Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello, lovelies! My collection will include:

• Karl Heisenberg
• Alcina Dimitrescu
• Donna Beneviento
• Salvatore Moreau
• The Duke
• Ethan Winters

- Fluff
- Angst
- Hurt/Comfort
- Smut

And anything else in between! Requests are welcome.

Chapter Text

The bath water ran in the back ground as you made your way down the stairs of Lady Beneviento’s home. It was small and as the Duke liked to say, “dank.” The estate was relatively quiet as chilly air settled on your clothes, your shoulders, and the shell of your ears. The dolls chattered quietly, and twitched within their place. You had grown used to their presence, which was tough. However, nothing was tougher than Angie, who brushed again your legs in an attempt to bypass you down the stairs.

“Move it or lose it!” She cried, followed by a string of rather painful giggles. Her tiny, sharp finger tips nicked the skin of your ankles, and you yelped softly. Angie had grown on you, but in the years that you had known her, she still managed to startle you. But the doll, clad in a worn and off-white bridal dress, seemed to be in a rush. Her ticks of excitement and squeals of delight overwhelmed her small body, and your ears. What was she looking forward to downstairs?

The answer came in the form of a medium sized cardboard box. It was being set down on the small, wooden table in the center of the room. Lady Beneviento’s movements were soft as her fingers lingered on either side of the box. Hearing the familiar engine of the delivery man’s electric bike trail off, you assumed it had just been delivered.

“It’s here! It’s finally here!” Angie’s voice exclaimed, pitch elevating in excitement. You felt slightly disappointed as the rowdy doll snipped away the string with scissors. You were hoping to watch Lady Beneviento open the box herself - could you blame yourself for wanting to capture a moment in which the Lady might show her grace?

Lady Beneviento sat silently in one of the chairs, hands clasped and resting on her lap. She watched through her veil as Angie reached into the box and revealed a rather beautiful spring dress. It was small, akin to the size of Angie, and wispy as flowers began to accumulate at the bottom. They were a variety of lavender petals, adorned with green buds and the occasional pastel yellow. The pattern and the placement of each threaded flower had been carefully thought out. It’s design shook your heart as it had taken Angie’s breath away. But as quickly as it silenced her, it brought her to tears, and she was wailing. She pressed the dress against her body, and waltzed around the room and through the air.

Carefully, you approached Angie’s creator, who brought her hand beneath her veil to stifle her amusement. It did not stifle your own as Angie collided with a beam near the bookshelves.

“My Lady, your bath is running.”

A slight tinge kissed her cheeks, and although you could not see it yourself, you had a hunch that she was blushing and shamelessly held out your hand. She composed herself, nodding as she accepted your hand. Her body was prone to ache during the merciless winter, which made it hard for her to move actively. As her caretaker and friend, it was seasons like these where you lent a hand, and eased her pained joints.

Lady Beneviento walked ahead of you as you tried to hide a saddened frown. It dominated your expression, and reasonably so. You had forgotten - you were simply a companion during the winter. The season was rather hard for Lady Beneviento, and being the big sister that she was, Lady Dimitrescu worried for her. However, there was no persuading the doll maker to reside in the Castle until spring. The most that she could do was send care packages, and an experienced maid. Therefore, you were sent by Lady Dimitrescu to watch over and care for the woman who the village often spoke of being riddled with mental illness. You were sent by the large woman in the winter, and were to return to castle the first week of spring. It had been seven years since you began visiting Lady Beneviento, and as each winter came and went, so did your feelings.

Wait. No, that’s wrong. They haven’t went - not yet. Not like you had hoped they would. Not when you had begged and prayed last winter for them to leave you. Because each time they hadn’t, that meant you were to carry them with you, and yearn for Donna back home in the castle.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, and it clicked softly as you locked it. Angie had been known for barging into the bathroom and launching herself into the bath. It would soak her clothes, which would result in giving her a nasty cold. It hurt your heart more than it annoyed you to see her sniffle and sneeze, and suffer the consequences of her actions.

“You may undress, my Lady. I will turn away.” Lady Beneviento was uncomfortable showing her face. She was insecure, and it weighed heavily on her conscience. Thus, she wore the veil in public, and often times within her own home. Even as you grew closer to your temporary master, which allowed her to reveal her face during bath time, you gave her the courtesy of undressing in private.

“Will you help me?” You always loved hearing her voice. The calm in the wake of Angie, who was loud and aggressive.

