#sir pendleton x reader

He wondered what you were like on the street, but you didn’t live terribly close, and he rarely saw you from his limited view of the square at the end of the alley that his window overlooked.

Drawing a deep breath to bolster himself, he let you into the one-room flat. It was a squalid little thing, filled with desks and only one chair. The bed was hidden in the wall since he had reinvented it so he could pull it in and out on springs; the very first vertical wall bed (but he would never tell his landlord since he had technically defaced the building to make it).

However, to you who was used to sharing one room with your six family members, this was a palace, and best of all, it was filled to the brim with dreams. Pendleton’s inventions were a sight to behold, and you loved nothing more than when he shyly agreed to let you see one.

“Oh my,” Pendleton softly exclaimed when he couldn’t see you behind the three stacked crates. He had ordered more than usual without thinking, his new, albeit mysterious employer having recently paid handsomely for something as simple as a fold-up surgeon’s blade.

“Easy to transport for… Operations,” His employer told him at the time.

Pendleton rushed forward, taking the top crate to reveal your face, angelic to him.

He blushed, offering you his trademark shy smile, “Ah, please, put the crates-”

“In the corner,” You laughed playfully. “I know.”

You proceeded to follow him and place them down, returning to the door all too quickly.

“Is that all today, Sir?”

He had told you to call him Pendleton a million times, and for the most part, you did, but when you were leaving, it was always back to Sir.

He nodded meekly; the veiled question you asked was if he had anything new to show you, but today there were no new blueprints. “I’m afraid so.”

He hated not having more for you; he didn’t want you to leave so soon. Your smile was bright and your step energetic. You reminded him of the flowerboxes at people’s windows; a spot of colour to distract from the drabness.

You noticed the melancholic tone and tilted your head pityingly, “Mr Pendleton, Sir, have you eaten today? You look tired.”

“Oh, um- well-” Pendleton couldn’t meet your eyes, so full of concern for him of all people, “There’s so little time in the day and-”

You shook your head and chuckled, “No wonder you’re not yourself, you silly goose.”

You grabbed his hand in a manner that anyone would have found too forward, especially since you didn’t have an escort, but you didn’t care since there was nobody around to see.

“Come on then, we can go to the bakery, they’ve got these lovely jam tarts now. It’ll perk you right up.”

You had barely got him past the threshold of his room when Pendleton drew back, pulling his arm from you. He so desperately wanted to spend time with you, but the outside world was large and scary and altogether out of his control; he preferred to stay inside where he could control every variable and not have to worry about what other people thought of him.

“I- I can’t. There’s… much work to be done,” He seemed to shrink, backstepping into his room. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” You wilted, afraid that you had been too much. Your father told you off for being a Church Bell, always chinwagging when you ought to be working, but you hadn’t meant any offence to Pendleton.

You tried to put on your best smile, cheeks aflame with embarrassment from the scene you had caused, “Well then, promise me you’ll at least take care of yourself, Sir. You need to stay healthy, yeah.”

Pendleton nodded, waved you goodbye and ran to the window as soon as he shut the door.

He watched you leave with a noticeably sadder step than your usual jolly skip. It was hardly noticeable, but when one spent as much time people-watching as he did, they noticed even the smallest changes in people’s demeanours.

Sighing when you were out of his purview, Pendleton slumped at his desk, staring into space for a few minutes, daydreaming about what could have been if he’d accepted your offer.

Still, there was no point in wasting away the day. He had still greatly enjoyed your company, and he had even learned something about you. You liked jam tarts; of course you did, they were about the only thing as sweet as you were.

He whispered your name dreamily, then set himself upright, tying up his hair so it wouldn’t bother him while he worked.

The very next day, Pendleton fell from his chair when there was a knock on his door. He wasn’t expecting any clients, nor was he going to part with any of his other inventions yet. Oh no, was it the Landlord? But he had paid his rent, hadn’t he? Admittedly, he could have lost track of the days spent tinkering, but he didn’t believe so.

“I’m coming,” He said, trying to calm his anxiety.

He yanked the door open, taken aback to find you standing there.

“(Y/N),” He stammered your name, words failing as he looked at you.

You weren’t in your work clothes, but a second outfit, likely saved for Church or other such formal events, and you were carrying a wicker basket.

“Good morning,” You beamed. “I was worried that you’d forget to eat again, so I brought you breakfast.”

You held out the basket to him, and Pendleton took it with shaking hands, flinching when his thumb brushed against yours.

“I- I- This is so kind, thank you,” He bowed his head sincerely.

