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the-doctor-3000 · 2 years ago

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𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 {Doctor Who Fanfic}

Chapter 1: An Unearthly Child

Emma Jones. A nineteen year old girl with a great sense of imagination and sometimes with a head over the clouds. Currently, she was in her family's home. It was night time and they were all going to have a series marathon, Doctor Who, and since Emma hadn't seen the classic.

The raven haired female was making some popcorn and poured the soda on seven glasses. She then carefully took them to the living room and placed them on the coffee table. Her necklace dangling around her neck; it was a clock pendant with Latin numbers.

Her arctic blue eyes scanned the room, colourful pillows laid on the wooden floor and the sofa had opened and was now a bed with many heavy sheets with floral designs on them. Once she finished setting everything up, her four foster older siblings and parents walked in. Each of them carrying bags with snacks and candy. Mostly jelly babies. All for the marathon.

Her foster mother, a soft featured woman with deep green eyes and strawberry blonde hair, dressed in hipster clothing, smiled at her as she set a plastic bag from the supermarket down. This was Jocelyn

"Ready to see the best classic show of all times, Ems?" Paul, the eldest of the siblings, asked her with a grin.

"I'm, uh, kind of terrified to be honest." she responded meekly. At his confused look, she continued. "I mean, until the sixth season, it's in black and white. What if I don't like it?"

"Because it's Doctor Who, Em Universe!" he exclaimed with a chuckle, his grin never leaving his face. "If you loved the 2005 series, then you'll like the classic too!"

Her foster father, a man with sharp features and grey eyes, sighed at his son. "For goodness' sake, Paul! Leave the poor girl alone."

The poor girl. These words echoed in the noirette's mind as she held her smile. People sometimes would call her that because of the way her parents, her biological parents, had abandoned her on the orphanage's stairs with only her name and the pendant. Of course, Mike, the father, didn't mean any harm. He knew that she could get overwhelmed easily, especially when someone was urging her too much.

Not long after this little conversation, they all had sat down on their seats and the first episode of the show had begun. Emma was sitting on one end of the couch, her head resting on the palm of her hand as she watched carefully.

It was odd seeing the Classic Who. So far she liked the plot and dialogues, but what she found weird was the special effects. Which was natural since she was used to the 2000s'.

As she watched Barbara and Ian entering the junkyard, she heard something crashing outside the house somewhere near the forest. Mike paused the episode as he and the others turned to the direction of the sound. Emma sighed, standing up. "I'm going to check it out."

"Be careful, sweetie!" Jocelyn's voice called out to her like the protective mother that she was. The light reddish-blonde turned to her sons with a stern look once she listened to the door closing. "Paul, Jax, go with her."

"Ma!" Jax whined as he threw his head behind. "Why me? Emma is a big girl."

"True, but it wouldn't be right to leave your sister go out alone. In the dark."

Jax scoffed as he stood up and made his way out. "She's not even our sister, I don't understand why bother." He muttered, but Jocelyn heard him and bit her lip. "Going after that freak."

Paul, who was standing by the main door, also heard it and slapped the back of his head. "Jerk." And the two exited the house with a flashlight each.

Meanwhile Emma was carefully stepping over large branches. She tripped on some rocks and scraped her hands and knees. Emma cursed under her breath and dusted her clothes off as she stood on her feet again. It was far too dark to see, so she turned on the flashlight on her smartphone. She looked around. Nothing. Just as she was about to return, she stopped when she heard some high-pitched sound coming from deeper into the woods. A part of her said that she should go and not investigate, but another was curious.

The latter won. Emma sighed and followed the sound. Soon she could also see; a faint burnt orange with a small tint of silver light glowing. Her curiosity increased and became more eager to find the strange glow. For a moment she felt like a character from the stories she read. Strange wasn't exactly the word she would use to describe this feeling. Warm, friendly and even hypnotizing were the words that seemed more appropriate to use.

Finally she reached her destination, the light was coming from what seemed to be a floating ring. Squinting her eyes, she took note that there were some strange symbols on it. Shapes. Curiouser and curiouser, Emma instinctively reached out to it. The light was warm as it brushed her fingers.

"Emma!" Paul shouted from far away. Emma snapped out of her trance as she looked towards the direction of the voice. She looked back at the ring and quickly grabbed it. The glow stopped and revealed the ring to be silver with baby blue on the inside. She inspected the symbols on it carefully, not noticing the two boys sliding down the hill and to her. "There you are! We've been looking for you!" But Emma did not respond. "What's that?"

She shrugged. "Just a ring."

She said plainly, not bothering to add that it was levitating or that it glowed. He wouldn't take her seriously and would say that her head played games. Maybe it did, but maybe it didn't.

Jax hugged himself, shivering. "Let's go back home! It's freezing here!"

Paul rolled his eyes at his younger brother and then lent his biker's jacket to Emma, putting it gently around her shoulders. He gently led her back to the house by the hand. Her eyes were glued on the ring even when they were back. Jocelyn offered to give her a chain and use it as a necklace. Emma accepted and then Jocelyn helped her to wear it. The black haired female touched the ring with the tips of her fingers as she made her way upstairs to her room.

She told the family that she wasn't feeling well and would watch the show some other time. Jax and the others, excluding Mike, Jocelyn and Paul, were annoyed that they'd have to postpone it. Emma ignored it since she couldn't do otherwise.

As she laid on her bed, her hands rested on her pendant and on the ring. She huffed and took yet another look at the strange band of unknown metal. The symbols on it seemed familiar. She shifted to her side and pulled under her bed a laptop, she opened it and started searching it on the internet. At first, she typed on the search box 'strange circular symbols' but it only showed her pictures from Doctor Strange's symbol. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, deleted the words and thought for a moment. Where had she seen them before? Emma looked down at the ring around her neck.

She set the laptop away and laid on her back. She took a look at her phone for any calls or texts, and the put it into her pocket. She the looked up at the ceiling until she felt her eyelids getting heavier and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

After what seemed to be like hours, Emma woke up at the sound of something falling. She yelped in surprise as she sat up. What the. . .? The black haired female thought as she stared around at her surroundings. Not only wasn't she in her room but everything was in black and white. She rubbed her eyes but nothing. This has to be a dream. . .

"Blast! I dropped it!" a male voice said, Emma stood up abruptly in shock as she stumbled backwards.

"What?" another voice, a female, asked.

"The torch!"

"Well, use a match!"

"No, I haven't got any. Oh, never mind."

Emma slowly walked backwards, now seeming hard to breath, until her back bumped into something. She let out a small screech. The two people in there heard it and continued searching for the voice into the junkyard - now somewhat in darkness. Emma stared behind her to see the TARDIS.

"Susan?! Are you alright?"

"Susan? Susan?" The man started up a short flight of stairs which led to the building at the back of the yard. Emma placed a hand on her mouth, trying not make any sound as she also tried not to cry. This must be a nightmare, or a cruel joke. "Susan?" He came back down. "Susan! Mr. Chesterton and Miss Wright!" Emma tensed at the mention of the names. No. This can't be real. It's impossible. He looked behind the stairs then, quietly to himself. "Can't have got out without us seeing her?"

"Ian. . . look at this!"

Emma quickly hid at the side of the blue box. Barbara had found the Police Box, which stood next to the stairs.

"Well, it's a police box! What on earth's it doing here? Well, these things are usually on the street. . ." Ian put his hand on the box's side whilst saying this but he stopped dead in surprise. He touched it with his full hand, more firmly. "Feel it! Feel it!" Barbara quickly put the back of her hand on and off the side of the box. "Did you feel it?"

"It's a faint vibration. . . ."

He took a step back from the box as he said. "It's alive!" Ian quickly walked around the back of the box as Barbara waited. Emma, unfortunately, wasn't fast enough to hide and he saw her. "Barbara, there's a girl here!"

"A girl?"

