliberate, almost regal.

Blaise Zabini, sitting next to them, noticed the sudden change in both of their expressions and snickered. He snapped his fingers in front of their faces, breaking the trance.

“What are you two looking at?” Blaise asked with a knowing smirk.

Draco blinked, shaking himself out of his daze. “What’s her name?” he asked, his voice unusually eager, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Blaise laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Ha! She’ll squash you like a bug, Malfoy. Don’t even think about it.”

“Her name,” Draco demanded, his impatience growing. He didn’t like not knowing, especially when it came to someone who had captured his attention so completely.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Y/N Gaunt. Heir of the great Salazar Slytherin himself.”

Draco and Theo exchanged wide-eyed looks, both equally startled and intrigued. The Gaunt family had long been considered Slytherin royalty—practically legends in their own right. To have an heir of Salazar Slytherin himself sitting in Potions with them?

Draco couldn't help but stare, his eyes still following Y/N as she slid gracefully into the chair next to Pansy. Pansy, who was often insufferably possessive of Draco’s attention, seemed unusually quiet, clearly feeling the weight of Y/N’s presence as much as he did.

The moment Y/N settled in her seat, as if sensing the heavy gaze on her, she turned her head ever so slightly, meeting Draco’s stare head-on.

For a moment, the world outside that dungeon classroom seemed to disappear. There was no Professor Snape, no chatter of students, no bubbling cauldrons—just those piercing eyes staring straight into Draco’s own dark grey ones.

He quickly realized he had no idea what to do. Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families, had never been at a loss for words when it came to anyone—yet here he was, speechless under the gaze of Y/N Gaunt.

Her lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile—amused, perhaps, by his blatant staring—and then she turned back to face the front of the class, leaving Draco in a strange, fluttering mix of awe and frustration.

Theo leaned over, whispering excitedly. “Mate, did you see that? She's—she's unreal. I mean, Salazar Slytherin’s heir? What does that even mean for someone like her?”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His mind was still spinning, trying to process how he had gone from nearly falling asleep in Potions to being completely captivated by a single person.

“Come on, Malfoy, stop staring. You’re gonna look like an idiot,” Blaise muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

But Draco couldn’t help it. There was something about her—something that made him feel like his entire world had shifted in that brief moment.

Class went on, but Draco barely registered a word Snape said. His attention drifted back to Y/N again and again, watching the way she flicked her wand with effortless precision during the practical portion of the lesson, the way her lips moved as she quietly muttered incantations under her breath, the way her fingers delicately handled the ingredients, almost as if she were weaving a spell with her hands alone.

He had never seen anyone like her before, and it unnerved him. He was Draco Malfoy. He was supposed to be the one people stared at, the one people were intrigued by, the one who commanded the room. But now... he felt like he had been thrown off-balance, no longer in control.

As the class came to an end and students began packing up their bags, Draco stood slowly, his gaze still fixed on Y/N. He was vaguely aware of Theo and Blaise talking beside him, but their words were drowned out by the rush of thoughts running through his head.

Y/N stood, too, gathering her things with the same quiet confidence that had enraptured him. She glanced in his direction one last time before sweeping out of the room, her robes billowing slightly behind her as she disappeared into the corridor.

Draco stared after her, the same thought echoing in his mind.

He needed to know more about Y/N Gaunt.

“Draco,” Theo nudged him, breaking him out of his reverie. “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” Draco muttered, though he knew full well he wasn’t. Something had changed—he didn’t know what exactly, but he knew that Y/N Gaunt was at the center of it.

As they walked out of the classroom together, Draco found himself glancing down the hallway where Y/N had disappeared. He didn’t know how, but he was determined to find out more about her. There was something about her—something that tugged at his very core—and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had just taken a turn he hadn’t anticipated.

For the first time in a long time, Draco Malfoy didn’t feel certain about his future.

And that both terrified and thrilled him.

Request are open!

#draco malfoy #draco #malfoy #draco x reader #slytherin #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco fanfiction #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco x slytherin!reader #harry potter #slytherin boys #hogwarts au #wizarding world #harry potter writing

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 4 months ago

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Doctor Who, but Chronologically: 54

One year later! We move from 2005 to 2006, but accidentally - Eccleston and Rose are back, but they only intended to be gone 12 hours. Instead, it's been 12 months. This means Rose has been missing for a year, with a nationwide manhunt searching for her and poor Mickey her presumed murderer - we find out almost like a horror reveal, as Rose breezily announces she's home, and Jackie embraces her like she's seen a ghost, and over her shoulder Rose sees stacks and stacks of Missing Person posters with her own face.

And I'll be honest! I do not rate Camille Coduri as an actor. I do not think she's really up to the emotional weight of "frantic mother finally reunited with her missing daughter." But nonetheless, she absolutely nails one of those scenes; after the initial tears, and then the initial anger, during all of which Rose can only say that she's been "travelling", they have a more muted, poignant moment in the kitchen.

"What kills me, Rose," she says, tearfully, "is that you still can't say where you were. What happened to you? What could be so bad that you still won't tell me? Where were you, sweetheart?"

It's SO SO good. SO good.

And of course! Rose cannot say. She and the Doctor retreat to the roof.

"I can't tell her I've been to the year Five Billion," says Rose, giving us a treat to look forward to presumably at the end of this project. "I can't do this to her again."

"She's not coming with us," the Doctor says.

(They have great Best Mate vibes by now. Clearly, a lot has happened for them since last episode! Which, of course, we've seen a bit - they fought ghosts in Victorian London.)

And then an alien spaceship crashes into Big Ben.

This kicks off the plot! While Rose is apologising to everyone she knows at Jackie's Aliens Have Landed Watch Party, the Doctor gives her a key to the TARDIS and then goes to check out the possible First Contact. It has been taken to Albion Hospital, which is the hospital from the Empty Child! Hooray! We know this one. It turns out to be a sort-of cute pig whose brain has been hardwired to make it walk a bit like a human. It's dead, but then it wakes up (probably them nanites again) and tries to run away before it gets shot by an army man - the Doctor is furious at this, because it was clearly just scared. Poor pig. Meanwhile, in Tredegar House Downing Street a bunch of politicians assemble because no one can find the Prime Minister, and into this steps Harriet Jones, MP for Flydale North. She is played to perfection by Penelope Wilton (FUN FACT back in the 80s she was approached to play the Lady in Silver Nemesis), and amongst the alien landings she really wants to get her proposed bill for cottage hospitals read, and can't understand why no one wants to make time for it.