In earlier years, it was difficult of Donna to ask for personal and rather intimate help, but because her sister had been so kind as to send her a maid, the doll maker felt guilty not assigning the maid a task. And some evenings were rough - times when the chill of winter seized her joints and prevented her from performing a simple task as undressing. Overtime, she would learn that it was okay to lean on you physically.

But this evening in particular? The Lady felt guilty - like she was lying to you, and using you as she actually feigned joint pain. She felt guilty for an entirely different reason - of asking for your guidance because she desired physical intimacy with you, rather than she truly needed help. She felt disgusted with herself for tasking you with helping her undress - for personal gain. But even as she was disgusted, she was exhilarated to find you obliging.

You guided her to the chair at the foot of the bath tub, turning the water off as you went. The bathroom held a nice steam to it, and you couldn’t imagine your Lady feeling comfortable in her snug, long-sleeved dress.

You knelt before her, brushing your hand over her clothed knee before grasping the edge of her dress. You paused, and looked towards her veil for confirmation. She nodded, and even gripped her dress to pull upward, exposing her shoes. You smiled and undid them, slipping them off her feet before beginning to massage her hill and ankles. The Lady would be lying if she said your hands hadn’t made her want to make noises, or moan. And you’d really hate to admit that this was your favorite way of winding down the day - winding down Donna.

You gently pressed into her skin, massaged the ball of her feet, and carefully stretch her ankle. You made quick work of her socks, which were laced at the hem, and folded her dress over her lap. The Lady obliged and tucked the cloth underneath her clasped, and shaking, hands. You took this opportunity to stretch her legs, bending and unbending them at the knee slowly. This was a routine you had memorized - you could do it in your sleep, and you would do so gladly. To be allowed to grasp the back of your Lady’s knee, run your hands further into her dress, across her thighs, just to reach her waist and touch her soft skin the minute you peeled her white stockings off. Something that began years prior, with caution and unfamiliarity, becoming something sensual and intimate. And she allowed you.

You coughed - you needed to compose yourself, you thought as you held in your quick, excited breath. The Lady was now bare legged - surely chilly, despite the steam that nipped at you both. You began to straighten up, and retract your distance, but the hand that reached for your shoulder kept you in place. You looked up at your Lady quizzically, ignoring the thumb that brushed your neck slightly.

“And my undergarments?” Your eyes flickered quickly to space between her legs, which was momentarily shadowed by her dress, before locking back into that (cock-blocking) black veil. Usually, she’d stand up for this part…

“Yes, my Lady.” But you weren’t complaining.

Not when you tucked your hands behind her knees, and pulled her to the edge of the chair. Not when your fingers found her hips, rubbed the hip bones beneath your palms, and began pulling the undergarments down her porcelain skin. You eyes followed the fabric down to her ankles, albeit shamelessly, capturing it at an angle in which the wet spot on the cloth shined.

“Are you enjoying this, my Lady?”

Lady Beneviento’s hand had been clenching her dress, which had been bundled up around her waist. The other held the side-edge of the seat - although compliant, she had been taken back by the hold you had on her when you pulled her closer to you. So she’ll admit… It did something inside of her. It made something flutter. Had you noticed the flutter?

Her head turned away bashfully, and nodded ever so softly. You smiled, almost approvingly, and stood your ground as you continued to kneel beneath her. Your hands, which had played with and even touched the slick part of her undergarments, tucked them into your dress pocket for another time and resumed their previous activity: physical therapy.

You pulled her even further off the chair - her backside rested on the edge, cushioned by the dress beneath it.

“Do your hips ache?” You ask, one hand massaging the muscle above the Lady’s knee as the other glided upward. It took its previous position, going a step further to grind the palm of your hand into the hip bone, and dip your thumb into her bikini line. It grazed curly strands of what must be pubic hair as you massaged a pattern into her skin.

“Yes,” She said, almost breathless, head still turned. You weren’t quite sure if you liked that.

The loss of your hand’s presence almost made your Lady whine, save for the gasp she uttered, and the snap of her head when it swooped under her thigh and raised her leg. You left it raised in air for a half minute, her foot dangling behind the arm committing the offense. She looked at you intensely, as you watched her hips and her core. Your fingers sunk into the meat of her thigh, having been subjected to the weight of her leg.

You began stretching the Lady’s thigh in an outward direction, effectively spreading her legs apart. She could feel the lips of her vagina spreading open themselves, due to how far you were willing to push her tendons. The action did not go unnoticed by you as she was on full display. Something began to stir in her lower abdomen: the flutter from before, but with strange intensity.