"Yes." Emma shuddered back in shock and fear as she instinctively hid the necklace and ring into her hoodie's pocket. Ian let out his hand toward her. "Hello, there's no need to be afraid." She did not respond, she simply stared at him, unsure whether this was a dream, a prank or worse. "What's your name?" Again nothing. "Listen, we are not here to hurt you. We want to find a student of ours. Susan. Have you seen her?"

"I. . ." Her voice came out like a small squeak. "No. . ." She shook her head, not knowing how she should even reply to that. Should she tell them the truth or would that have bad consequences? "Who. . . Who are you? The both of you."

"Ian Chesterton," He gestured to himself and then to the woman. "Barbara Wright." He turned to the younger female again. "Can you tell us your name?"

"That's not possible." she muttered, ignoring his question for the moment, trembling in the meantime. "You can't be real. You are not real."

The teachers shared a look. Ian spoke again. "I assure you, miss, we are very real. Now, care to enlighten us with your name?"

"My name is Emma." she replied reluctantly. "Emma Jones."

As she stepped into the light, and the two adults could see her better, they stared in slight shock. She tilted her head to the side in confusion until she looked at what she was wearing; shorts, a hoodie with a logo which read 'BOSS' vertically, converse shoes and plain shocks. From their perspective, she was completely out of her time and she could see why.

Her cheeks grew hot from embarrassment and decided to change the subject. "Uhm. . . You were talking about the, uh, Police Box."

"Oh right! It's not connected to anything, unless it's through the floor."

Barbara sighed. "Look, I-I've had enough. Let's go, get miss Jones out of here and find a policeman."

"Yes, all right. . ."

A coughing sound echoed through the junkyard from outside the gates.

"Is that her?"

"That’s not her. . ." The gate creaked open. Ian grabbed Emma's hand. "Quick!"

They hid behind the stairs. An old man walked into view. Seemingly in his mid seventies or late sixties, with straight, slightly long white hair, wearing an Astrakhan hat, cloak and scarf. He coughed and waved a handkerchief to clear the air. He walked up to the box, pulling out a key and, holding a slim pen flashlight in the other hand, started to insert the key into the lock set into the box's door.

A cheerful feminine voice exclaimed. "There you are, grandfather!"

"It’s Susan!" Barbara whispered but was shocked, Ian hushed her.

The old man heard them. He pocketed the key and shined the torch on the stairs as Ian came out of hiding. "Excuse me. . ." He said sheepishly.

The old man shined the pen torch at his face. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, we're looking for a girl."

"We?"

Barbara stepped into view as she gently held Emma's arm. "Good evening."

"What do you want?"

"Um. . . . one of our pupils, Susan Foreman, came into this yard." Ian responded. "And we found miss Jones here too."

There was a smile on the elder's face. "Really? In here? Are you sure?"

"Yes. We saw her from across the street." said Barbara

"One of their pupils. Not the police, then. . . ." the old man muttered to himself.

"Er…I…I beg your pardon??" asked Ian

The old man fixed Ian with a stare. "Why were you spying on her? Who are you?"

"We heard a young girl's voice call out to you. . . ."

"Your hearing must be very acute. I didn't hear anything."

Barbara pointed at the box. "It came from in here!"

A flash of fear crossed the older man's face. "You imagined it."

"I certainly did not imagine it!"

The old man pulled Ian by the arm to one side. "Young man. . . Is it reasonable to suppose that anyone would be inside a cupboard like that, hmm?"

"Would it therefore be unreasonable to ask you to let us have a look inside?"

The elder's attention was suddenly drawn to a painting amid the junk. He picked the painting up. "I wonder why I've never seen that before. Now, isn’t that strange? Pretty damp and dirty. . . hmm. . ."

"Won't you help us? We're two of her teachers from the Coal Hill School. We saw her come in and we haven't seen her leave. Naturally, we're worried. . . ." Barbara said, trying to reason with him.

But he wasn't paying attention and then muttered to himself. "Have to be cleaned. . ." He suddenly seemed to notice her again. "Mmm? Oh, I'm afraid it's none of my business. I suggest you leave here."

He put the painting back down and walked back to the Police box, the TARDIS.

"Not until we're satisfied that Susan isn't here and, frankly, I don't understand your attitude. . ." Ian said

"Oh, yours leaves a lot to be desired."

"Will you open the door?"

"There's nothing in there!"

"Then what are you afraid to show us?"

"Afraid? Oh, go away!"

Ian turned to Barbara. "I think we'd better go and fetch a policeman."

"Very well." said the old man

"And you're coming with us."

"Oh. . . am I?" He chuckled. "I don't think so, young man. No, I don't think so..."

Barbara whispered to Ian. "We can't force him!"

"But we can't leave him here! Doesn't it seem obvious to you he's got her locked up in there?" Ian whispered back, Barbara nodded. "Look at it!" The old man was standing away from them again, now seemingly examining a small jug but his real attention was occupied by the teachers conversation as Ian examined the box's door. Emma, on the other hand, was far too stunned to even utter a word as she stood aside. She still couldn't believe that there was the slightest possibility that this was real. She refused to believe it. "There's no door handle. . . must be a secret lock somewhere."

"That was Susan's voice." said Barbara

"Of course it was! Susan. . . Susan? Are you in there? It's Mr. Chesterton and Miss Wright, Susan!"

The old man, the Doctor, spoke. "Don't you think you're being rather high-handed, young man? You thought you saw a young girl enter the yard. You imagined you heard her voice. You believe she might be in there. It's not very substantial, is it?"

"But why won't you help us?" asked Barbara

He put the jug back down and faced the teachers. "I'm not hindering you. If you both want to make fools of yourselves, I suggest you do what you said you'd do. Go and find a policeman. Also, why aren't you taking an example from her." He pointed at Emma who yet again tensed. "She is the only one who minds her own business."

"While you nip off quietly in the other direction." said Ian

The older man momentarily closed his eyes. "Insulting." He faced them again. "There's only one way in and out of this yard. I shall be here when you get back. I want to see your faces when you try to explain away your behaviour to a policeman."

"Nevertheless, we're going to find one. Come along, Barbara. Miss Jones."

The two teachers turned their backs on the old man while dragging the other female along, toward the gate. They've taken only a step when the door of the box opens.

"What are you doing out there?" Susan's voice was heard.

Ian then shouted. "She is in there!"

Suddenly the old male rushed at the two teachers, trying to hold them back. "Close the door!"

"Barbara!"

As Ian struggled with the elder, Barbara dashed through the box's open door and into a large brilliantly lit white room. The walls were covered with circular, indentations. A hexagonal-shaped control console with a cylindrical tube inset in the centre with machinery visible inside. Various antiques decorated the place. A monitor was set into the upper wall. A shocked Susan walked from behind the console. The old man, Emma and Ian walked inside behind Barbara.

"Close the doors, Susan." The girl, Susan, activated a switch on the console, and the large double doors behind the group closed with an electronic hum. "I believe these people are known to you."

"They're two of my schoolteachers! What are you doing here?"

Barbara looked around in wonder as she asked, "Where are we?"

"They must have followed you. That ridiculous school - I knew something like this would happen if we stayed in one place too long."

"But why should they follow me."

"Is this really where you live, Susan?" asked Barbara

"Yes."

"And what's wrong with it?" the old man asked

"But it was just a telephone box. . . ." Ian said

"Perhaps."

"And this is your grandfather. . ?" asked Barbara

"Yes." replied Susan

Barbara addressed the old man. "Well, why didn't you tell us that?"

"I don't discuss my private life with strangers."

"But it was a police telephone box. I walked all round it! Barbara, you saw me!" Ian said

Emma remained quiet, not wanting to draw any attention to herself as she felt this could just be a silly prank plotted by her adoptive brothers. The old man looked very much like the first Doctor, just like the others looked like the actors from the classic show. The Doctor crossed to an antique ormolu clock on a nearby stand. "You don't deserve any explanations. You pushed your way in here, uninvited and unwelcome."