"I know I'm hardly one of the babes," she says at one point, which I think confirms that the Prime Minister is Dead Tony Blair. At another, she manages to talk to the new Acting PM, and starts describing her mother's care home.

"BY THE SAINTS, WOMAN, HAVE SOME PERSPECTIVE" he bellows.

She ends up hiding in a cupboard in hopes of adding her bill, but this means she actually views what's really going on - the politicians are secretly the real aliens! Uh oh! They are killing important people and then wearing their skin suits. Gross. A quirk of this that has aged quite badly is that this means all Secret Aliens have to be fat, because they have bigger skins, so we're unfortunately left to be suspicious of fat people. I think they perhaps should have thought through those implications a little more, especially given that another indicator for the audience is excessive farting.

Anyway, the Doctor returns to Rose, but therefore materialises the TARDIS in front of Mickey and Jackie. Mickey already knew this. Jackie, by contrast, reacts as well as you'd expect and calls an alien hotline to report him. This gets us a super fun segment where the words "the Doctor" and "TARDIS" flag up on the government system (and yet this did not work for Rose's google session last ep smdh), triggering a red alert; many people with guns come and whisk the Doctor and Rose away to Tredegar House Downing Street.

"But why?" Rose asks in their limo.

"Over the years I've made a name for myself," explains the Doctor, "and now, who's the greatest expert on alien life?"

"Patrick Moore?"

"OTHER THAN HIM."

God they're fun.

But, on arrival, only the Doctor is allowed into the war room. Harriet Jones manages to grab Rose, and spills her traumatic afternoon. Meanwhile, the Doctor realises the plot!

"The pig's not a diversion," he says. "It's a trap."

It's a GREAT line. And he's right - if every expert on aliens is in one room, they can all be taken out in one go. This takes us to the final cliffhanger: the Doctor and other experts are being electrocuted by their ID cards as two aliens gloat over them, Harriet and Rose and a staffer find Tony Blair dead in a cupboard and then get menaced by an alien, and a policemen in Jackie's flat starts menacing her in her kitchen.

At this point, I must talk about the aliens.

Reader I was unimpressed by these fuckers back in 2005 when I watched it the first time, and they have of course not aged very amazingly, unfortunately. They are called the Slitheen and they have deeply stupid hands. Each finger has a non-retractable claw about a foot long. There is simply no way they would be capable of the advanced technology we're told they are. It's like if humans tried to do brain surgery using only these bad boys:

Also. I don't judge them for this - RTD was still working out tone, and was throwing things at the wall to see what would stick, and it is a children's show when all's said and done. But the constant "teehee farting" concept Is Not For Me, Bestie.

HOWEVER I applaud the physical costumes and puppet work ANYWAY

Someone graffiti'd the words Bad Wolf on the TARDIS... I wonder what that means?

QUESTIONS:

“She” (an unknown person) is returning (Suspects: River, Missy, Me, Clara)

There is something on Donna’s back

An entire planet, Pyrovilia, just… disappeared, somehow. (Maybe because the TARDIS is exploding??? Saturnine was also lost, and that WAS because of the TARDIS exploding. The lion man’s planet was also lost but he was a bit of a knob about it if I’m honest. The Thijarian planet was destroyed by some sort of impact). Is this the Flux?

The TARDIS is sort of melting because it’s corrupted, but it’s fine again. NOPE, back to not working.

The Doctor has employed(?) Nardole

(And Nardole was “reassembled???” Nardole had glass nipples and invisible hair?? He used to be blue, and could apparently go back to it??? He’s some sort of helplessly criminal con-artist??? WHAT THE FUCK IS HE)

There’s an immortal Viking girl now. Her name is Me and she’s now looking after the people the Doctor abandons

Why was Rory entirely unconcerned by the entire world suddenly going silent when that is Not Normal and should have been, at the very least, extremely disconcerting?

What did the Doctor do to Queen Lizzie One?

Why is Amy seeing a one-eyed woman in a vanishing window? (She’s with the Silents, but we don’t know why Amy saw her)

Why is Amy’s pregnancy inconclusive? (Maybe because the baby had Time Lord DNA?) She’s deffo pregnant and the baby becomes River, but why inconclusive?

Who is Sarah-Jane Smith?

How is the Doctor Bill’s teacher and why/where does he have an office?

What is going on with the Cyber War and the Cyberium???

What happened with the Other Cyber War? Were either of these Cyber wars affected by the Doctor blowing them up with Nemesis?

What happened with the Third War that deleted the void?

Why does Rose seem particularly important?

What order do these Doctors go in? (Eccleston, Tennant, uncertain, Smith, Capaldi, Whittaker)

Which companion just… forgot the Doctor, and how?

Yaz and Vinder are about to die as Mori/Mwri/Muuri (Not anymore, somehow)

There is a Lupari shield around Earth.

What’s a Time War? Did this destroy the Doctor’s planet and/or family? Did this destroy the Auton world?

What’s the Rift?

What’s Bad Wolf? Gwyneth saw “the Big Bad Wolf” in Rose’s mind, and it was on a 1987 poster as graffiti. NEW INFO: It was graffiti on the TARDIS!

In which war did the Doctor become a war criminal, and how?

Is Rory plastic or not? Yeah, must be, he couldn’t possibly remember being plastic otherwise

Why is the Doctor sulking on a cloud?

How exactly does the Doctor have a cloud?

What exactly happened with Strax to, uh, tame him?

Which friend killed Strax?

Which friend brought Strax back?

Where did this lesbian lizard and human couple come from?

What happened with Clara as Souffle Girl and the Daleks?

How does Clara actually join?

Why so many Claras? A psychic midwife says she’s just normal human

Why is Missy apparently in robo-heaven? Is this because she’s now dead?

Why is probably!Missy pushing Clara and the Doctor together?

What is Trensilor and what happened there?

Who is Handles?

The Doctor is about to be dissolved by a beautiful geode man

The universe is being crushed by the Flux

Will the Doctor open the fobwatch? Is it actually just a pager?

Sontarans are invading Earth again

Who is Kate?

Who is Osgood? Another name of Clara’s again?