Your other hand, which had moved to massaging the inner meat of her other - rather neglected - thigh, trailed its finger tips along the tendon straining against the stretch. You could hear Lady Beneviento’s breath hitch as you shamelessly explored and touched what you may. Merely centimeters (millimeters!) from her beautiful, swollen rose bud. It was enough to make her shake, and subconsciously clench around nothing. However, that wouldn’t subside the heat building beneath her navel. She wouldn’t dare try to clench her legs together, in front of you no-less, and find that beautiful friction, but God, it sure felt like she was.

You were drawn closer and closer. The Lady could feel your breath on her thigh, to and fro, as you rolled and stretched and spread her left leg. You went as far as to avert your attention to the right one, pushing the tendons to its limits, and the doll maker to her own.

Gripping the back of each thigh, you spread the Lady apart, and clenched your own heat. You knelt, wet and neglected but only if it meant watching your Lady orgasm untouched.

She cried beneath her black veil, body trembling uncontrollably as pleasure flushed over her. Her legs fought to close themselves out of reflex, but you kept a firm grip. They rubbed thoughtful patterns, soothing the woman through her intense orgasm as her vagina clenched around nothing even as it begged.

You walked her through it, gently lowering her legs as you kneaded circles into of her calf muscles, which had tensed during her climax. You unraveled, or rather unclenched, the hand that gripped the bundle of black fabric, working out the sore joints as they had been straining for far too long.

Her body was going to ache because of this, so it was best get her out of the intense position and into a warm bath now.

“Your bath will get cold, my Lady.” You say, softly prying her other hand open, which had been clenching the side-edge of the chair for dear life. The rise and fall of her chest had steadied, and she could finally make eye contact. She watched you rub out the stiffness in her knuckles, and captured your own fingers between hers.

“Thank you.” She could only speak right now of her gratitude. For the joint aching orgasm - although, bashfully, she’d never say it. But even more, for the care taking that you provide. It was shown in the after care, and in the way you eased her into standing up. The way you unbuttoned the dress for her, and coaxed her arms gently out the fabric. But nothing compared to the show of gentleness you put forth when you held her scarred and naked form, lowered her into the warm bath, and even unraveled her long, dark hair.

Chapter Text

You’d gone and done it again. You strayed impossibly too close to the Stronghold - those things den. All for some rare, expensive fish rumored to have been sighted, which could not even be found by you!

The village was silent at this time of night, save for the occasional calling of livestock. You would have enjoyed the night in that moment if you weren’t currently grasping your side, which felt as if it was tearing with each movement of your abdomen. You grit your teeth as you walked slowly. At this rate, you weren’t going to make it to your home. Hypothermia or blood loss: one would make sure of it.

You pass the cemetery, but stop (even when you were on the brink of unconsciousness) to read one particular tombstone.

”Eva
June, 1909 - August, 1919
May you slumber for only a short while.”

She was only a child, and you weren’t sure if it was the wound or the idea of such a young death that made you nauseous.

As you kept walking, almost aimlessly, you tossed the idea of going home. It was on the other side of the village, nestled into the edge of the woods, and your fear of being ambushed by Lycans again outweighed the need for shelter. You scolded yourself for not knowing better - fishing at night was dangerous in and of itself, but fishing at night that close to the stronghold? You might as well have forgotten what your father taught you.

Your self-hatred and self-pity was interrupted when the path on your right caught your eye. It led up to those familiar red gates, and just behind them a light was being emitted by a lamp.

The Duke’s lamp.

The Duke!

You scurried up the path, biting your lip in both pain and anticipation. His lamp was lit, which meant he was awake, right? Being the business man that he was, he wouldn’t turn down a late night deal, would he? Not that he could sell you a healing salve. Mother Miranda forbade it.

You planted one foot on a slick rock in your wake, and lost traction, slipping forward. Your chest took the brunt of the impact as your arms guarded the wound at your side. Your breast ached, and you were temporarily winded. The cold ground consumed your body temperature and you could feel the snow and mud dampening your clothing. You contemplated resting your head in the snow and dying there, but a howl in the distance warned you of a less than peaceful death.

You hauled yourself up, albeit a little more than ungraceful. Pushing through the red gate with cold, aching fingers, you weren’t surprised to see that the Duke wasn’t sitting at the back of his wagon. His doors, which usually opened up in the day to display drawers and trinkets, were closed to the unforgiving winter.

You stood on the tips of your toes to reach the door, raised an arm as high as your wound would allow, and knocked with freezing knuckles. For a solid minute, there was wasn’t a response, and you feared he wasn’t in his wagon. You tried for a second knock, louder this time even when it hurt to knock against cold, hard wood.