"I think we ought to leave...." Barbara said

"No, just a minute." said Ian and he crossed to the the strange elder.

The Doctor muttered to himself as he examined the clock. "Dear, dear, dear, this is very…."

"I know this is absurd, but I feel. . . I walked all around it!"

The Doctor's attention was still occupied by the clock. "It's stopped again, you know, and I've tried. . ." He took notice of Ian. "Hmm? Oh, you wouldn't understand at all."

And he walked back to the console. Ian followed him. "But I want to understand!"

The Doctor was uninterested. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes." He removed his cloak and scarf over an old chair, keeping his hat on. "Oh by the way Susan, I've managed to find a replacement for that faulty filament. Bit of an amateur job, but I, er, I think it'll serve."

The Doctor took an electronic object out of his pocket and walked to the console. He started to insert the object into the console, effecting repairs.

"It's an illusion. It must be. . ."

"What is he talking about now?"

Susan asked her teachers again. "What are you doing here?"

The Doctor coughed quietly to gain their attention. "You don't understand, so you find excuses. Illusions, indeed? You say you can’t fit an enormous building into one of your smaller sitting rooms?"

"No." Ian responded

"But you've discovered television, haven't you?"

"Yes. . ."

"Then by showing an enormous building on your television screen, you can do what seemed impossible, couldn’t you?"

"Well. . . yes, but I still don't know. . ."

"It’s not quite clear, is it? I can see by your face that you're not certain. You don't understand." He laughed. "And I knew you wouldn't! Never mind." He turned back to the console. "Now then, which switch was it. . . ? No, no, no. . . . Ah yes, that is it!" He flipped the switch. "The point is not whether you understand. . ." He turned back to Ian. "What is going to happen to you, hmm?" He turned to his granddaughter. "They'll tell everybody about the ship now."

"The ship. . .?"

"Yes, yes, ship! This doesn't roll along on wheels, you know."

"You mean...it moves?" asked Barbara

"The TARDIS can go anywhere." said Susan

"TARDIS? I don't understand you, Susan."

"Well, I made up the name TARDIS from the initials."

Emma couldn't help herself as she blurted out in excitement. "It stand for Time And Relative Dimension In Space!" Then all eyes fell on her, as if now noticing her presence. Her cheeks heated up while she stared at her feet. "Sorry."

Susan grinned at her. "Yes! That's right! Don't apologize! You understood when you saw the different dimensions inside from those outside, correct?"

"Something like that."

Ian shook his head. "So. Let me get this straight. A thing that looks like a police box, standing in a junkyard. . . it can move anywhere in time and space!?"

Susan exclaimed, "Yes!"

"Quite so." said the Doctor

"But that's ridiculous!"

Susan, exasperated, turned to the Doctor. "Why won't they believe us?"

"Well, how can we?" asked Barbara

The Doctor put his hands on Susan's shoulders. "Now, now, don't get exasperated, Susan. Remember the Red Indian. When he saw the first steam train, his savage mind thought it an illusion too."

"You're treating us like children!" exclaimed Ian

"Am I? The children of my civilization would be insulted."

"Your civilization?"

"Yes, my civilization. I tolerate this century, but I don't enjoy it. Have you ever thought about what it's like to be wanderers in the fourth dimension? Have you? To be exiles?" He motioned to himself and Susan. "Susan and I are cut off from our own planet, without friends or protection. But one day. . ." He gazed into the distance, his arm around Susan. ". . . we shall get back. Yes, one day. . .one day. . ."

Susan was a little distraught as she faced the teachers and Emma. "It's true. Every word of it's true. You don't know what you've done coming here. . ." She turned to the Doctor. "Grandfather, let them go now, please! Look, if the teachers don't understand, they can't. . . they can't hurt us at all! I understand these people better than you. . . their minds reject things they don't understand. . ."

The old man's icy look was his answer. The girl's words seized up in her throat. "No." He walked to the back of the room.

"He can't keep us here. . ." Ian said

"Susan, listen to me, can't you see that all this is an illusion? It's a game that you and your grandfather are playing, if you like. But you can't expect us to believe it." said Barbara

"It's not a game!' said Susan

"But, Susan. . ."

"It's not! Look, I love your school. I love England in the 20th century. The last five months have been the happiest of my life. . . ."

"But you are one of us. You look like us, you sound like us. . . ."

"I was born in another time. Another world."

"Now look here Susan, you. . ." Ian finally gave up and grabbed Barbara's and Emma's arms. The latter let out a surprised yelp. "Oh come on, Barbara, miss Jones, let's get out of here."

They walked towards the wall, the teachers were trying to find the doors.

"No, you two can't get out. He won't let you go."

A high pitched whining sound echoed through the room. At the console, the Doctor was laughing. Emma's head started spinning, she held it with both her hands, she rested her back on the wall and slid down to the floor. Ian pointed at the console and said, "He closed the doors from over there." He moved toward it. "I saw it. . ." He looked over the console. "Now which is it. . . ? Which is it?" He turned to the Doctor. "Which control operates the door?"

"You still think it's all an illusion. . ." said the Doctor

"I know free movement in time and space is a scientific dream I don't expect to find solved in a junkyard!"

"Oh, your arrogance is nearly as great as your ignorance!" laughed the Doctor

"Will you open the door? Open the door!" The Doctor laughed again. "Susan, will you help us?"

"I mustn't! I mustn’t!" Susan replied

Ian sighed and faced the console. "Very well then. I'll have to risk it myself."

"I can't stop you. . ." said the Doctor with suspicious acceptance. The old man's hand brushed a switch just as Ian's came down on a button.

Susan tried to warn Ian. "Oh, don’t touch it! It’s live!"

The shock flung Ian to the floor. "Ian!" Barbara exclaimed, she helped him up and shouted at the Doctor. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"Grandfather, let them go now! Please!"

"And by tomorrow we shall be a public spectacle. A subject for news and idle gossip."

He resolutely turned to the console. Susan moved to stop him. "But they won't say anything. . ."

He clapped hands on the girl's shoulders. "My dear child, of course they will. Put yourself in their place. They're bound to make some sort of a complaint to the authorities - or at the very least talk to their friends." He wagged his finger at her. "If I do let them go, Susan, you realise of course we must go too."

"No. Grandfather, we've had all this out b…"

"There's no alternative, child."

"I want to stay! Look, they're both kind people and the girl looks trustworthy too. Why won't you trust them? All you’ve got to do is ask them to promise to keep our secret and. . ."

"Ιt's out of the question."

"Can't you see that this girl--" Susan pointed at Emma who was still holding her head in her hands. "--Is terrified?"

"That's not my concern."

"I won't go, grandfather. I won't leave the 20th century. . . I'd rather leave the TARDIS and you!"

"Now you're being sentimental and childish."

"No, I mean it."

The Doctor looked at her, the teachers and Emma's form and seemed to reach a decision. "Very well. Then you must go with them. I’ll open the door."

He turned to the console. Barbara asked the girl, "Are you coming, Susan?"

The Doctor started to activate switch after switch on the console.

"Oh no grandfather, no!" exclaimed Susan and she grabbed at him, trying to pull him away.

"Let me go!" shouted the Doctor

"No!"

He kept activating controls despite Susan's best efforts. The room started to shake as the lighting within pulses. Instruments and dials on the console burst into life.

"Get back to the ship’s side! Hold it. . ."

The shaking worsened, and the teachers were flung across the room, Barbara into a chair, Ian onto the floor and Emma slid on the other side of the room- a raucous grinding engine sound rose and fell through the room, the cylindrical column begun to rise and fall. And on the monitor, an overhead view of London was shown, that shrunk, faded and was replaced by a blinding vortex of light and energy.

Hello! As you guys can see, I am going to start the fanfic from the first series. Of course, I am not going to do EVERY single episode (as I mentioned on the description) but the events would still occur. I might do twenty/fifteen episodes of the first 6 seasons because they are like 60 episodes each. I am crazy but not that crazy.