The fuck is the deal with the Grand Serpent

Does Martha get to go to an ice cream planet with 12-fingered massage aliens?

How did the Doctor forget Clara?

Who is Bill’s puddle girlfriend Heather? This is presumably the star-eyed water faerie

How did Nardole die?

When does the Doctor shrink and enter a Dalek called Rusty?

Whittaker is falling to her death rn

Was that ring relevant?

Does anyone know the Doctor’s name? Missy says it’s “Who”

When did Yaz talk to Dan about fancying the Doctor?

When did Dan talk to the Doctor about fancying Yaz?

What’s happening with the bees?

What happened with Donna’s ex and a giant spider?

What war wiped out the Daleks, and is it one of the ones already mentioned?

What did the Doctor mean when he said “The (Daleks) always live, while I lose everything?”

If Dalek Caan is the last Dalek left why are there more now?

How did the rest of the Time Lords die?

How and why did Amy melt?

What’s the question that will make silence fall?

Why do the Silents… want silence to fall?

How and why are Silents at war with the Doctor when he… hasn’t even heard of them?

How does Hitler get out of the cupboard?

What’s the significance of fish fingers and custard?

Why does the Doctor feel guilt about Rose, Martha and Donna?

What happened with the space whale?

How does the Doctor survive River? He doesn’t, apparently

How does he erase himself from history

Did Captain Jack lose his memories to the same people as the Doctor? What did he lose?

When did the Doctor send the Daleks into a void to save the universe?

Why do Amy and Rory think the Doctor is dead? Is it because of River as an astronaut?

Is Matt Smith’s Doctor a tree racist?

Why is the beautiful geode woman stealing people into a Passenger form?

River says she’ll die one day when the Doctor doesn’t remember her, let’s hope she doesn’t mean it

Why doesn’t the TARDIS like Clara?

When was the Master Prime Minister?

How do Amy and Rory rejoin the Doctor given that they haven’t died yet in 1950s Manhattan?

Looking forward patiently to the year Five Billion :)

#doctor whom #and yet we are continuing

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bosbas · 2 years ago

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Chapter 1: if a man talks shit then I owe him nothing

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy-ish!fem!reader WC: 4.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, some strong language, a small part of the dialogue is in French (with translations provided), period-typical views on women, alluding to sex, mentions of alcohol

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

A/N: French is not my first language so IM SORRY if the dialogue is a bit weird. I speak some French and obvi double checked to make sure it made sense but please lmk if i made a mistake

April 14, 1816 – Dearest Gentle Readers,

A new season is upon us, and so my work begins anew. Firstly, we can reacquaint ourselves with the familiar faces we expect to see this season. It has been two years since Viscount Anthony Bridgerton married, and dowager Viscountess Bridgerton is surely itching to secure a match for more of her children. Miss Eloise Bridgerton, now in her second year of being out, remains unmarried. And, of course, one cannot help but wonder whether the charming Mr. Colin Bridgerton will return from his travels in time for the season. Though Benedict Bridgerton has been absent from the public eye as of late, he could also be considered an eligible bachelor. Shall we see any of them marry this season? This author remains skeptical, though, with the Bridgertons, one must always expect the unexpected.

There are, however, plenty of new faces. Chief among them are the two youngest Montclair siblings. The Montclairs resided in London for the debut of Lady Charlotte Montclair, now the Duchess of Somerset, before vanishing from England’s social scene. Until now, of course. Though Lord Louis Montclair is only two and twenty and may still be considered green for the marriage mart, all eyes will surely be on Lady Y/N Montclair as she steps into the spotlight and searches for an impressively titled gentleman. Though the Montclairs have graced the streets of Calcutta, Rome, Geneva, and Madrid, among other illustrious locales, one can only hope that the grandeur of London lives up to their expectations.

You let out a resigned sigh of frustration, scolding yourself for your tardiness as you hurried down the stairs. It was half an hour past when you were supposed to be in the breakfast room, and your mother was bound to be at least a little displeased with you. It was the first time your entire family was in the same place since your older brother Jacques got married in September. Despite being a big family, six siblings in total, four of whom were married, it was unusual that you had gone so long without seeing them all in one place.

Moving from country to country every few years for much of your upbringing had made your siblings a very tight-knit bunch. So, as you neared the breakfast room, which was full of laughter and lively conversation, you couldn't shake the twinge of guilt for your late arrival.

But you couldn’t help it! Not this time, at least. It had been your first night in London since your sister Charlotte’s season eight years ago, and you had stayed up until the early hours of the morning stargazing in your garden. There was a secluded patch of grass between the summer pavilion and the tulips, a secret spot hidden from prying eyes, where you could spend hours looking at the sky in peaceful solitude. Last time you were in London, you had snuck out of your bedroom every night to stare at the stars, and you had been pleased to find that the spot remained undiscovered.

You had always been comforted by the fact that the cosmos would remain the same even if your home did not. The night sky had become somewhat of a companion during your childhood years, and you were interested to see what part of it you were privy to in London at this time of year. Perhaps a scolding and a lecture from your mother were not such a high price to pay for the opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the stars, you reasoned.

You slithered into the breakfast room quietly, hoping to draw as little attention to yourself as possible, but you had no such luck. Your brother closest to you in age, Louis, was sitting nearest to the door and noticed your late entrance immediately.

Taking advantage of every opportunity to make your life just a little harder, he goaded, “T'es très en retard, demoiselle. Ce n'est pas convenable pour une fille en quête d'un mari!” (You’re very late, young lady. This is not suitable for a girl looking for a husband!)

Under any other circumstances, you might have laughed at his impression of your mother, but you were quite sleep-deprived and in no mood to have your brother lecture you. You sighed in frustration, hissing, “Louis, ferme ta gue-” (Louis, shut you mou-)

“English, please!” interrupted your father, not even looking up from his newspaper as he sat at the head of the table.

You were relieved he hadn’t commented on your colorful language, but his curt reprimand reminded you that it was in poor taste to speak a language not everyone could understand. Growing up, your family had primarily spoken French, but with none of your siblings having married a francophone, you were now only allowed to speak in French when everyone present could speak it, too. It was a rule enforced particularly during big family gatherings such as this one. Despite your fluency in five languages, your parents insisted on English, the only common language among all twelve family members.