“Duke… It’s me,” You holler out your name, slightly out of breath, shivering as you look around. There is another howl in the distance, and much closer than you’d like to admit. You felt antsy standing here - a fool bleeding out.

You considered seeking refuge in the church when the wagon creaked under what you presumed was the Duke’s weight. You stepped back in case his wagon’s back doors were to open wide like they do, but rather, the pop of a small door on the side opens up, emitting light and steam from its warm air.

“A bit late for a chat, isn’t it, dear?” His chuckle reverberates off the small door as you make your way over to the side. He sounds curious, amused even, but the light hearted expression on his face morphs into one of concern the second you reveal yourself.

Having stepped into the light that the side door provided, you can now clearly see how disheveled you are. Your hair is wild and whipped in different directions due to the strong, cold wind. Your front is clearly wet with melted snow, mud, and blood, which pooled primarily on your left side. Your arms and hands which cradled your wound were not far off from being dirty themselves. You looked disgusting.

“I… may have gotten too close to the Stronghold,” you try to laugh, but even the softest eruption in your chest caused you to grimace. The Duke, who was initially sitting back and enjoying a book, was now leaning forward and studying your rough appearance.

“Oh my… Come in, dear, come in!” He gestured you to come inside, and offered you his hand. You exhaled in relief so enthusiastically that you felt it in your wound. The warmth of his hand encircled your own - so warm that it nearly hurt your blue finger tips. But, just the same, it was pleasant.

He helped you step into the threshold, and the cold air nipped at you no more as the door was (mysteriously) closed shut. The Duke did not let go of your hand as he allowed you to balance with it to take off your shoes.

He tucked the cold, soaking pair beneath a bench that you had just now noticed - clothed cushions sat atop it with a small pillow or two. Matter of fact, this was the first time you had seen the interior of the wagon. You were all too familiar with the sight of the Duke sat on the edge of his wagon, but with your height and his size, it prevented you from looking passed the merchant. Therefore, you absentmindedly began studying the small, travel size room. Standing at full height, you could reach up and touch the ceiling if you liked too.

The warmth of his palm left you, and you frowned subtly as it pulled you away from your thoughts. The warmth of the wagon aided the aches of your limbs and knuckles, but the ache had muffled the pain in your side. The cruel winter had distracted your mind, and without it, the pain in your wound began to heighten.

The expression on the Duke’s face was one of pity but thoughtfulness.

“We must get you out of these clothes,” He spoke with clasped hands. At that moment, you felt the wet fabric which stuck to your body. It gave you chills as the winter air still clung to the fabric, and it was the reason for your insistent chattering.

You listened, and you understood why the clothes must come off, but you had never undressed in front of a man. You’re not so sure the warmth in your cheeks was simply from the heat inside the wagon.

The Duke caught on to your hesitancy, and like the gentleman that he was, he faced away from you. The wagon creaked as he moved, and he appeared to be looking for something in one of the drawers on the inside of the wagon’s back doors.

You began taking of your clothes, which proved to be difficult. Your pants were a breeze as they were below arm level, and did not require you to stretch your torso. Your shirt, however, could not be taken off by you alone. You found that the pain no longer permitted you to raise your arms above your shoulders.

“Um…” You began, not sure if you should (or could) call on the Duke to help you. The noise alerted the merchant, and he turned to find that you were still wearing your shirt.

“Will you…? I can’t lift- it hurts,” You say, biting the inside of your cheek in order to bite back your tears.

“It wouldn’t be a problem at all.” Something about the way he spoke to you made you feel better. He was always great in conversation, and in this moment he was soothing and affirmative.

You stepped closer to the Duke, who gestured for you to turn around and face the wall. You feel it was for modesty’s sake as well as your own. You felt his hands grasp the hem of your shirt and begin to peel it off of your back. He pulled it over your head and shoulders, and then, carefully, down your front - in a way that did not require you to lift your arms. He allowed you to slip the rest of the shirt off your forearms. Your back side was now exposed, but even as you stood in only your underwear, you felt warmer.

“Thank you,” you say, looking over your shoulder with a faint blush on your cheeks. The Duke smiles in your peripheral version.

“It is my pleasure, dear.”

The merchant continues digging through drawers momentarily as you study your frontside. Bruises have begun to form along your breast - either from taking the brunt of the fall earlier or the weight of an adult Lycan, you weren’t sure. Below your left rib cage were three jagged gashes - the blood had begun to clot, and thankfully, stop. You fingers graze over the wound; the gashes are so deep you could dip a finger into the Grand Canyon that it has created. A Lycan had swiped at your side with a 3-prong cultivator - perhaps he was a farmer in his past life.