Also, I originally wanted this to be a Doctor x Reader but I realized that my plans (for the future chapters mostly) may not match the reader. I know that it's a lame thing to say since most of the content I write is x reader but I had to do this in this fanfiction. I promise that I'll try write a somewhat similar fanfiction if you guys want to.

About Emma. . . I know that I made some stuff a bit too dramatic with her family (especially with emphasizing the fact that she is adopted and some of the members do not accept her) and that I added too much information too soon but it was a necessary way to introduce her character and have a better understanding of her personality as the story goes.

Emma's and the Doctor's relationship will take a long time to develop into something more than friendship but there will be some signs that one of the two has a crush on the other a bit later on the show. In other words, this is going to be one of the longest slow burns.

Anyway, that's all for now! Hope you have an amazing day/night!!!💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

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cascigarette · 1 year ago

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fandom: doctor who

rating: mature

pairing: the doctor (various regenerations)/oc, minor the master/oc

summary: Phoenix fell through the cracks in the universe, marked from the darkness of the Void, and landed on a planet called Earth with no memories and nothing to call her own except her name. She unwillingly travels through time and space-- where she constantly encounters an impossible blue box and the madman locked inside. Friendship, love, loss, and pain starts to invade her deranged life, and she doesn’t know if she can keep up before it destroys her.

A/N: OMG I'm finally publishing this fic!! five years in the works off and on and I decided to share it, if you decide to give it a shot then thank you!! I was very nervous to publish it as this story and Phoenix are close to my heart but im glad I did :)))) if you like it then please subscribe and comment!!

#doctor who #dw #my writing #my fic #mine #the doctor x ofc #dw fanfic #the doctor x oc #the master x oc

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bifangirl · 2 years ago

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In my ever so humble opinion there will never be enough doctor x oc fics that are either human nature/family of blood rewrites and/or chameleon arched time lord/lady oc’s

I will not take any arguments here

ig I just love my time lords as humans

#doctor who #chameleon arch #the doctor x oc #time lord oc #s3 human nature #s3 family of blood #give me my fanfic

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rp-partnerfinder · 7 months ago

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Ello everyone! 25M looking to do a RP based off the Spider-Man 2 game that came out about 6 months ago. I'm looking to do a MxM romance between Harry Osborn, and my OC. We can discuss details in DMs, but I would like my partner to be 18+, and at least semi-lit. Other rp's I'm willing to do are:

-Peter Parker x my OC (MCU/Insomniac)

-Bruno Carrelli x my OC (MCU)

-Harley Keener x my OC (MCU; aged up)

-Doctor Who rp with my OC

If you are interested at all, feel free to DM me or friend me on Discord (username is the same as here)!

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alana-reid-2005 · 4 months ago

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we all joke about and objectify this man, but do we stop to think how sad his story is? he grew up friendless and ruthlessly bullied for being a literal genius. constantly picked on by his coworkers, and he’s never in on the joke. he’s always being laughed at, never laughed with because no one understands his existentialist humor. he never has plans or places to go on the weekend after work. he goes to work then goes to his lonely home with all his books to keep him company. on occasion, he haunts the chess table at the park or meets with an old professor. no one takes the time to appreciate his weird little quirks. no one took the time to ask him if he was okay after the several traumatic incidents he endured. no one takes care of him because everyone’s too busy leaving. he could be a male model, yet he’s never thought of himself as attractive. when he does find love, he’s brutally stripped of it before he can blink. spencer reid, the lonely genius who learned of love too late and loss too soon.

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thetaurusgeminisystem · 11 months ago

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#14th doctor #10th doctor #the doctor #The Doctor x OC #OC #Doctor Who #fourteenth doctor #Tenth Doctor #Fourteenth Doctor x OC #tenth doctor x oc #14th doctor x OC #10th doctor x OC #doctor who oc #david tennant #soulmate au #red string of fate #red string au

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wibbley-wobbley-wiggly-sqiggly · 1 year ago

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Orchid x Rose? 25?

The bed was warm, with so many blankets and pillows, the light was a dim orange, the hum of the TARDIS was comforting, like waves crashing upon a beach, Orchid was as cozy as she’d ever been.

Rose brushed a stray strand of her out of her face, and tucked it behind her ear “You’ve become awfully messy since you started traveling with us, what would your Mother say?”

“Somehow I think the state of my hair would be the least shocking thing about my life now, Mother would have a heart attack long before scolding me for my hair.”

Orchid laughed “She would get so excited, imagine…telling her that I’ve been to the future.”

“We could take her on a trip one day, Introduce her to my mum, have a family day out.”

Orchid smiled and put her arms around Rose, embracing her tightly “What's your Mother like?”

“She’s proper nice, she’s got a gob on her.”

“So that's where you get it from?”

“Oi!” Rose laughed and slapped Orchid’s hand, the one placed on her waist “I haven’t got a gob.”

“Oh yes you do, I hate to say it love, but you do.”

The bedroom door, and The Doctor walked in, wires and tubes wrapped around him

“Rose, I’m just clearing out some of the storage cupboards and I was wondering if you’d help me with these?”

He held up a tangled ball of wires, all wrapped around one and other like a ball of wool

“I’m sorry, I can’t do anything that’s going to take away from the cuddling.”

Orchid smiled in The Doctor’s direction, he was frowning

“Sorry darling, you heard the woman, the decision has been made for me.”

Rose patted the bed “You could always join us, those cupboards have been a mess for years, what's another hour?”

The Doctor seemed to ponder his answer “I’ll go and put these away, then I’ll come back.”

#OC: Orchid Andrews #Rose Tyler x OC #The Doctor x OC #doctor who oc

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reidmania · 2 months ago

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post it note | s. reid

summary; when yours and spencer's schedules begin to clash making it hard to see each other - even while living together, a silent act of affection in the shape of a post it note helps make all better.

warnings; fem reader, reader has a job that needs her to wake up early, literally no angst really at all, this is pure fluff, the fluffest fluff ever, established relationships, this was gonna be a no dialogue fic, but there is dialogue and its the sweetest ever. spencer is clingy, spencer is SOO in love.

an; this is the fluffiest shit ive ever written, also i finally figured out how to make custom colours on this silly thing. 2k words yay.

It was a month since Spencer had asked you to move in with him when it all started. You wanted to be able to see each other more, since it was difficult to do so when he was being called out to cases constantly. While you would see each other when he got back, see each other whenever you could, between your work, and his, it made it difficult. You already had clothes at his house. The first time you had ever come over, he had given you a drawer in his dresser, dedicated to whatever you wanted to put into it.

That drawer grew to your necklaces and rings being left on his side table, a version of your perfume next to his cologne on top of his dresser, a toothbrush next to his in the white mug he used as a makeshift toothbrush holder, a pair of your shoes by the door, a few of your coats hanging up next to his by the entrance, your favourite snacks and drinks stocked in his pantry and fridge, you basically already lived there – because Spencer wanted you to be comfortable in the place of his house whenever you were there

So you moving in was a no brainer.

Unfortunately, it seemed the issue wasn’t such an easy fix. While you got comfortable in his home, and saw him somewhat more than before, new issues occurred. He didn’t get home most nights till you were already fast asleep, curled up on the side of the bed dedicated to you, he would shower and change as quietly as possible not to wake you, then he would slip into bed and pull you into his arms. You would shuffle and ease into his touch, he would fall asleep holding you, you would remain asleep in his arms.

Then, in the morning you would wake up before him to leave for work. You hated that, having to unwrap his arms from you and watch him shuffle uncomfortably before finding a replacement to your warmth in the thick covers. You would get ready quietly, before you would spend a moment sitting on the edge of the bed, making sure he was comfortable as you brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead, admiring his peaceful features, placing a kiss on his forehead before you left for the day.