“Sorry,” you muttered, not quite sure that your father had even heard. You slid into your seat between Louis and your brother Jacques’ wife, Chiara. Still annoyed with Louis, you turned to the newest addition to the Montclair family and smiled at her warmly.

“Ciao, Y/N,” she greeted, smiling back and kissing you on the cheek.

“Ciao, Chiara, è bello rivederti,” you responded (Hi Chiara, it’s nice to see you again). You were tempted to keep speaking to her in Italian–you liked the practice, after all–but feared another scolding from your father. So, you settled for, “I trust your trip back home was good?”

“Oh, it was lovely. Florence always is at this time of year. You should come back to visit sometime! Beatrice misses you terribly,” she exclaimed.

Beatrice was Chiara’s younger sister, whom you had become dear friends with while living in Tuscany. You had remained in Tuscany for nearly four years, longer than you usually stayed in one place, and though you were itching to leave and see more of the world by the end of your time in Florence, you were thankful you had met Beatrice. Both of you were delighted when you realized your brother was marrying her sister, ensuring you would remain close even when you moved away.

You sighed. “I miss her, too. We correspond quite regularly, but it’s simply not the same. I assume it will be worse now that I am in England and even farther from her,” you lamented.

After Jacques and Chiara’s wedding, your parents, Louis, and you returned home to Amboise for a few months. Beatrice had visited for the holidays along with Chiara and Jacques, but you knew she was unlikely to come to England when she was busy with her season back home.

Chiara smiled sympathetically. “Well, Jacques and I are only staying for a few weeks before returning to Tuscany. If you get bored here in London, you are always welcome to visit,” she comforted.

It was a lovely thought, but you doubted your parents would allow you to leave England until you were married. Your parents’ marriage had most certainly not been a love match, and though they did grow to love each other eventually, they didn’t particularly care whether you loved the man you married. To them, marriage was an economic endeavor rather than a romantic one. You had never minded much, having accepted your fate early in life as you watched your siblings marry strategically.

Nevertheless, you had grown rather nervous about your season after watching the outcome of Charlotte’s. In your parents’ eyes, her season was a complete success as she married a Duke a few short months after her debut. But you knew better. Not all of your siblings had enjoyed moving around so much, but you, Louis, and Charlotte were the most enthusiastic. Having married the Duke of Somerset, Charlotte had become Duchess, and her duties tied her to England. After such an international childhood, you knew Charlotte was dreadfully bored of staying in England year after year.

You knew there were much worse marriages to be in, but you still wanted to avoid being permanently tied to England, of all places. You were only twenty years old, after all, and you still had so much of the world to see.

---

“By the way,” Violet said, strategically avoiding the topic until she was about to leave the sitting room. “Both of you are attending the Danbury ball tomorrow night.”

The expected chorus of complaints filled her ears, and she shook her head in amusement at her children’s petulance. One would think she was trying to force them to walk halfway across the world!

Violet sighed and said firmly, “I understand that neither of you is particularly enthusiastic, but we are not so rude as to miss the first ball of the season. And at Lady Danbury’s home, at that! Surely the retribution you would receive from her is enough to make you want to go.”

“Well, Colin’s coming home from Greece tomorrow and I hardly think he’ll be in attendance, so I don’t see why we should be,” argued Eloise, earning an enthusiastic nod from Benedict.

“You make the mistake of thinking that I have not already informed Colin he will be in attendance. None of you have the option to stay home, I’m afraid.”

And with that, she left her grumbling children behind in favor of a quiet turn around the garden.

---

Colin arrived at Number 5 Bruton Street feeling rather unkempt. His journey from Greece had been particularly tumultuous, and he was ready to change clothes and sleep for the next seventeen hours.

“Colin! I’m so glad you’re home,” exclaimed Violet upon seeing him. For all her nagging, he was quite fond of his mother and found that he had missed her while he had been away. Seeing tears forming in her eyes, Colin wrapped Violet up in a tight hug, hoping to avoid feeling worse about being away for so long.

“He’s home!” shouted Gregory, running up to greet him. The rest of his siblings followed suit, and Colin basked in the excitement of his homecoming.

To the rest of the ton, Colin was the most well-liked Bridgerton due to his easygoing nature and cheerful demeanor, and because he was rather good-looking as well, he hoped. However, it was nice to know that his family still cared for him despite his prolonged absences.

“The Danbury ball is in a few hours, so make sure to be ready on time,” his mother reminded him once she had gathered herself.

He groaned, having forgotten he had promised his mother he would attend. He sighed as he prepared for an evening of excruciating conversation as he politely listened to ambitious mamas name every single positive attribute their daughters possessed in the hopes of impressing him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, but rather that he remained uninterested in marriage, finding his travels a much more exciting prospect. But he had a reputation to maintain, so he would be as courteous as ever to everyone he met and perhaps even dance with a few of them.

A few hours later, the Bridgertons were, quite impatiently, one could say, waiting for Benedict to finish getting ready so they could leave for the Danbury Ball.

“Excited for your third season?” Colin directed his question at Eloise. He knew the answer, of course, but he was growing bored of waiting for Benedict and thought that this would be the perfect distraction.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe you’ll find someone you absolutely adore, El. Don’t close yourself off to the possibilities,” preached Colin, annoying Eloise further.

“What about you, Colin? Five and twenty and still unmarried, that’s a bit ghastly don’t you think?” she shot back.

Of course, it wasn't unheard of to be unmarried at his age, but Colin panicked regardless, knowing his mother would surely love to join the conversation now that his marriage prospects were a talking point. But Benedict saved him by walking down the stairs at that moment.

“Finally! Now can we go, please?” exclaimed Eloise.

“I’m surprised, Eloise. I thought you didn’t want to go to this ball,” teased Benedict, but she only grumbled in return as they headed toward their carriage.

The carriage rides were usually the worst part of going to a ball. Violet Bridgerton, efficient as ever, would inform each of her children of the possible prospects that would be in attendance that night, impossibly elongating the journey and making the Bridgertons less and less pleased about being forced to go. They weren't always forced, of course, but the carriage rides certainly made it seem that way.

“The Montclairs will be in London for the season, I heard. Lady Y/N Montclair will be making her debut, which will surely interest you two,” said Violet, nodding at the men in the carriage. “And for you, Eloise, her older brother Lord Louis Montclair is perhaps too young to get married, but it wouldn’t hurt to speak with him and practice your French.”