From behind you, the Duke let’s out a small “Aha!” and you turn to find he is pulling out a variety of medical supplies. They look… modern? Not from the village. But you do spot a healing salve beside what you presume was gauze and medical tape. The Duke also produced a few clean rags from the drawers.

“Lie down on the bench! It will be easier tending to your wounds this way,” He instructs, clapping his hands lightly as the merchant pulls out an item commonly used to boil soups, stews, broth, and in this specific case, water.

You obey, walking around the larger man as your arm covered your chest and the other your wound.

“Are you a doctor now?” You snort, sitting down on the bench. Lifting your legs up onto the cushions was tricky, but your arms could momentarily take the pressure of the stretch off your torso in order to haul them onto it. Laying back was ten times worse. You could feel the contraction of your muscles beneath the wounds and it felt as if someone had slipped their fingers into each gash and begun prying them open. You inhaled and exhaled sharply, gritting your teeth as your eyes watered. You couldn’t lay back.

You felt a warm, large hand take the space just above the middle of your back. The Duke’s palm lay flat against your skin as his thumb rubbed back and forth, soothingly. You had experienced such intense pain that you hadn’t heard nor felt him move towards you.

He peers down at you and tells you to relax. Relax completely and allow him to hold the weight of your upper half in his palm. You stare at him warily, but the pattern he rubbed into your tight muscles felt gentle and reassuring.

You nod and inhale deeply before exhaling. Relaxing was difficult when the pain made your torso spasm and seize up, but soon your body welcomed the thought and began to lean against the Duke’s hand. He felt the weight of your upper half being relinquished into his palm and slowly lowered you down onto the bench. While it didn’t feel pleasant, he took the pressure off of your abdomen’s muscles, which would have been straining and stiffening if you were to lower yourself down, and possibly tear the blood clots that temporarily sealed your gashes.

The back of your head met one of the bench’s pillows as the Duke pulled his hand out from under your back with ease. There was silence besides your own breathing when the merchant tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, which had stuck to your forehead with sweat, and caressed your temple.

“I am a man of many trades,” He said, referring to your doctor comment. You blushed and thanked him for helping you, resisting the urge to leaned into his touch. His hands were soft (for a man of many trades), and slightly relieved the pressure above your right brow.

The Duke went about his business quickly as you stared up at the ceiling of his wagon. To your right, you could hear the man pouring liquid (water from his canteen) into the pot settled above a heating element. He was looking to boil (and purify) his water, and while it began heating up…

“The Stronghold, you say?” The Duke asks. “At a time like this?”

You would be scratching the back of your neck if you could. “I… thought I might be able to catch one of those rare fish if I went at night…” Speaking such a long sentence really took the breath out of you.

He chuckled - it did sound like something you would have done.

“They come out just before noon, and burrow down in the evening.” You stare at the Duke then, mouth agape.

“Now you tell me,” You say, rolling your eyes but really, it holds no malice.

The arm covering your chest grows sore, and the weight of it unpleasant against the bruises that are forming. You contemplate allowing that arm to rest when the sound of boiling water reaches your ears. The Duke claps in approval and turns off the heating element before carefully removing the pot. You watch closely as he washes his hands - making a point to pour some water in another smaller pot so as not to cross-contaminate. After, he brings the pot over, placing it on the ground beside the bench, and retrieves the medical supplies and rags as well. You watch as he dips one of the rags into the water - thinking about it, did the water not burn? You don’t recall him letting it cool. You fell further into your thoughts: given your time to finally study the interior of the wagon, it felt far more spacious than what the outside led on.

“May I?” The Duke says, and the warmth of a rag can be felt hovering above your abdomen. You nod, a bit warily, as your free hand clenches the cushion beneath you. The Duke begins talking to you, and walking you through what he’s going to do. It eases you to hear this - he doesn’t want to startle you.

The Duke begins cleaning the wounds with such gentleness and concentration that you would have expected it not to hurt. But it did - a lot. You whimper and suck in short breaths. Your eyes screw shut and you’re provoked to turn your head away from the Duke, away from the pain. At one point the same hand clenching the cushion had move to squeeze the Duke’s large bicep. He let you as he continued his administrations. Every so often he would caress your hair and wipe away a tear. It pained him to see you in agony, but it was important that the wound didn’t get infected - something even a healing salve is often unable to prevent.

The Duke finishes disinfecting the three gashes, but the job isn’t over yet. You know this - he told you earlier, and yet you sob because you don’t want him to stitch the wounds.

“We are almost done, dear. You’ve done so well thus far,” He praises you, and even amidst your discomfort, your chest swells with pride.

