Semi-retired fanfic writer with too many ideas and too little time.
Do not ask or demand updates. Do not use AI to finish my stories. I will feed your soul to the abyss.
COMPLETED:
Dream a Little Dream of Me
In Power We Entrust The Love Advocated
WIPS:
Blasphemous Rumors
The Heretic and the Forsaken Series
Vertigo Eyes
all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, repost, modify, copy, or translate my works on here or any third-party site, including reading as asmr. I do not consent to my fics being fed to AI or lore.fm; I will hunt you down for sport. thank you & enjoy!
I own nothing except my reader insert characters who are easily recognizable, such as Maestra of Dream a Little Dream of Me, and my original characters.
Once a week for over a decade, Zandik left his laboratory, tuned his piano, and took up the mantle of music teacher at the request of the Tsaritsa’s daughter.
His final year of tutelage went further than either of you expected.
Rated Explicit. On AO3 here.
Every Wednesday, like clockwork, The Doctor left his study and headed into the music room off the foyer. Having arrived early a few times prior, you knew his pattern by heart.
This time, though, was different.
You swept your hair covering off as you stepped inside, your riding boots dusted with snow. The valet at the door took your mare without question, the black beast shaking her head as she was led away. There was no missing your departure from the Palace after morning tea.
The question you were certain was on your fiance's lips popped into your head as you pulled off your gloves and tucked them into your cloak pocket.
Why were you in such a hurry for piano lessons when your wedding was in just over a week?
Stepping into the lounge off the foyer, you propped open the top of the grand piano and took a look inside. All strings and hammers intact. A few were replaced in the last week, actually. Usually the Doctor handled this but being early, you thought you’d spare his hands for once.
Not that he would ever share the sentiment. And your purposes were wholly selfish.
You didn’t hear him approach, ever so much a snow leopard in the snow-caked mountains.
“Tsarevna,” came the icy voice. “You’re early.”
It wasn’t the words but the weight on your shoulder, cold and hard, that made you jump, hands slamming on keys in a cacophony. You were thankful the key cover locked in place.
There was no explanation. Not really. Other than avoidance of your fiance.
You looked at the Doctor over your shoulder, pale hair falling from the careful arrangement of braids your lady’s maid spent an hour on. Garnet eyes bore holes into you as you locked your gaze on his. Much like Pierro and the Captain, he was a mainstay in your life, charged with your mother’s burdens while she buried herself in frozen grief. Words were unnecessary.
Turning back to the piano, you heard him huff through his nose and shift his weight, cane thumping on the carpet. He settled into the armchair nearby where he had a perfect view of the keys, pedals, and your posture.
“I have a new composition that could use your particular emotional touch,” the Doctor said. “You haven’t done sight reading in months.”
“This one?”
You glanced in his direction while gesturing to the folio on the stand in front of you. He nodded once and you smoothed your skirts as you sat before arranging the sheet music. Stretching your fingers and hands, you were surprised to see neat notes and lines free of splatters. Purposefully created, a final draft.
The piece started with both hands, left maintaining a rhythm while the right worked a melody, fingers never moving all that far. You fell into the flow easily, fingers moving like water over the keys. Occasional reaching with your right pinky. Compared to other compositions the Doctor wrote over the years, this one was rather mild in its structure.
Yet it tugged at you. Demanded not your skill, but your heart. Notes became gentle snowflakes, tinkering on a window pane, the aching melancholy of an end. It was punctuated with a legato flourish.
When you finished, you paused, staring at the sheets. “It’s rather…tame,” you broached. “I imagine an accompaniment would make it more robust.”
“Undoubtedly,” the Doctor replied, almost mockingly. “There’s more on your mind, Tsarevna. You never ignore a chance to hone in on emotional tones.”
It wasn’t a secret, your path in life. Serve your mother. Make connections. Be humble and soft as fallen snow but keep your heart walled off, a treasure in an iceberg. An illusion of freedom to all who looked in while being surrounded by few you could trust.
This version, the true version, of the Doctor was the one your mother allowed refuge. A man far beyond his years in knowledge but shunned at every turn for it. Who aged despite every effort to buy himself more time. You hated the fragments of him, bitter and selfish and unnecessarily cruel to themselves and others. Only the boy was kind.
And you ran into him just outside the sitting room, staring at you with red eyes. Not a word was said but you felt them. Raw and true, as only a child would see the world.
Leaving me like everyone else.
“Lamentation. An end. Satisfaction, perhaps, but gentle melancholia remains. The last notes provide hope, as all humans long for.”
The silence was heavier than the gifted kokoshnik you’d tried on with a feigned smile.
“No one else is here, Tsarevna,” he said.
Even your own teacher wasn’t to be trusted but you could think of no one else. Your mother? Impossible. Pierro reported to your mother. Rosalyne may have understood, once, and would only be helpful after. Regrator smelled of smoke too often for your liking and he was too familiar with your fiance, floating around the same social circles. As the daughter of an Archon and a Fae, you were destined for a slow, long life, and few knew you as long as they.