Violet droned on for the rest of the ride, and the Bridgerton siblings could barely get out of the carriage fast enough when it arrived at Danbury House. Little did they know that they had played right into Violet’s plan. She wanted to enjoy the evening and visit with her friends, and hopefully, her overly long analysis of the key figures at today’s ball would keep her children away from her enough for her to do so.

Inside the ballroom, you were speaking with a perfectly nice but quite boring gentleman. You couldn’t quite remember his name, having talked to at least a dozen men practically identical to him already. You barely registered his request for a dance, and you only realized you had accepted when you found yourself in the middle of the dance floor. Luckily, the dance went by fairly quickly and you were able to sprinkle in interested hums and “oh really?” at the appropriate times. All in all, it was not a terrible experience, if only you could remember his name.

He returned you to your mother and bowed in parting, kissing your hand and promising to call on you the next day.

“Who was that?” you muttered once he had left.

“Y/N,” she scolded, but could barely contain her laughter. “I can’t believe you danced with a man you don’t even know the name of!”

You shrugged, not particularly interested in learning who he was anymore.

“Is there anyone else you want me to meet?” you asked her, hoping she would say no and you would be free to find Louis and talk to someone familiar at last.

But your mother was distracted from answering as she saw two tall men crossing the ballroom. She squeezed your arm and nodded in their direction, careful to be discreet.

“Those are the Bridgertons. Their oldest brother, the Viscount, is already married, but it is of no consequence. Perhaps the second and third sons might not be fit to be your husband, but you should still introduce yourself and make a good impression should you encounter them.”

You nodded, disinterested. You were too busy looking around the room, realizing that there was still a myriad of gentlemen left to speak with. It seemed that there were too many eligible bachelors if that was even possible. You had thought there would be five men that your mother would have approved of, at most, and you could make your pick between them. But it seemed London was a particularly popular place for titled gentlemen to search for a wife, and you were growing uneasy.

Trying not to think about the long evening ahead of you, you tuned back into what your mother was saying. “Oh! I don’t quite know where Colin Bridgerton has gone off to now, but Benedict is over by the lemonade if you can see him. I believe that is his sister, Eloise. They all look identical, don’t they? The same brown h-”

“Pardon me,” you interrupted as panic rose in your chest. You were in desperate need of a respite, and could hardly handle another minute listening to her speak about more men she needed you to meet. “I think I see an old friend of mine, and I must say hello,” you lied.

Your mother raised her eyebrows in surprise, shocked that you remembered people from eight years ago, but let you go regardless. Impatiently, you waited until someone else engaged her in conversation and quietly slipped out into the hallway. Stepping out of a ball on your own like this was forbidden, and your father would surely have your head if he found out you had risked being found unchaperoned and away from the ball, but you needed to get away for just a moment to gather yourself.

Lady Danbury’s home was quite beautiful, you found, and you were enjoying looking at the art on her walls as you roamed the halls. You were careful not to stray too far, not knowing your way around and recognizing that you only had a short time before someone was bound to notice your absence.

Suddenly, your senses heightened as you heard two men’s voices far closer than you would have liked. Panicking, you jumped around a corner and prayed that no one would find you, absolutely not ready to be forced to marry a man only one ball into your debut. You willed your heart to stop beating so loudly lest you get caught and tried to discern what the men were saying, unable to quell your curiosity despite the precarious position you found yourself in.

“And, if she's the right sort of woman, you won’t even have to do anything, she'll just get on top and do all the work. Though I suppose it all depends on her dowry. The larger the dowry the more I’m willing to overlook,” slurred one of them. “And you, Colin? Do any ladies catch your eye? I’m sure you could get away with anything with any of these girls, though I suggest picking one that’s got good hips.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief at the same time as you heard 'Colin' say, “Why don’t we continue this conversation outside, Nigel?”

Their footsteps echoed down the hall and you risked a glance at them, still horrified but wanting to know who they were anyway. You were unsurprised to find Nigel walking toward the garden, having met Mr. Nigel Berbrooke earlier in the evening and finding him quite unpleasant. However, you were shocked to find who you assumed to be Colin Bridgerton walking quite close to Mr. Berbrooke. Hadn’t your mother said the Bridgertons were people of good standing? Surely someone would have noticed that the third son was a complete ass. But perhaps he was the odd one out, and the rest of his family was lovely. Or perhaps Englishmen were simply unpleasant as a whole. Whatever the reason for his horrible comments, you decided you despised Colin Bridgerton and dreaded the day you would have to speak with him.

“Quel salaud,” you muttered angrily under your breath after you heard Mr. Bridgerton close the door to the outdoor patio (What a bastard). Pacing up and down the hallway, you were too enraged by what you heard to return to the ballroom.

The quality of men in England seemed to be quite lacking, and suddenly you wished you could follow in your sister Isabelle’s footsteps and go to Spain to find a titled gentleman there. Isabelle had seemed quite excited about all her suitors before eventually settling on Carlos, who practically worshipped the ground she walked on. Unfortunately, it seemed that you were not destined for such a husband, you thought glumly.

But you supposed you didn't really have a choice. You let out a weary sigh and leaned heavily against the wall, shaking your head as you accepted the reality of your situation. With an angry humph and one last look to make sure no one was around, you quietly slipped back into the ballroom and searched for your mother, who would surely be looking for you now. As you expected, she spotted you almost instantly, and she immediately drew you into conversation with a gentleman you believed to be an Earl.

---

Colin stood outside the door to the ballroom, flexing his fingers to make sure there was still feeling there. Confirming the health of his right hand, he gently opened the ballroom door with his left and stepped inside, looking around for Benedict. Spotting him a few feet away, Colin quickly made his way over hoping to avoid any particularly insistent mamas at this precise moment.

“You look quite relaxed,” commented Benedict, earning a glare from Colin.

“Berbrooke,” Colin explained flatly. “How that man manages to get so drunk so quickly I will never know.”

But suddenly his attention was drawn elsewhere. Time seemed to slow down as a stunning lady he had never seen before crossed the ballroom. He was paralyzed, stuck to his spot on the ground as he stared after you. The only thing he could hear was his heart beating loudly in his ears, and though Colin wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight, he imagined it might have felt something like this if he did. Without a second thought, he knew he had to know you. It was almost instinctual.