He unwinds dissolvable sutures and threads them through a sharp, curved needle. It reminds you of a fishing hook on a fishing line. Swiftly, he begins stitching up your side. You think it’s not nearly as bad as the disinfecting until you feel a small tug on the suture and one of your gashes slowly closing up. There was discomfort in the way the medical fishing line was pulled through your skin. You could feel it, and you sorely wished you didn’t have to.

The Duke pats your thigh lightly and calls your name. Your eyes, scrunched closed and water logged with tears, slowly open up, and you realize that he is finished. The joints in your fingers ache as they relentlessly grip the fabric of his bicep. The Duke places his own hand over yours and you tell from touch alone that it’s larger as he engulfs it.

“You know, dear, I think I do find banana bread to be better than pumpkin.” Anybody who was not you or the Duke would have considered the sentence too odd in this moment, but you knew what he was taking about and you were appalled. The last conversation you two had before tonight was over banana bread and pumpkin bread, and which one was superior. Being the avid pumpkin supporter that you were, it fired you up to hear him say that - especially when you had spent an entire week convincing him that pumpkin bread was better, and winning him over in the end.

The Duke smirked all-knowingly. It had been his plan to get you going so as to distract you from the sting of the healing salve, which he poured delicately over your new stitches. It worked, for the most part, and what little you did feel of it only fueled your passionate argument. Only when you ran out of breath and began to speak in shorter breaths did you stop berating the Duke over pumpkin bread.

You panted, huffing as you leaned your head back into the pillow rather aggressively, like an angry child. But you never removed your hand from his bicep - you were afraid he might actually think you were mad at him.

“Thank you,” you mumble sometime later, blushing. He catches your thank you and waves you off with an “Anytime!”, but also asking you to refrain from going near the Stronghold.

The pain in your lower abdomen has become dull, and you lift your head to take a better look at the stitching. You gasp lightly as the hand covering your chest moves to graze the now completely sealed gashes. What remains are three long scars - as if they had already went through months of healing. Truth be told, you had never used a healing salve, as a part of you was skeptical of such instant healing, and the other part of you couldn’t even get your hands on one if you tried. You began to bite your lip in worry.

“I’ll pay you back, Duke.” Even though you had little money to your name, “Come morning, I’ll-“

“Nonsense,” The Duke cut you off, slowly easing you back down into the cushion when you had tried to raise up and speak to him directly. You stare up at him warily - you feel you’re racking up quite the bill. His services should end soon…

“May I clean you up, dear?“ The Duke asks, dipping a new rag into the hot water before squeezing it out and hovering it above your right shoulder. “Before I provide you with clean clothes?”

As much as you wanted to decline, your body felt gross. Aside from the area of the wound, your body was covered in blood and dirt. You even have a few scrapes that the Duke had been eyeing.

“Yes, please.” And so he did, with familiar ease and care.

He started at your shoulder and worked his way down to your arm. The warmth of the rag felt amazing on your skin, as it had only known the cold just before the Duke took you in. He made gentle work of your fingers and elbows before repeating the same process on the other limb.

A new rag was obtained to clean your face - he gently washed your forehead and cheeks, commenting every so often over how beautiful of a young lady you were. You would blush and turn your head away, which would allow him to clean your neck and collar bones. The Duke stopped just before the rise of your breast and asked if you were comfortable. Realizing he was referring to washing you chest, you nodded, and it eased your soul when he told you would be mindful of the bruises.

He did not dwell too long over your chest and ribs, but you wished he had. It felt great, and his administrations soothed the sore bruises. Even as he began cleaning your legs, you could still feel his weighted hands on your breast.

The Duke went as far as to massage the stiff muscles in your legs, and it would have lulled you to sleep if he hadn’t gently encouraged you to sit up. His hand had found its place on your back once more as he helped you lean forward. You were curious as to what he was doing before you felt his hands begin to gather your hair into a loose ponytail. It felt nice this way, and when he began cleaning your back, you sighed in content. You could no longer verbalize how thankful you were of his service and instead placed a hand over his, which had rested on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Albeit being focused on cleaning you, he squeezed back.

••••••

“Unfortunately, I am not carrying smaller sizes at the moment!” The Duke says as he hands you an extremely large shirt. He said it was his own, freshly cleaned, but you didn’t mind.

He helped you slip it on - the neckline of the shirt was lengthy and could almost fall off your shoulders. The shirt itself could pass as a flown nightgown, and it felt nice against your skin as you hugged yourself. You even caught a sniff of the fabric when the Duke wasn’t looking.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” you say, smiling at him as a yawn followed suit. You finally began to feel the desire of sleep - all adrenaline had worn off and the pain was now a very dull ache in your bones.