When you did see each other, properly, consciously. Everything was fine, it was great. It was mostly when Spencer got to finish work earlier, being able to be home for dinner when you made it. Sometimes he would call you and ask you to hold off making dinner till he got home, just so he could make it with you. You always would. Those evenings the two of you would spend in the kitchen making dinner with each other, he would wrap his arms around your waist, pressing his chest against your back as he leant down to rest his chin on your forehead. You’d sway softly together to whatever music you had been playing quietly in the background while he mumbled gently whispers of love into your ear.

On the mornings you didn’t have to work as early, you’d sleep in, Spencer would wake up earlier those days to spend the morning with you before he had to leave for work. He would pull you closer so you were basically laying on his chest, he would pepper your face with kisses as you let out a string of sweet laugher that made his chest swell. It was the same routine, he would lean in for a kiss, you’d complain about morning breath and then kiss him anyways before you brushed your teeth together making sweet jokes.

The sweet evenings and giddy mornings made those nights and mornings you didn’t get to properly spend time together a little easier to cope with.

The idea came to you one night while you were cleaning up before bed. Spencer had called you a few hours ago to let you know that he was going to be there a little later. He always lets you know. He didn’t want to leave you hanging, and he never did. You understood the demands of his job, you’d never blame him for that. You two were handling the difficulties the best you could. However as you cleaned the kitchen your mind drifted.

Moments later you were digging through the drawers in his home office, pulling out a pile of dulled out pink post it notes (ones he had started using rather than yellow ones because you said you liked them.) You grabbed a pen from the collection he had laid out, neatly organised on the side of his desk, and wrote a soft ‘I love you’ on the top note, before pulling it away from the rest of the collection, placing the rest back in his draw and putting his pen back, exactly how it was, before you stood and paddered through the house.

You stuck it to the door where you knew he would see it. You didn’t have to worry about him missing it. Spencer spent time making sure the doors and windows were locked, not only because he knew the dangers of otherwise, but he had taken that small routine so much more seriously since you had moved in. You knew he would notice it. That's all you wanted. Sure, you could’ve just sent it as a text, but chances are Spencer would see it as soon as you sent it. That wasn’t what you wanted. The nights you weren’t up to see him when he got home, you weren’t able to mumble the soft reminder to him before you fell asleep, give him any sort of affection later in the night. It was a small thing, but you hoped he found it sweet.

The next morning you woke up tangled in Spencer’s arms. He was fast asleep, eyebrows furrowed in comfort, lips slightly parted as soft breaths left his lips. Your heart pulled as you untangled yourself from his arms and left the bed. You watched for a moment as his brows furrowed further, arms reaching out for your body in his sleep and your stomach flipped. That moment you looked away, knowing if you didn’t you would end up back in his arms and not at work. You moved around the room quietly, getting yourself ready trying your best not to wake him.

“Come back” You heard his voice and your head spun to see he had shifted to sit up a little bit more, watching as you moved around the room. His eyes were lidded with sleep and he was clearly unimpressed by your absence. This was why you tried to be so quiet in the mornings. He had said numerous times you could wake him up before you left, but then the one time you did, it ended in you both calling in sick to work and staying in bed for way too many hours.

“Good morning” You replied as you pulled on your jacket before you walked over to him. Not giving into his request despite how much you wanted to. You hand reached out to brush strands of messy hair away from his forehead, then getting distracted and running your hand gently through the soft strands of hair. His hand caught your wrist softly, pulling your hand to interlace his fingers with yours before he pressed his lips against your knuckles softly, your chest warmed.

“Hi angel,” he mumbled back, looking up at you. His hand gently tugged on yours trying to silently plead you back into his arms. It took a lot of self control not to give in and bury yourself into the place next to him, forget about work and any responsibilities and lose to him.

But you had a moment, and if Spencer was awake, you would spend it with him.

“How was work?” You asked, a lot of the time the question came the day after. Not hearing about his day immediately didn’t make you any less interested in hearing about it. You allowed yourself to shuffle closer to him, your forearm resting gently against his chest as he continued to press his lips against your knuckles softly.

He huffed out a warm breath of air against the skin of your fingers, “Fine, I missed you” he said gently. You were sure every time he said something your heart doubled in size, because although you had heard the words from him maybe a million times, it didn’t change how sweet he sounded saying them. The rest of the time you had before needing to leave for work was a mix between getting ready, and trying to deny Spencer’s soft plea’s for you to stay just a few minutes more before he finally gave in to letting you leave for the day, not without a few soft kisses to your lips, and your loving complaint about morning breath.

When you left the bedroom, ready, you made your way to the kitchen to make coffee like every other morning. You and Spencer liked two different types of coffee beans, he always made sure to keep them both stocked. You got the travel cup ready before making your way over to the pantry to get out your coffee beans, your heart swelled almost painfully at the sight when you opened the door.

The post it note you had stuck to the door, was placed on your bag of coffee beans. You had almost forgotten about it, but with the silent acknowledgement that he had seen it, you couldn’t help the smile on your face. The fact he could have just smiled and binned it, but instead moved it to a place he knew you would see it, like you had for him. It was the silent act of love and affection that made the nights and mornings you didn’t get to spend time together so much easier.

When you got home, before you went to bed you moved the post it note to his desk in his home office, when you woke up to leave for work, he had moved it to your work bag. From that point on it became a silent game between the two of you. Neither of you vocally acknowledged it, you didn’t need to. Each night before you went to bed you would move it for him to find when he got home, each morning you would find it in a new place. It became something you looked forward to everyday, finding out where he had placed it.

It had been a year since it started, the same post it note was used every time, the same one that you had placed on the door the first time. You both kept up with it, there wasn’t a single day either of you skipped moving it around, even the days you had off, or the days Spencer finished early. Whoever woke up first would move it, and whoever went to bed last would move it again.

You were wrapped in Spencer’s arms, one of the nights he was able to finish early. You were pretty sure he had already moved the post it note since he had pressed kisses against your forehead before telling you to stay in bed, before he left the room for a few minutes, then returned with a giddy smile.

He was half asleep when he murmured out your name, your head resting on his chest as his arms remained tightly wrapped around you. You had let out a soft hum in response, the tiredness affecting you just as much as him. He had leant down and nuzzled his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo before pressing a soft kiss against the top of your head.

“When I propose, I'm gonna do it with a thousand post it notes” He spoke so gently, voice laced with sleep. Your breath hitched slightly even in the tired state, your mind fogged and your chest aches – in the best way at the mention of him proposing. The vocal mention of the game you two had been playing for the last year of your relationship, the fact the silent ache was so insanely important to him, just like it was to you.

“Yeah?” you whispered back. You felt him nod into your hair as his fingers came to slowly brush through the strands.

“Mhm, Then I wanna be buried with the original.”

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dalamjisung · 4 months ago

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A muted shade of green ✧ Spencer Reid

genre: fluff, light angst

word count: 6339

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: Dr. Spencer Reid is simply adorable. And you actually think he might be perfect. Until, that is, he isn't.

a muted shade of green masterlist // next chapter

His apartment is a muted shade of green and you always wonder why is it that he painted it so dark. The book covered walls never fail to impress you, making you smile into the ether that was this place with its shelves and shelves of worldly stories. His taste, you think, is more towards the classics and refined tales that carry significance and importance in the world of literature. Dostoyevski, Austen, Orwell, Doyle. Though here and there, in some corners of the living room or thrown haphazardly in the kitchen counter, you see peeks of contemporary names, the ones you’re sure you sold him a long, long time ago. Murakami, Zadie Smith, George.

You met Spencer when you first moved into D.C., about a year or so ago, and sometimes, you really think that it was just yesterday when you first saw him with his purple scarf walking inside your store.

“Excuse me.”

You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; it’s the least you can do for your first customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.” In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a book– luckily two– you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.

Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelson’s on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. “You found something you like?” You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. “Many things, actually. I’m quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, it’s been hard finding something new to read lately.”