Colin tugged on Benedict’s sleeve, his eyes still glued to your form as you laughed politely at whoever you were speaking with. “Who is that over there? Have you spoken with her?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” responded Benedict. “You could always ask Mother.”

“I might do just that, actually,” hummed Colin, deep in thought.

Benedict choked back a laugh, looking over at his younger brother. “Are you being serious?”

Tearing his eyes away from you for a moment, Colin turned to his brother, confused. “Well, yes. If anyone knows who she is, it’ll be her, no?”

Realizing that Colin was, in fact, quite serious, Benedict’s expression sobered. “You are aware if you even hint at the fact that you might be interested in her, Mother will surely come up with at least a dozen plans to marry you off?”

“I don’t think that would be the worst thing in the world,” Colin reasoned, eyes searching for you in the crowd again. Five minutes ago, he would’ve thought it silly, how captivated he was by you. But five minutes ago, he had not yet seen you.

Just as he was about to seek out his mother to ask about you, Lady Danbury walked up to the pair of Bridgertons and poked Colin's foot with her cane. Usually, her presence would have instilled a healthy dose of fear in him, but tonight all he really wanted was to know you, and he supposed Lady Danbury was just as knowledgeable as Violet Bridgerton about the goings on of the ton.

“What are you doing staring at Lady Montclair?” she demanded.

“Lady Montclair? Is that her name?” Then, vaguely remembering what his mother had said on the carriage ride to the ball, he added, “The one from France?”

Lady Danbury hummed, suspicious of Colin’s enthusiasm. “Yes. Lady Y/N Montclair. Speaking with her brother Lord Louis Montclair. Are you interested?”

“I think I am, yes,” he sighed.

“I do believe she has space left on her dance card,” prompted Lady Danbury, doing very little to hide the fact that she was nudging Colin in your direction.

Once Colin had taken off, Benedict turned to her, not distracted enough to forget decorum as his brother had. “This is a wonderful ball, Lady Danbury. My deepest gratitude to you for inviting us, as always.”

But she only waved his thanks away. “Shush, boy. I’m trying to pay attention to Colin willingly asking a lady to dance for the first time.”

Soft music floated through the ballroom as you laughed quietly with Louis, who seemed to be having a wonderful time terrorizing your mother and refusing to dance with any ladies she introduced to him. The gentle hum of the room was interrupted by the sound of footsteps beside you, and with a polite smile on your face, you turned to greet whoever had approached. Realizing you were face to face with Mr. Colin Bridgerton, your expression immediately turned stony.

Bowing with just the right degree of formality, Colin introduced himself, his charm seemingly effortless. He certainly played the part of a perfect gentleman; you could give him that. But you couldn’t forget his conversation with Mr. Berbrooke, the distasteful words replaying in your mind over and over.

Then, extending his hand to you and tilting his head slightly toward the dance floor, a soft smile on his lips, he asked, “Would you care to dance with me this evening, Lady Montclair?”

Looking at him squarely, you responded, your voice sickly sweet, “Why no, Mr. Bridgerton. I don’t believe I would.”

—

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mannequinreligi0n · 1 year ago

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Sins - Chapter 3: Penance

wake up priest!vergil nation, let’s get to fuckin’

pairing: priest!vergil/nun!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: nsfw! - penetration, body worship, implied self-mutilation/harm

author’s note: thank you for being so patient with me !! sorry for the delay :’) will maybe write another freak nasty chapter bc i have a few unused idea. enjoy !!

links: chapter one , chapter two , ao3

The word ‘late’ rang in your head like a gong. Father Vergil had a strong distaste for tardiness, almost as much as he disliked the lazy and the ignorant. You bowed your head in forgiveness, silently cursing yourself for letting your nerves cause time-blindness.

“Forgive me, Father. Punctuality was never a strength of mine,” you mumble out, preparing for a deserved scolding. Instead, you hear Vergil’s steps stop in front of you, the faintest sigh leaving him.

“It’s alright, y/n. Please.”

He takes a step toward you, lifting your chin with single finger to beckon your eyes to him. The wide nature of your eyes gives away your surprise from the use of your name so casually, the absence of professionalism and humility. Vergil drops his hand from you and offers a tight smile in exchange, his own inhibitions raging war in the back of his mind. He stands there awkwardly under your confused gaze, shifting his weight from left to right and back left before clearing his throat.

“I- uh.”

Christ, Vergil, pull it together. He exhales hard, his clammy hands twitching at his sides.

“…….I fear I have not been honest with you, and with God. Your confession has…rattled me deeply, and I cannot, for the life of me, find a solution that would appease both the trouble in my soul and the will of God. Frankly, I’m…I’m at a loss.”

Your heart falls to your stomach at his words, knowing that your confession was only going to create problems. Your hands fiddle with the rosary around your neck, praying that maybe God could grant you one last word of wisdom in this time of need - you are only greeted with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Vergil’s hand returns to his mouth, biting at the frayed skin of his nails, and starts to pace again anxiously. The silence between you two is all-consuming and seems to last an eternity before your shoulders slump, ripping the veil from your head and holding it out to him.

“I shall pack my things and be gone by noon tomorrow. I do not wish to bring any more shame to you or the coven. Plea-“

“What?! N-No! That’s not-!”

Vergil panics and interrupts you immediately, rushing to you and clasping his hands around your veil to push it back towards you. There’s a spark between the two of you at the touch of skin, a small grace in the daunting moment. He loses his train of thought at the sight of your hair pillowing down to complete the picture of your face, his breathing shallow and frantic.

“No,” he stammers out again, blinking hard and squeezing your hand. “You misunderstood me. My issue doesn’t lie with you - it is with myself.”

You blink dumbly at him, brow scrunched with returning confusion. “I…I don’t understand,” you shake your head at him, words barely a whisper.

“Neither do I, my child,” Vergil sighs, his clammy fingers still curled around yours. “I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed to The Lord for answers, and yet he has abandoned me in the dark. I fear that this is a test of my faith, that you are a test of my faith - and I am failing miserably.”

Vergil’s eyes lack their usual hardness, a man frayed to his wits end as he searches your face for the answers he longs for. A single hand lets go of yours and moves to the cross around your neck, his thumb running over the pointed ends of the pendant.