“It’s nothing, Mr Pendleton, Sir.”

There was a moment as if you were waiting for something, “Ah- Would you like to join me?”

Pendleton’s smile was strained. His work desks weren’t ideal as breakfast tables, littered as they were with scores of papers, nor did he have another chair to offer.

Still, you grinned, “I’d love to.”

He moved to let you in, and after shutting the door, brightened with an idea. He grabbed his blanket, which he had left on the back of a chair, using it to stay warm in the chilly mornings, and spread it on the floor. He added to this by grabbing his one pillow and a throw cushion to make the floor more comfortable. He bowed with a flourish of his hand, sitting only after you had.

You warmed at Pendleton’s obvious nervousness; he was treating you like you were royalty instead of a mere shop-hand. Taking his lead, you set out a chipped tea set; it was all your family could afford, but the painted bluebells, faded though they were, always made you smile.

Two dainty cups, a teapot with a cosy over it, two plates for food and a platter of finger sandwiches, and as a treat, two fresh jam tarts.

Pendleton flushed. You shouldn’t have spent money on him. Yet, as you jabbered away, telling him about your week, he felt tired; it was exhausting falling head-over-heels in love without having the ability to show it.

If he left his flat more often, he could go to your father and request the right to court you. Then, the two of you would have several escorted dates, and after some months, the two of you might be allowed up to twenty minutes unsupervised.

Instead, he could only keep you as a friend since anything more would be indecent. He tried not to mind so much, especially since you were here with him now, a visitor who sought nothing from him except the promise of his well-being.

The two of you enjoyed your breakfast, with you doing most of the talking and Pendleton laughing softly at your tales. It was almost as good listening to the stories about people as it was to watch them.

Finally, you got to your tart, waiting for him to try his first so you could share the ecstasy of such a wonderful treat. They were a bit too sweet for Pendleton’s taste, but he enjoyed the zeal in your eyes as you tucked into yours, a smidgeon of jam staining the corner of your mouth.

Absently, Pendleton leaned towards you, wiping it away lightly with his thumb, his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment.

“Oh,” You looked at him, a light dust of red peppering your cheeks.

“Oh!” Pendleton snatched his hand back, the intimacy of what he had done striking him. “I’m so sorry, uh ah, would you like some water?!”

He stood up, voice strained as he looked for an excuse to briefly leave the room.

“I’ll get some,” He blared, shutting you inside as he ran away.

You blinked away your surprise at his brusque exit. All he had done was help clean your mess; you were only embarrassed that he had to do so in the first place.

Pendleton stood outside the door, a pail of water in one hand to validate his excuse. His other hand shook, and he drew it back from the door handle. He had to go back inside eventually, but he was so terrified of what you might say.

Finally, he inhaled and forced himself in, ready to stammer his way through another lame excuse, when he saw you poring over his newest design.

He dropped the pail, some water slopping over the top of the bucket.

“Oh, that’s-” He pushed his way between you and his desk to hide his fanciful flying machine. “That’s nothing, really.”

You tapped his shoulder playfully, “Don’t be so modest. It’s wonderful.”

“You- you think so?”

You nodded eagerly, and Pendleton let down his guard, moving away so you could see the design again. He stood behind you, his long hair cascading down and blocking the rest of the world from view, so it was only you, him, and his design.

You were so close, he could smell the potpourri you had crushed against your wrists before visiting. Lavender; it was his new favourite scent.

You rested your hands on the desk, boisterously exclaiming your praise for the Zeppelin, and Pendleton mirrored your position, so he was practically holding you, his head just a breath away from resting atop your shoulder.

“I always wondered what it’d be like to fly,” You said wistfully. “Like the birds in the park, oh, I wish you’d come see them with me. They’re beautiful.”

You suddenly became all too aware that Pendleton wasn’t speaking; the only sound was his breath next to your ear. You looked to him, finding his attention rapt on you, his face so painfully close. Immediately, you felt foolish, always talking and paying little heed to those around you. And where had it gotten you? In a situation all too intimate, yet equally enticing.

Your heart raced. You hadn’t been interested in any of the men about town, or the fancy lads that sometimes called around the shop. It hadn’t occurred to you that the reason why was that your heart might already belong to someone.

“I um-” it was your turn to lose your voice as you turned, Pendleton’s arms still on the desk while you were backed against it.

Pendleton knew he was being a fool. If he didn’t step away from you, you might think him the sort to ruin your reputation, though by your proximity, it was likely too late for that.

His eyes dipped to your lips, all too soft and tempting.