His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says it’s 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; it’s definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that.

It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and you’re not sure if that is adorable or unhinged.

“Just these, thank you,” The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. “You have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!” The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop.

“I am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?” At this point, you’re just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. “I live just across the street, actually,” He said, giving you his card. “You’ll see me a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And what should I call my most loyal customer, then?” One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself.

“Spencer Reid.”

There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you don’t really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, you’ll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shop’s door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questions– was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk.

Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with ‘A Gentleman From Peru’ by André Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was ‘A Little Paris Bookshop’ by Nina George. Then ‘Cultish’ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you don’t know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you can’t help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day.

Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesn’t owe you anything, you’re just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. “I thought you’d like it,” Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, it’s like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations.

It’s quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like he’s done this just to rile you up.

“Oh my god, don’t!”

You don’t mean to shout but it’s too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ shape that makes you blush. “What did I do?”

The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. “The book, Spencer,” The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. “The spine. The book. The– oh my god, the noise!”

The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesn’t come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. “You know, there are worse sounds than a book’s spine breaking,” He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. It’s a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates.

“You don’t have to buy it,” It’s a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Aren’t you a little too old to have a crush? “It’s okay if–“ But he doesn’t even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you don’t, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk.

You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shop’s door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purple– the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression.

The first time he calls you over, it’s not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesn’t show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, it’s the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. It’s one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. “Huh,” You frown at that– it isn’t like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isn’t like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety.

Your book is here.

It’s Y/N, by the way.

He doesn’t answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if you’re praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that could’ve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable.

But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do.

That day, you don’t get a message back.

You get a call instead.

“Y/N?” The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too.

“Spencer,” You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. “Spencer, are you okay? You sound rough.”

Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. “I’m fine,” He mumbles, and you know he’s saying it out of politeness. “I just got sick. I think I have a cold, it’s nothing much, really.”

The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. “Oh. I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you–“

“It’s not a bother,” The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. “You’re not a bother. I uh, I’m glad to hear my book arrived.”

For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he can’t. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. “I can bring it to you. If you want.”

This time, there is no pause. “Yes. I mean, yes, please. I– I don’t have anything new to read and–” Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to ‘closed’, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” You cross the street in such a hurry that you don’t notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. “Shit…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. “So just a cold, right?”

“Y/N, where are you?”

“Out,” There is no need to be vague, but you don’t want to give him a chance to protest. “I should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.”

“Just the book?” He asks in such a suspicious tone that you can’t hold back a laugher.

“What else?” Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. “Which apartment do I buzz?”

“Apartment 23.” And that is the end of the call.

By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you can’t say you’re terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. “Spencer,” You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. “You shouldn’t be out and about like this.”

“Then who would let you in?” The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. “Do you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, I’m not a slob or anything.”

“Yeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.”

“I knew it wasn’t just the book,” The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it.

“Oh shit, sorry!” You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, you’d have to close the store early to clean this thing. “But uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. I’m sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time… hopefully!”

In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. It’s a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. It’s a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesn’t feel like something to be thankful for. “Is… Do you not like that brand? I didn’t want to get the generic thing, I don’t know why, I–“

“Thank you.”

At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, you’re surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. “Y/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,” He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. “I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and you’re getting used to having him around. It’s like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencer’s hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when it’s true and dry when it’s forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.

You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. “What’s gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?”

Ah, yes; another thing you’ve learned about Spencer Reid– he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesn’t. “My god!” You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. “Spence! You scared me!”

“I’m so sorry,” He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. “I come in peace.”

“And with bribery, I like your style.”

His style doesn’t change, still haven’t. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You don’t really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time you’ve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. It’s hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. It’s only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with.

The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come over– next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. “I must be spending too much time with him,” You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. “Why does he even have plants?”

You don’t know much about Spencer’s job. He hasn’t told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importance– a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesn’t sit right with you– he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, aren’t quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript.

The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartment– he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledge– and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. It’s your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on.

Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frown– usually, he’d pick up from where you left off. “How long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?” You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesn’t mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesn’t mind you reading his books, to know he doesn’t mind you settling, somehow, in his house.

A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. It’s only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. “Who is it?” You ask, voice weak and shaky.

“I have a delivery for Spencer Reid.”

How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. “Sorry, he isn’t home right now. I can take it for him.” All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him.

The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes don’t leave his phone for a second. “What has you smiling like that?” You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. “Or uh, who?” Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, you’ve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and there’s only so much a girl can take before exploding.

“Oh, it’s just a friend.” Somehow, this answer doesn’t settle you as much as you hoped it would.

The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. It’s stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pink– she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you… well, you are as muted as his green walls. “Y/N!” He calls for you with such a big smile and you just don’t have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore.

“Hey Spencer,” It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesn’t seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. “And hello, ma’am. Welcome, I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.”

That day, you two barely talk, but that’s okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that it’s lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend you’re tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. It’s better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesn’t buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee.

After that, you don’t see Spencer for two weeks.

It’s a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, it’s just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls aren’t claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.

“Y/N!”

You should be happier to hear his voice, but it’s not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but it’s not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. “Y/N? Are you here? The door says open…” At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan you’re able to come up with– if you look into Spencer’s eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip… you’re fucked.

“Y/N, I need you to tell me if you’re here!” It’s not the same.

His voice. It’s not the same.

Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like he’s holding something back. Something new. Something… heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you.

When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.

That’s when you see it.

More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. It’s like your brain doesn’t believe what you’re seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. “WHAT THE FU– OH MY GOD!” There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you.

Of all the ways you’ve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. “Y/N!”

“Oh my god!” You think you might pass out– you’re breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you can’t look up; you’re frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, you’re scared of Spencer Reid. “I– I– Oh my god, I c-can’t– I can’t b-breathe, I can’t–“

“Y/N, look at me! Look at me, you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” The moment his hand touches your shoulder, you’re shrinking away.

“Who are you?!” You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. “Spencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, why–“

“Ma’am, I need you to take deep breaths,” The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. “I’m SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.”

Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you.

“The FBI…?” You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. “S-Spencer, you work for the FBI?” Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands hold– the same hands you’ve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.

The gun. You’ve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You don’t have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.

“Kid, put it away, you’re freaking her out.”

Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. It’s the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himself– his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. That’s when you know for sure– you are going to be sick. “Trash,” You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. “Trash, pass me the–“ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section.

“What just happened?”

“Morgan, get her some water– there, over the counter,” The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. “Y/N, you’re in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.”

It’s funny, how in any other circumstance, you’d be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesn’t care. Both options don’t make sense. “Spence, what is going on?” Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help.

Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you’d like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. “I see…”

“It was just… it was new, having someone not know I’m FBI,” His thumbs play with each other and you’ve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. “And we started getting closer and I just didn’t find an opportunity to tell you.”

“There were plenty,” You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. “But it’s okay. I’m not… I’m not anything of yours, I guess, so it’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t say that. You’re my friend.” That hurt.

“Do you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?” It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you can’t even begin to explain why. “Sorry, I’m just– I’m not okay.”

“I know, and we’re sorry,” There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. It’s a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. “But you need to come with us.”

“Why?” You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and you’re more overwhelmed than anything else. You’re scared and confused and overwhelmed and it’s his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. “Why do I need to go with you? What is going on?”

“Y/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?”

In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. “The delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I–“

“No, no, no, you didn’t, you didn’t. Please.”

“Ma’am, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?” The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. “Kid, we need to take her to the office now.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. “The package… did you see who it was from?”

“Spencer, are you insinuating you’ve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didn’t mean to– I didn’t! It just… It was there, right at the top and I–“

“She is not my girlfriend,” He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. “Not at all! I don’t have a girlfriend! I was–“

“We can deal with this later,” Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. “Y/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and let’s go.”

It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you can’t remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. “Spencer.”

The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Yeah?"

“Spencer,” You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. “Spencer, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?”