“I have stood before our congregation and preached time and time again of love and purposeful fulfillment,” He murmurs, eyes falling to the crucifix. “I can’t help but wonder when it will be my turn to be blessed with such gifts….But then, when I look at you-“

He pauses, stormy blues tracing the line of your neck up to meet your eyes - eyes that he swore held the light of the morning sun and the grace of the midnight moon all at once.

“-I swear I can see my purpose for living, for breathing, in your face alone.”

You can feel the intensity of his words prick at your heart like thorned rose. It was taking every nerve in your body not to panic and ramble out confused nonsense, uncertain if you’re hearing him correctly. You were almost convinced you were dreaming, but the tight grasp of his hand on yours was keeping you present, if the look in his eye wasn’t convincing enough.

Without a thought in your head, you close the sea of space and press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away just as soon. Vergil audibly makes a sound between a gasp and yelp, eyes popping out of his head. There’s a symphony of heavy breathing between you, both staring at each other with fear and desire. You immediately prepare an apology mentally, opening your mouth to verbalize it, but it doesn’t get the chance to come out.

Vergil nearly knocks you off your feet when he dives down to kiss you once more, large hands desperately gripping the side of your head and threading in your hair. Your veil falls to the ground as you scramble to grasp at his garb for stability, lips trying to keep up with the sinful motions of Vergil’s. It’s all-consuming and starving, teeth clinking together and tongues lapping with inexperience. It was everything you had imagined and more, the taste of him alone worth the shame and punishment that was sure to come from such an act.

You’re the first to pull away, gasping for air with swollen lips. Vergil heaves against you, not daring to let go of you for even a second. No words were necessary to convey the lust or longing you shared with him, and with a few passing blinks, Vergil’s hands drop from your face and pry yours from his chasuble. He entwines his fingers in one hand and whips you along behind him, his long legs striding through the courtyard and back into the church. You nearly trip behind him, being pulled like a rag-doll. Words get trapped in your throat as you attempt to ask him where you’re going, but your question is answered as he all but shoves you into one of the small sacristies. The moment the door closes, your lips magnetize to his, his hands guiding you to a shoddy wooden table against the wall. You don’t even have time to process before he’s lifting you onto the table, pushing up your tunic to your hips to stand in between your legs.

It was a mockery to preform such a crude act where they stored the ‘blood and body’ of Christ, the decanter of fortified wine jostling on the table as you clawed at each other’s clothes. The chasuble and tunic fall to the ground, your hands unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as he trails his mouth along your shoulder with reverent kisses, teeth clamping around the strap of your underdress and sliding it off your shoulder. Freeing his torso from the shirt, your eyes immediately gravitate to the strip of red creeping up his back and over his shoulder.

“Vergil.”

His name pulls him out of his daze and he lifts his head from your shoulder with hooded, hazy eyes. He’s about to question you when your fingers graze over the somewhat fresh scar, making his nose scrunch in a faint wince. Averting his eyes from you, he stares down at your lap, breathing deeply.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing… Turn around.”

You rest your hand on his arm, beckoning him to turn and he fights against it for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. He finally obeys and slowly 180s to reveal uneven, healing marks scattered on his porcelain skin. Worry morphs your features, hearing Vergil sigh at the wall in front of him.

“Penance, for my depravity…for my thoughts of you,” Vergil whispers, an underlying shame in his tone.

It should’ve clicked sooner that these were the makings of a discipline. Self-flagellation was a dying practice, but of course someone as rigid as Vergil would partake. You’re almost too stunned to move, taken aback by the brushstrokes of red.

‘This is my fault,’ you think to yourself.

Leaning forward, you gently hold his waist and let your mouth brush against the scars, feather-light kisses gracing them. Vergil hisses at first, the raw skin bristling at the contact, but it soon gives way to breathy sighs, relishing in being adorned by your forgiving kisses.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you murmur into his skin, nose inhaling his sweat and scent.

“Christ would come down and dispute that, if he could.”

He turns back around, looking down over his nose at you with a pensive expression. A calloused thumb traces the shape of your bottom lip, his hand tilting your chin back to let the worn-out bulb in the storage room hit your face better. It’s hard not to notice the tremble of his fingers, the slight shake drumming against your skin.

“This…this is wrong,” Vergil’s eyes are fixated on your mouth, transfixed by the soft, plump skin under his digit. “I am undeserving of you, of your flesh,…your soul.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” you rebuttal, trying to focus on his words and not his thumb pressed against you lip, the muted smell of cologne radiating off of him, the heat of body between your legs. “If anyone is deserving, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

You lean your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth, tongue lassoing around it. Vergil’s own mouth parts with a throaty moan, reigning back the intrusive thought to shove his whole damn hand in your mouth just to have it touched by you. He slides his thumb out and replaces it with his mouth, desperate to quell the thirst in his lonely heart. You reciprocate immediately, scooting slightly off the table to be closer to him. Hands moving to his belt, Vergil groans into your mouth and shoves his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. Your own hand pulls off the other measly strap on your under-gown, letting it pool at your hips and exposing your chest to the dry air. Breaking the kiss, Vergil shifts back and ogles the new skin with hunger and awe, a single finger leaving a wake of goosebumps as he trails it down to a breast.

“‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you’.”

The verse falls from Vergil so softly that your brain almost doesn’t register it, hyper-fixated on his hand now cupping your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“Song of Solomon, 4:7,” you manage to get out, swallowing thickly.

“Correct, dove.”

The smile of pride that appears on his face from your answer makes you melt in his touch, heart soaring. Your own fingers linger on his chest before slowly sliding down to the still-fastened clasp of his slack, glancing between the painful tent in them and his face. Vergil gives you a faint nod and you make work of it, undoing the hardware as he crowds over you, mouth returning to your shoulder to kiss up to your neck. His moan that rings in your ear when you finally free his length makes everything worth it alone, the sound making your heat twitch with unbridled need. Vergil’s hands fall to your hips and pull you closer to him, sweaty fingers clinging to the silk of your fallen gown. Cock pressed against your soaked underwear, his hips buck into them. Your head wobbles back from the smallest sensation, your strained whine making Vergil bite back his own groan. He gives a few more tentative rocks of his pelvis, nose pressed into your neck as he savors the newfound stimulation.

“May I…?”