“I- I don’t wish to ruin your reputation,” He whispered, “but I would very much like to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you dazedly gave a small nod.

Pendleton’s hand traced up your arm, languidly finding purchase in your hair. He dipped forward, his lips softly pressing against yours. Your hands pressed against his chest, not to push him away, but simply to hold onto something real and ensure this wasn’t a fitful flight of fancy.

There was little to the kiss, even though Pendleton already wanted more. It was hardly more than a lingering peck, but it meant the world to him. How could you have seen him when nobody else had, ending his lonely isolation?

Pendleton pressed his forehead against yours, noses touching and his voice husky when he next spoke. “I think… It had best be time for you to leave.”

He didn’t want you to go, but if you didn’t leave now, the late risers would see you leaving his apartment alone, with no excuse of a delivery.

You searched his eyes, trying to glean his thoughts, much less practised in people-watching than he was.

His expression softened, and he parted from you, amending his previous statement, “Though, if you are able, I would enjoy seeing the birds in the park tomorrow.”

Smiling eagerly, you threw your arms around his neck in an energetic hug that knocked him back.

“I’d love that!” Your voice was nearly a shout; you were so happy, fit to burst.

You pecked his cheek before bouncing to the door on a cloud of new love, “Mid-morning tomorrow?”

“I shall meet you there,” Pendleton bowed genteelly as you left his rooms, your tea set well forgotten in the moment.

However, Pendleton never met you in the park, or ever again for that matter. It was that very night that he witnessed the brutalised murder of a woman who reminded him greatly of you, full of life and laughter.

The killer was none other than his mysterious surgeon, a powerful man who terrified Pendleton. And by God, he had supplied the murder weapon, naively having thought it was an invention meant for good.

Pendleton had multiple chances to reveal the killer, but after seeing that and knowing that he would do nothing, he packed up a bag and ran, his room empty of papers, but still full with his desk, a chair, and the memory of love in the form of a forgotten tea set on a blanket.

Pendleton didn’t travel far. It was only to a different borough of London, so you wouldn’t be able to find him. Having seen the murder and done nothing, he knew he couldn’t face you, and that feeling only multiplied with the deaths of four more women, whom his apathy killed.

Your hand slid down his shoulder and slowly down his chest. Your fingers traced small circles on the fabric of his shirt.

"Angular deviation? You sound very tense, love. Very… stiff."

It was useless. His brain, an expert in calculating torque and angular velocities, completely reset itself. All his concentration shifted to the path of your fingers.

You sat on the edge of the table, ruthlessly pushing aside several blueprints. Your dress brushed against his arm. A bare foot found his leg and began to lazily move up and down, from his knee to his thigh.

“I think,” you said, leaning in until your lips were a hair’s breadth from his, “that I’m your most urgent artifact to calibrate.”

Pendleton swallowed. His glasses had fogged up.

“And…and what’s the recommended procedure?” he asked, his voice strangely husky.

You carefully removed his glasses and placed them on the blueprints. Then you took his hand, the one still holding a tiny wrench, and guided it away from the table, toward the warmth of your waist.

“First, the defenses must be dismantled,” you whispered, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Then the second. Your fingers were infinitely more dexterous than his at that moment. “Then, apply…heavy lubrication.”

Pendleton let out a gasp as your lips finally found his. It wasn’t a soft kiss, but one that tasted of promise and long-planned mischief. His other hand, clumsy and nervous, finally found your hip and pulled you toward him, making you sit completely on his lap. The table creaked in protest.

"The workshop…", he murmured between kisses, while his hands (the inventor's, the ones that measured thousandths of a millimeter) began to explore curves that were not on any plane.

“It’s closed for inventory,” you replied, gently nibbling his lower lip. “A very, very hands-on inventory.”

Pendleton decided, in a final act of rebellion against logic, that the axial synchronizers could go to hell. He abandoned all pretense of control and surrendered to the sweet, chaotic, and perfectly impractical maintenance procedure you had initiated. After all, some parts were made to fit together perfectly, without the need for blueprints.

Sir Pentious (Pendleton)

So... he doesn't go outside

This is canon

But of course you've heard of him before

The recluse inventor whose visits to the town are few and far between

Whose lights can be seen flickering into the late hours of the night

You admire him from afar, the mystery of it all your own personal guilty pleasure

Unbeknownst to you, your curiosity isn't quite as one sided as you thought it was.

It started out innocently enough

Sir Pendleton was taking a break from his newest project, looking out his window at the town he hadn't visited in the flesh in weeks, when he saw you.