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AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3

Please let me know what you think, this is my first Spencer fic and I'd love if it got to turn into a series!

1K notes · View notes

ddollipop · 1 year ago

Text

CURB THIS SICKNESS. . . ! — ( SOFT YANDERE!PLAGUE DOCTOR OC X READER. )

#. synopsis! — there's a virus outside that's snuffed out the lights of many. . . and lucian refuses to let you meet such a miserable fate .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , multiple orgasms , vaginal fingering , implications of paranoia , cum swallowing , oral sex , cunnilingus , blowjob , vaginal sex , obsessive behavior , frequent usage of endearment terms (love, darling, angel) , missionary position , bathing , established relationship , slight choking , slight hair pulling , creampie , biting .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

#. oc carrd! — click here to find more information on lucian + other original characters of mine that i might write for in the future! xx .

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there.

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly.

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

#oc #original character #plague doctor #original character smut #oc smut #oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere original character #yandere original character x reader #yandere oc smut #yandere original character smut #soft yandere #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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the-doctor-3000 · 1 year ago

Text

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 {Doctor Who Fanfic}

Chapter 2: The Cave Of Skulls

Into the TARDIS's console room, Emma was pacing around the room as she was biting her fingernails anxiously and took slow deep breaths. This was crazy. This couldn't possibly be real.

"Okay okay okay. . ." Emma said, she turned to the Doctor and Susan but not quite addressing them. "This is either a really long dream or my brothers are pulling a prank on me."

"Why would they prank you?" Susan frowned.

She shrugged. "I- I don't know! Some of them are incredibly mischievous, always coming up with a prank. No matter how far it may get." She paused as she took yet another breath.

"Then tell me, miss Jones," the Doctor spoke, his voice wasn't as gentle as his granddaughter's. "If this is a trick, how did these brothers of yours afford for all of this?"

He gestured around at the TARDIS. Emma realised that he made a valid point. She stopped walking as she thought about it. Her family had money, yes, but they weren't rich either. There was no way her brothers could recreate the whole thing. Her mind also travelled when she went around the TARDIS and then inside it. This wasn't an illusion, she could tell that much, but it couldn't be real. Finally, she came to a decision.

"I see. . ." she muttered slowly. "This is just a dream, then!"

The Doctor scoffed as he rolled his eyes, Susan bit her lip. The former turned away from the black haired female and focused on the monitor. Barbara, still on the chair was finally coming to. She knelt down to rouse Ian, who also still laid on the floor. She shook him gently. "Ian? Ian?"

He rose to a sitting position, holding his head. "I'm alright. Oh...I must have hit my head." He looked around. "The movement's stopped."

Before them, the Doctor and Susan stared at the monitor from the control console. The cylindrical column had stopped moving. They checked the console's controls.

"The base is steady." said Susan.

"Well, sand, rock formation. . .mm, good." said the Doctor.

"We've left 1963."

"Oh yes, undoubtedly. I'll be able to tell you where presently." He blinked at a console readout. "Zero? That's not right. I'm afraid this year-o-meter is not calculating properly. . . .hmm. Well, anyway, the journey's finished." He looked down at Ian, still sitting on the floor. "What are you doing down there?"

"What have you done?" Barbara demanded.

Ian spoke, "Barbara, you don't believe all this nonsense?"

"Well, look at the scanner screen." said Susan to the three.

The Doctor pointed at the screen. "Yes, look up there." Ian and Barbara got to their feet while Emma took a look out of curiosity. "They don't understand, and I suspect they don't want to." He waved at the screen. "Well, there you are. A new world for you."

The scanner showed the desert outside. An icy mountain range was visible in the distance. Ian then said contemptuously, "Sand and rock?"

"Yes, that's the immediate view outside the ship."

Barbara, baffled, asked. "But where are we?"

"You mean that's what we'll see when we go outside?" asked Ian.

"Yes! You'll see it for yourself." said Susan.

"I don't believe it!" said Ian.

"You really are a stubborn young man, aren't you?" the Doctor said.

"All right, show me some proof! Give me some concrete evidence!" said Ian, he turned to Susan. "I'm sorry Susan, I don't want to hurt you, but. . .it's time you were brought back to reality."

Emma's head span from this conversation which seemed to her that it only led to more argument. "For goodness' sake! Can everyone stop talking?!" Ian and Barbara stared at her in bewilderment, they thought that the girl was shy and quiet. Emma brushed her hair away. "Now. . . Instead of continuing with this rather lovely debate whether this is a hoax or not, would it really hurt to have some faith in your student? She might be right!"

Neither Ian or Barbara had time to respond when the Doctor decided to comment. "That's quite rich coming from you, miss Jones." She glared at him but he ignored it as he continued. "Considering that you yourself do not believe it to be real either."

"It's a dream. Everything is possible."

Ian blinked and looked at her. "Wait- You think you are dreaming?"

She nodded vigorously. "But of course! There is no other logical explanation as to why you all are here. Everything here is not real, in fact neither are you."

"Why do you believe that?" Barbara asked the girl.

"Because this is just a show. At least the classic which I only saw the first episode yesterday." replied Emma casually as if this was completely normal. "It's called Doctor Who, a science-fiction programme which first broadcasted in 1963. It follows the adventures of the Doctor, a Time Lord, as he travels across space and time inside a blue British police box called the TARDIS. As far as I know, there are 871 episodes and 300 stories over 39 seasons."

Both the Doctor and Susan were now stunned at her response. The former's interest had been piqued. How could she know of the Time Lords? Could she be from another universe?

Ian and Barbara, on the other hand, started believing that the girl was mentally ill. Emma could see it in their faces but, still thinking that she was sleeping, she simply shrugged and clapped her hands together.

"Can we go outside now?" she asked with an eager look in her eyes. "I wanna see what's outside!"

"No." the Doctor responded flatly, snapping out of his train of thoughts.

"Why not?"

"Not until I'm quite sure it's safe to do so." He consulted the console. "Well, the air's good, yes it is, it’s good, excellent, excellent. . ." He turned to Susan who was still staring at the girl with an amazed look. "You've got the radiation counter over there. What’s it read?"

She shook her head and checked the counter on the console. "It's reading normal, Grandfather."

"Splendid, splendid. Well, I think I'll take my Geiger counter with me in any case." He smugly clutched his Edwardian lapels and turned to Ian. "So you, er, still challenge me, young man?"

"Well, just open the doors and prove your point."

"You're so narrow-minded, aren't you? Don't be so insular."

"Grandfather, do you know where we are?" asked Susan.

"Yes. We've gone back in time, all right. One or two samples and I shall be able to make an estimate. Rock pieces and a few plants. . ." He regarded the console. "But I do wish this wouldn't keep letting me down. However, we can go out now."

"Just a minute. You say we've gone back in time. . . ." Ian said.

"Yes, quite so."

"So that when we go out of that door, we won't be in a junkyard, in London, in England, in the year 1963. . . ."

"That is quite correct. But your tone suggests ridicule."

"But it is ridiculous! Time doesn't go 'round and 'round in circles! You can't get on and off whenever you like in the past or the future!"

"Really? Where does time go, then?"

"It doesn’t go anywhere. It just happens, and then it's finished."

"Oh. . ." said the Doctor with an amused smile, he laughed and looks at Barbara. "You're not as doubtful as your friend, I hope."

She shook her head. "No."

"Barbara, you can't. . ." said Ian in disbelief.

"I can't help it! I just believe them, that's all!"

"If you could touch the alien sand and hear the cries of strange birds -- and watch them wheel in another sky. . .would that satisfy you?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes." said Ian.

The Doctor twisted the controls and the doors opened with a hum. Outside was the desert.

"Now, see for yourself."

"It's not true! It can't be. . ." said Ian in a shocked whisper.

"That's not on the screen!" said Susan in triumph.