You feel a hand let go of your hip and slip between your legs, tracing the border of your underwear. You nod embarrassingly fast against him, forehead coming forward to rest on his shoulder. Vergil pushes the fabric to the side and then guides his length to rub against the slick folds, his breathing labored on your skin. That alone probably would’ve made him come if he didn’t have years of self-control to hold him back - the warm and delicate skin of your sex making it hard to form coherent thoughts. He backs away from your neck to look down at you, his other hand meeting your face and caressing your cheek. All he can think about is how blessed he is in this moment, to be so close to the most divine creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He shifts his hips closer to you and you subconsciously wrap your legs around his hips, ankles locking together behind him. His hand on your cheek moves to card through your hair, pushing back strands that dare to obstruct his view of you.

“Do you recall the Act of Contrition?”

You nod softly at him, eyes fluttering with every twitch of his cock against your nerves or brush of fingers in your hair. “I remember,” you murmur back.

“Good,” his hand between you two positions his head at your dripping slit, not yet pushing it in. “Recite it for me, for us. Can you do that, little bird?”

You forget to answer initially, sparks of pleasure firing in every nerve at just the feeling of him being one push away from entering you. You swallow back the pool of saliva in your mouth and nod again, eyes trying to remain locked on his.

There’s that smile again - that proud, adoring smile of his you’d see in your dreams for the rest of your days. He nods in return and looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin.

“My god, I am sorry for my sins with all my hea-, heart, oh my-“

Vergil pushes an inch of himself into you and the fullness makes you shudder. Your hands fly to hold his arms, brow knit together as a croaked moan disrupts your prayer. When you stop speaking, he halts his movement, despite his own desperation screaming in his body to sheath himself.

“Keep…keep going,” he breaths out, face flushing a faint red as your walls squeeze around him.

“-w-with all my heart…in choosing to do wrong and failing t-to do good..”

The descent continues, another inch separating your walls to accept him in. Vergil’s hand in your hair cradles the back of your head, holding it steady and preventing it from lolling away from him. His chest heaves above you as the prayer echoes in the sacristy, mingling with the buzz of the light above.

“I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly in-intend, with your help-“

You pause again, eyes rolling back as he finally hits the hilt. It was unlike anything you’ve felt before, so intimate and fulfilling, like the last puzzle piece of your body was finally put into place. Two souls no longer forming but one soul. Vergil, himself, was having a difficult time staying focused, the hug of your body around him sending signals throughout his limbs. He pulled back out, stopping just short of emptying you.

“-to do penance, to sin no more, to a-a-ahh!”

Vergil shoves himself all the way back in, a growl rumbling his chest. Your vision blurs for a second, the full feeling almost too much. He doesn’t wait for you to keep going, starting a steady, uninhibited pace as he frees himself from the shackles of guilt. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyways - he has felt you, smelled you, tasted you. It was all he needed anymore. The table rocks against the wall, glasses clinking together with the motion. A hand in your hair and a hand on your hip, he ruts over and over and over into your hole, face flushed a sunset red as he moans and gasps for air.

He asked you to recite the prayer, and damn it all, you were gonna comply, regardless of how much you only wanted to praise his name instead. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms, staccato whimpers leaving you as you try to regain your train of thought.

“…to avoid…whatever leads m-me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ….Christ-…s-s-suffered and died….for us..”

It was too much. There was only one line left of the prayer and you couldn’t even get it out, reduced to a moaning, heated mess as he clambered into you. Vergil was dripping sweat from his hairline, the beads falling to your face as you stared up at him. He looked like an angel - a faint halo of light around his head from the backlighting of the lamp. Your core tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar buzz forming in your heat from the sight and his ministrations. It felt like your whole body was plugged into a live socket, heart about to beat out of your chest.

“In his name,” Vergil mumbles out, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to finish the prayer and not himself. “Oh, my God…my God, have mercy.”

You mewl under him, hands shifting to hold his back. Your nails dig into the skin and Vergil lets out a mix between a growl and a moan, your fingers attacking the already raw marks on his back from the whip. He doesn’t stop, though, slamming into you repeatedly as he chases that glorious high. With a handful of more thrusts, you’re putty on the table, body taut and snapping as your orgasms ripples through you. It feels like the gates of heaven have opened, trumpets blaring and white light invading your vision. Vergil can’t hold himself back once he sees you give out, the sight of you coming around him making up for every godawful, lonely night of his life. He spills his load deep inside you, shuddering with a guttural groan. Pressed as deep as he can into you, his hips jolt uncoordinatedly as he gives you every last drop, forehead falling to press against yours. His hand on your hip leaves to join the other on your head, cupping your face to his, scared he’ll open his eyes and it’ll be a cruel dream. How could you be real? How could that sinful release he just felt be reality? It must’ve been-

“Vergil.”

His name in your mouth opens his eyes for him, making him take in the sight of you flushed and disheveled from his doing. His half-hard length twitches inside you from the image and you wince a little at the overstimulation, ushering a small laugh from him, from disbelief at what just happened and how delightful you look right now. He gingerly unsheathes himself, the wet sound mingling with the heavy breathing. Vergil can’t stop himself from looking down at where you were once connected, watching his seed muddle with your release as it gushes out of your hole. His mouth waters at the sight, the heady scent taunting him. God, he would lick you clean, if there was time, if you two weren’t shoved in a closet for anyone to walk into.

“Apologies…for…defiling you. I couldn’t ah, pull out in time,” he mumbles out, eyes following the trail of come leaking from you.

“None needed.”

You chuckle, sitting up to pull the straps of your silk gown back over yourself, taking the debauched sight from Vergil’s view. He holds still for a moment before following suit, pulling his pants back up and collecting his shirt off the ground silently. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to bear to you, but he didn’t know where to begin. He averted his eyes from you as you hopped off the table, scooping up your tunic and pulling it over your head.

“I’d like to see you again,” you start, breaking the silence with a reserved whisper. “Possibly…tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Vergil’s eyes flit back to yours at the proposal. ‘If you’ll have me’? Lord, you must have no idea what you do to him. He has to refrain from falling to your feet, kissing your hand and begging you to come to his quarters, wanting to show you just how much he worships the ground you walk on. He resigns to a curt nod, buttoning up his shirt, “Tonight, it is.”

“9’o clock?”

“Sharp. No excuses.”

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