The Duke caught on to your fatigue and produced a cover from God knows where. He began to cover you up, tucking in your feet, which were currently wearing very baggy socks.

You hummed in delight, cozying up to the cover he had provided. A soft, familiar hand caressed your cheek, and as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, you heard a very endearing, “Goodnight, my dear.”

Chapter Text

Alcina/Reader [Hurt/Comfort]

In the several years that you had been a live-in maid, and Alcina’s lover, it was rare of you to get into a heated discussion with her. You think you may have never gotten into one with her before. After all, you only ever did what you could to please her, and if anything were to be giving you trouble, she’d sit you down and get to the bottom of it. But this evening was different.

You had pressed Alcina over the idea of leaving the castle. She’d like to think it was because of the Duke, who was feeding you thoughts and encouraging this behavior. What was a casual suggestion once a month (that was quickly shot down by your lover) had gradually became a persistent topic in the evening. This one in particular, when you were not serving the Lady tea, was spent telling her of the farmers market which resided in the village, that sold plenty of vegetables you would hope to include in a dish one dinner. But she was dismissive and tight lipped. She would not entertain this conversation, and that upset you. But you would not let this conversation die like any other time, and thus, continued.

“They carry green beans, and asparagus, and-,”

“Enough!” Lady Dimitrescu snaps, setting her tea cup down with less than the usual grace. “We will not be having this discussion.”

You frown and set the pot of tea down with the same level of aggression. You were feeling a little gutsy, and it may be the anger and hurt that fueled your confidence, or possibly the safety of being Alcina’s lover.

“But we must!” You cried out. Your proclamation came louder than you had intended, and Alcina rose from her seat. She stood to her full height.

“Do not raise your voice at me!”

You avert your gaze and stare downward, glaring at the tile. She towered over you, non-sexual and authoritative, and this time you didn’t enjoy it.

“My apologies. I’ve forgotten my place.” You bit your lip, waiting for the ache in the back of your throat to subside. This would have been a peaceful evening had you not of run your mouth.

The tea room is quiet as Alcina stares down at you. Her gaze softens, despite the angered tempo of her breathing, and goes to approach you when the youngest daughter of the house, Daniela, echos your name off the walls of the castle hall. The mother sighs.

“Daniela is calling for you. Please tend to her,” Alcina requests.

“Yes, Lady Dimitrescu.” Although it may look like a normal exchange between the noble woman and her maid, there was a sting behind it. One Alcina felt she deserved. You no longer used her official title, per your lover’s request, and often used her name, “my Lady,” and “my Love.” But you hadn’t this time - in your own little way, you were vocalizing your disdain. You were more than a maid to Alcina, and when you viewed yourself less than a lover, it upset her. It is why she enjoyed you calling her by her first name - it was more intimate and personal. Something a common maid in the House of Dimitrescu would not get away with. And it is exactly why you had used her title as Lady - in this moment, you felt nothing more than a common maid.

••••••

Daniela had gotten her hair knotted by blood, and needed assistance brushing her tangles out and cleaning her hair. It took you an hour or so - Daniela had a sensitive scalp that required extra care.

The sun had began to set as you walked the halls of the castle. Your back ached from being hunched over the bath tub for too long, and yet you still needed to sweep the floor of the library. But you did not mind as you weren’t ready to go to bed with your lover.

The floor of the library is littered with dead leaves and loose pieces of paper - this was the doings of Daniela, who loved making messes as she went. You smiled at that. You adored the youngest daughter, and she latched onto you like you were her other mother. She had been in your care ever since you were hired on as a maid, and your relationship with her grew stronger and fonder as it had with Alcina. Frankly, you felt this way about Cassandra and Bela too. Daniela was just an enthusiastic momma’s girl.

“Please forgive Daniela’s unruly behavior. She isn’t aware of her surroundings sometimes.” A familiar voice you had grown to adore came from one side of the room. Alcina walked into the light shining down on the center of the library. She wasn’t wearing her hat, but that was fine because it would have overshadowed her beautiful, prominent features.

“You know I don’t mind,” you say, smiling softly as you leaned against the tip of your broom. She meets you in the middle of the room and gently cups your cheek. You’re supposed to be upset, but you never did like to drag out negative mishaps, and shamelessly lean into her touch.

“Forgive me, too,” Alcina says, barely above a whisper. A guilt ridden emotion graces her face. She was a beautiful woman, you thought, too beautiful to be expressing such an emotion. But she did, for you.