The most stunning, charming person he'd ever seen in his life

You weren't doing anything extraordinary, simply taking a shortcut through the back alley to make the walk to the local farmers market a little shorter

But he couldn't help himself. He was enamored.

He would memorize your schedules and paths, making sure to always be perched at his window when you would walk by.

A little voice in the back of his mind told him he was being a creep, but he told that voice to shut up.

After all, he wasn't watching you to hurt you. God no, never to hurt you.

He just liked admiring you from afar, wishing he could be brave enough to properly meet you, and not just watch you through a pane of glass from two stories up.

Then, he saw the first murder.

It terrified him, guilt and fear seeping into his bones.

Nonetheless, he stayed quiet. He watched two more happen before a terrifying thought occurred to him.

What if you were next?

That thought finally pushed him over the edge, and he knew what he had to do.

He timed his next garbage take out with one of the many times you consistently passed through his alley.

Seeing you up close was almost enough to deter him, you were even more stunning up close.

You noticed the shy expression on his face, and you smiled at him. He knew from that moment on he'd do anything to see that smile again.

"Hello! I'm Y/N. You are?"

"Me, why um, I am Pir Sendleton. I mean- Sir Pendleton!"

You giggled, a light, airy sound, and he almost fainted. He watched you walk away, like he had so many times before, but this time he knew with a certainty: if soulmates existed, you were his.

Alastor

Living as a creole man in New Orleans in the 1920s, Alastor was somewhat used to being treated poorly by those around him.

That didn't make him any less likely to kill them for it, but he was used to it nonetheless.

That's why he wasn't all that surprised when an older gentlemen dismissed his complaints after spilling wine on Alastor's new shirt.

Just as he was about to plan how to get this man alone to take care of his problem, someone beat him to the punch... sort of.

"Dad, apologize to this young man at once!"

Alastor's eyes widened ever so slightly, his smile remaining in place.

It took a great deal to surprise the Radio Host, but you did it easily.

This selfish and uncaring man had raised a child into a caring adult who was willing to confront him on behalf of a stranger... with a different skin tone at that.

It intrigued him. The man gave a begrudging apology, one Alastor believed not a word of, and moved on.

He expected you to do so as well, but you stayed. You smiled at him, a genuine smile, not a half grimace or a pitiful look, but a genuine smile.

"I'm Y/N. Sorry about my dad, he's a pompous prick sometimes."

He looked into your eyes as you spoke, his smile never faltering, but softening ever so slightly.

He couldn't explain it. He was a killer, a monster, but he felt the need to protect you from the world: from people like him.

His mind swirled with thoughts and emotions, but he refused to let them show.

"The name is Alastor! It's a pleasure to be meeting you darling, quite the pleasure."

And for once, he meant it.

Vox (Vincent Whittman)

Vincent only focused on one thing: climbing the ranks to get to the top.

So, naturally, it would make absolutely no sense for him to pay any attention to a mere secretary.

Yet, he couldn't help himself.

He didn't know what it was. The way you chewed on your pen when you were deep in thought, the way your left eyebrow would raise ever so slightly when a meeting was starting to run on too long, the way you would bite your bottom lip to physically stop yourself from retorting when a higher up would make a stupid comment.

In fact, there were too many things he noticed about you to properly pinpoint what it was that made you so appealing to the up and coming TV host

So instead he watched from the sidelines, cataloging every response you had.

When you'd stifle a laugh at a pun he made while on the air? He'd stay up writing a dozen more puns just like it to use for the next month.

You would offhandedly compliment the way he did his hair one day, and he'd wear it like that for the rest of the year.

It all came to a head when you'd left a folder behind on your desk.

You cursed under you breath when you realized, driving back to the office.

You unlocked the backdoor, walked into the studio expecting it to be empty, but instead you saw Vincent and your boss, the one who had made a lot of crude and inappropriate jokes at your suspense, dancing?

Upon further inspection, you would notice the man had his throat slit, and was gushing blood onto Vincent. You let out a small gasp.

Vincent's gaze shot up, and he let out a small curse.

He knew this would happen one day. One day you'd get too close, see what he'd done, and he would have to end you too.

For the first time, he felt nauseated at the thought of having to end a life.

That is, until you walked right past him, picked the folder off your desk, and walked back to the door. You paused for a moment, speaking over your shoulder.

"You should wear red more often. It brings out your eyes."

And then you left, and Vincent was left alone again. He smiled, chuckling to himself, cheeks flushed red.

"Oh, Y/N... you're gonna be the death of me."