"Well, I've no more time to argue with you. I must get some samples, Susan." the Doctor said, he moved to a small table near the doors, gathering up a small electronic instrument and shoulder bag.

"Be careful, Grandfather."

The Doctor confidently strode out the door, muttering to himself. Emma excitedly dushed outside. After a last look at Ian, Barbara followed them. Ian heard an enthusiastic squeal which, he presumed, it belonged to Emma.

"Ian, come out and look!" Barbara called out.

Ian followed, dazed. He staggered, putting a hand to his forehead again. Susan offered help. "Oh, lean on me."

"Thank you. I'm all right. Thanks."

She led him out of the TARDIS, and the double doors closed behind them, slamming shut outside the police box. Ian, Emma and Barbara stared at the unfamiliar landscape around them. Ian stumbled and steadied himself against Susan who looked up to him for a response. The cry of a bird interrupted the noise of the wind.

"Well?"

"But, th-th-there must be some explanation. . ."

Barbara picked up a half-buried skull of a creature from the ground. She showed it to the younger girls. "What do you think it could be? Ian, look at this!"

Ian came and had a look at it. "I don't know. Hasn't got any horns or antlers. . . it could be a horse." He got up and walked away slightly from the three women. "It could be anything." He looked around again. "Incredible - a police box in the midst of. . .it just doesn't make sense. . . ."

Susan looked at the TARDIS, and was surprised herself to see that it was still a police box. "It should have changed. Wonder why it hasn't happened this time. . . ."

"The ship, you mean?" asked Barbara.

"Yes. It's been an Ionic Column and a Sedan Chair. . . ."

Wide-eyed, Emma spoke. "I didn't know that the TARDIS could do that!" She looked at Susan. "You mean to tell us that it can disguise itself?"

"Yes, that's right. . . . but it hasn't happened this time. I wonder why not?" She shrugged it off and picked up the skull. "Wonder if this old head'll help Grandfather? Where is he?"

She walked off to find him. Emma found it quite adorable that she cared for him. She was well aware that it was due to the fact that he was her grandfather but Barbara smiled at the stupefied Ian.

"You're very quiet." Barbara pointed out.

"I was wrong, wasn't I?"

"Oh, look, I don't understand it any more than you do. The inside of the ship, suddenly finding ourselves here. . .even some of the things Doctor Foreman says. . ."

"That's not his name. Who is he? Doctor who? Perhaps if we knew his name, we might have a clue as to all of this."

"Look, Ian. . .the point is, it's happened!"

"Yes, it has. But it's impossible to accept. I know I'm. . ." He trailed off, he turned to Emma with a hopeful look. "Erm, miss Jones, do you happen to know who that man is?"

"I told you, he is the Doctor!"

"Yeah, but what about his name? His real name?"

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that." she shook her head, her smile fading. "It may be my dream but it's still not my secret to share. It has been revealed in a way in an official Doctor Who comic book which was released in 1980."

"Miss Jones, this isn't---"

Susan ran back up to them, she seemed worried. "I can’t see him anywhere."

"Oh, he can't be far away." said Barbara reassuringly.

Emma nodded. "We'll find him!"

"I had a feeling just now as if we were being watched." said Susan and began calling for him. "Grandfather. . . ." As they searched around the dessert, a yell was overheard by the group. It was the Doctor. "Grandfather!"

Susan dropped the skull and started toward the noise, the others right behind her.

"Come on!" Ian and Emma said in a sync.

They arrived only to find the bag, the samples, and the smashed instrument.

"Look!" Ian said.

Susan asked, "What is it?"

"There’s some of his things!" said Barbara

"Grandfather, where are you?" shouted Susan, hysterically.

"Susan, don’t panic. . ." Ian said.

"I must find him. . .I must see. . ."

Ian tried to grab her and calm her down, but she twisted out of his grip and ran out of sight with Emma right at her heels.

"Well, be careful, then!" shouted Ian. "The both of you!"

Emma caught up to the Gallifreyan girl and hugged her tightly. Susan tried to get out of her grip but Emma had dealt with something similar before. She gently rubbed the back of Susan's head.

"Sh. . . sh. . . It's alright, Susan. "said Emma calmly. "I understand this is upsetting but we're here with you in this. I promise we'll find your grandfather." Susan seemed to have calmed down but started sobbing as she returned the hug and hid her face in the crook of Emma's neck. The black haired female patted the girl's back. "There. There. Let's return to the others, okay? The more help the merrier."

She nodded, still sobbing, and the two returned to Ian and Barbara.

"I can't see him, I can’t find him anywhere. . .There’s not a sign of him. . . ." said Susan.

"Susan, don't worry." said Barbara. Susan stooped down and picked up a small book from the pile of belongings. "What's the matter?"

"It's his notes! He'd never leave his notebook, it's too important to him. . . it's got the key codes of all the machines on the ship, it's got notes of everywhere we've been to. . . .oh, something terrible has happened to him, I know it has! We must find him!"

Emma grabbed her wrist, not too tight but not too loose either, and looked into her eyes. "And we will. But we cannot just run around, shouting and all, risking to be spotted too by whatever or whoever took your grandfather."

"Miss Jones is right." said Ian, he picked up the Doctor's things. "What's on the other side of those rocks?"

"There's a line of trees, and there's a gap in them. . .there might be a path on the other side. . ." said Susan.

Ian picked up the bag. "All right, we'll try there first. Come on." As he started to get up, he paused, putting his hands against the sand. "Strange. . ."

"What?" asked Barbara.

"This sand. . . it's cold. It's nearly freezing!"

As they searched for the Doctor, it seemed hopeless. They couldn't find him. Just when they thought that they should find another way, they heard noises coming from a cave. Susan was the first one to run into the cave through the crowd and onto a caveman's back who had raised a knife.

"Grandfather!" exclaimed Susan.

Screaming furiously, Susan beat on the caveman from behind. Ian, Emma and Barbara joined the brawl although Barbara was quickly grabbed from behind. Emma was also grabbed by two cavemen, she screamed and kicked her feet but they were stronger than her. One of the cavemen got the better of Ian, and another caveman raised his axe to cleave his skull.

"If he dies, there will be no fire!" said the Doctor.

The fight halted suddenly. Za snarled and hoisted Ian up, handing his axe to another caveman. During the silence that followed, Kal looked over each of the newcomers. He stared open-jawed at Barbara. He staggered up to her, his hand about to touch her made-up, 20th century face.

"Kill her! Kill her!" an elderly woman ordered.

Kal's hands moved to his furs, Za grabbed him and Barbara screamed. "Wait!" Za shouted. Kal made a guttural reply. "When Orb gives fire back to the sky, let him look down on them. Then that is when they die! And Orb will bring us fire!" Kal at Za angrily. After a moment, and a look at the crowd, he replaced his stone knife in his furs. "Take them to the Cave of Skulls."

The tribe carried the five out, Susan screaming all the way. "No! Ah, ah, Grandfather! No, No. . ."

Inside the Cave of Skulls, as Za called it, a group of tribes-men completed the task of tying up the five inside a cave filled with bones of all types. Ian stumbled to the ground with the others as their captors left. He looked down at a prone Barbara.

The woman coughed. "Ian. . ."

"Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

"No. . . .Ian, I'm frightened. . . ."

"Try to hang on."

"But how are we going to get out of this?"

The Doctor was sitting, and muttering furiously as he worked at his bonds. Emma, on the meantime, tried to remain calm as she looked around for anything that could release her and the others from their bonds.

"We must use our cunning. I hope you can get yourself free, Chesterton. I can't. Eeuuch! The stench in here. The stench. . . I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I. . .I'm desperately sorry."

"Don't blame yourself, Grandfather." Susan told him.

Emma noticed a pair of skulls lie next to them. One cracked and missing some of its front teeth. The other with a hole at the top. "Look!" She shouted. "Look at that! Look!"

And they did.

Ian was the next one to speak. "They're all the same. They've been split open. . ."

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