You kissed the palm of her hand and opened your arms to embrace her. She wraps her own around you and begins to caress the back of your head. When Alcina leans down and kisses your temple, your forehead, and your eyes, you giggle. There was no doubt a tint of her lipstick on your face, but you didn’t mind and neither did your lover. Although it was embarrassing when a fellow maid had pointed out a lipstick stain towards the back of your neck last week.

You stand in silence and enjoy each other’s company. Alcina had began humming an unfamiliar tune as she played with your hair. Her fingers massaged your scalp as they slowly loosened your hair tie and released your locks.

Donna/Reader [Excerpt]

You were a seamstress residing in the village - you designed and created clothes for the children in this small sliver of Romania. It was a business, and hobby, passed down from your grandmother to your mother, and from your mother to you.

Business, for the most part, was “booming.” The average percentage in (successful) birth increased. Mother Miranda had held a service one cold and crispy Sunday morning. She urged youthful couples, newly weds, and those able to be fruitful. Her words were so influential, you were able to expand your services to infants and toddlers. Even more, you were able to professionally set up shop with the Duke. He could reach villages well outside of your own, and in doing so, it brought a hefty income your mother and grandmother were unable to experience themselves.

Your new “wealth” allowed you to obtain pricier and finer quality fabrics. Some that the Duke carried himself, but although he was a great bargainer, his fabrics were still far too pricey for your income right now. He was kind enough to recommend Lady Beneviento, who had her own collection of fabric typically used for doll outfits. He knew that she had previously sold fabric to Lady Dimitrescu, who used the fabric to make her three rowdy daughter’s dresses.

The Duke’s recommendation is how you grew to know the Lady. After formulating a letter, which sought to buy fabric off of her, you had it delivered through the Duke. You wrote as formally as your intellect would allow you, and even bought higher quality paper for this exact reason. As promised, the sweet business man made sure the letter reached the doll maker.

You half-expected the Lady to reject or even ignore your request. You were sure she had far more important things to tend to - like working alongside Lady Dimitrescu to sketch out the blue print’s for her children’s annual spring dresses. However, the doll maker considered your request as she would if it were the Duke - simple and in agreement. So, when he handed you a small, off-white envelope carrying soft paper and even softer handwriting, your surprise was a clear expression on your face. The large man found amusement in your surprise and wished you the best in your “business endeavors.”

That’s right! You were a business woman, like the women before you. Even they had worked with Lady Beneviento, right?

Your first trek into the foggy mountain side would be the first of many. One transaction between fabric and lei became many and multiple. The unsettling feeling you felt, being in a room full of dolls, would resolve. You could say business with Lady Beneviento was the best yet - you held it to high regard, possibly higher than the Duke. But it was more than that, and you knew it.

Heisenberg/Reader [Was Going to Be NSFW]

Heisenberg walked into your shared bedroom quietly - it was nearly 5AM, so there was no doubt that you were resting. One of the main contrasts between you and him. While he could go days with out sleeping, you were simply a human who needed those 8 hours to survive. Although, there were some nights where you’d pull an all nighter just to watch him in his workshop and office.

With both stealth and ease, he placed his large hammer in the corner of the room. He tossed his signature hat onto the hat rack you managed to pull out of a storage room on one of the floors. There his lengthy trench coat was hung - he never wore it while he worked as it was too hot for that. He also secretly wished to see you wearing it again. It had only happened one other time, and he enjoyed it. Too much.

Sighing, he removed the off white button up to reveal a short sleeve, army green shirt, and unbuckled his belt before sliding it off. He removed the dog tags and other chains from around his neck and placed them on the nightstand (which had also been pulled from a storage room by you).

Heisenberg sat in the chair right beside the bed - he feared he may wake you if he were to try to climb into the bed. He was a large man and you were a pretty good light sleeper. But that’s fine - he loved watching you sleep. The calm rise and fall of your chest and the way you looked peaceful really did it in for him. He could watch you for hours (and has). He could never grow tired of watching you.

His eyes studied your body and your form. You laid there on your back in a simple, white tank top. Unfortunately for you, the shared bedroom did a very poor job of cooling down during the summer, and so you’ve grown accustomed to wearing very little in bed. And boy, did you wear very little tonight…

Heisenberg’s breath hitched - too busy memorizing the curved bridge of your nose, he hadn’t noticed the way the cover settled low beneath your exposed belly button. And with a small shift in your body, it had been drug further down the bed by your feet, exposing yet even more skin. You weren’t wearing panties, and it was evident in the curly pubic hair that just barely peaked out from beneath the cover.