But out of everyone, only the Doctor was open-minded enough to not shame you. Ideally.
“I don’t want to give myself to him,” you said at last, looking out the window and then back to the sheet music, fixing their order. “He looks at me like an object. A thing to dress and entertain. He behaves humbly in front of Mother but I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hand holds mine. I have one value for him and he doesn’t deserve it.”
His other selves loved to talk. The origin point was quieter, a listener if you ever knew one. A double-edged sword, for he knew how to use the information given.
“He never had to keep himself for marriage. His maid actually cornered me on my way here and offered to visit me to teach me how to pleasure him,” you scoffed, fury bubbling deep in your gut. “Yes, she’d love teach me and then continue to fuck my husband behind my back, I’m sure.”
You tied the folio closed, protecting the composition from your ire.
“You wish to enter your marriage as equals, then,” the Doctor stated. “So what is your solution?”
The words you rehearsed on the way here refused to spill forth. You’d thought about long fingers, worn by time, whenever he would correct your positioning; leg touching yours when showing you foot placement; small praises when you played just right. None of the younger versions ever played a role in your mind. It was always the nose clearly broken one too many times brushing against your ear, feeling the leather of the armchair against your legs, the gravely tone vibrating against your breast.
“Tsarvena.”
You swallowed. Chastising you only made it worse, solidified that if you had to choose someone you knew, it would be him.
Rising from the bench, you began pacing the room, skirts brushing along the ornate Sumerian carpet. You followed the worn path, one carved by other shoes, mindful of the rest of the handiwork.
“I already leave without supervision to come here,” you began, turning your gaze back to him. “And if I were to choose, they should know me. Very few have ever conversed with me as a person.”
“Regrator would be the more romantic choice.”
“We both know his habit makes his entire being acrid. Hardly a subtle choice if I return smelling like cigarettes.”
The Doctor watched you carefully, thumb running along the beak of his cane, aquamarine stone glinting. He lost this battle ten years ago when you’d insisted that the Second Harbinger himself teach you how to play the instrument your father, the Tsar, loved so much. This time, he had the stubborn tenacity of a man who insisted upon himself because time was not his friend. They made for terrible negotiators.
“Why present this to me and not my younger self?” he asked at last, twisting his cane idly.
“Because while they are you, they are wholly separate from you.”
He couldn’t be serious. The segment you saw the most, aged thirty-five, was too arrogant for such a task. If he was your only other option, you’d just save yourself for your wedding night.
The expression on his face was unreadable but you’d struck a cord all the same. His hand on his cane was tight, jaw set.
“Am I meant to be flattered by that?”
You stopped in your tracks in front of him and threw your hands out to the side, skirts spinning around your ankles.
“Take it however you wish. I’d rather perform such an act with someone who at least was present for my first century than another who believes they’re entitled to it by law,” you snapped. “Is it astounding that someone might actually want you, Doctor?”
“Astounding isn’t the word I would use, Tsarvena.” He stared at you a moment longer than felt natural before he turned his attention to the piano behind you and the window beyond. “I will give you my answer next week.”
Dismissed. There was no mistaking his tone and you dared not push it.
“Be well, Doctor.”
You gathered your things from the foyer and left, not bothering with your cloak until you were halfway to the stables. It helped clear your head, shake the thoughts of going back inside and climbing into his lap and grinding your wet heat on his leg, leaving a wet patch behind.
After all, if he’d taught you anything over the years, it was patience.
A package arrived for you on Saturday while you were out. It was accompanied by a single flower, one you only saw in a small greenhouse toured in the early days of your weekly lessons. The name stuck with you because it was so unfamiliar: padisarah. A flower from the era of the Goddess of Flowers.
It was fresh, petals soft and center fragrant.
An unusual calling card, you mused.
Ensuring your doors were locked, you settled onto your bed and gently pulled at the box’s lid. Amid tissue paper, you found an envelope and soft pale blue lace. Your heart skipped at the material as you ran it through your fingers and your face grew hot when you pulled it up, realizing the garments.
The lace panties in one trembling hand, you reached for the envelope and found a familiar script.
Wear these.
There were stockings and a sheer lace corset, structured only with the necessary underwire.
And you knew just the dress to wear, too. Easy to undo in the front, no need for your maid that morning.
Perfect.
Your stomach twisted into knots as you arrived on Wednesday to a prepared instrument, score chosen and waiting for you.
This time, you’d taken your carriage, claiming to want to enjoy your last day in peace. Planning was being handled by others (not that your choice mattered much anyway) and this was the better alternative to seeing you mope around, you mused. A few hours of freedom before the rehearsal dinner was a small pittance you could be allowed.
Approaching the bench, your icy eyes scanned the sheet music. New. Messier. That tempo was bordering on frantic. Was he punishing you?
You heard the thump of his cane and turned as the Doctor rounded the corner. In his free hand, two small objects, one with a thin wire dangling. He looked a tad refreshed more than usual, monocle shining, but he’d always moved with a particular certainty despite the walking stick. His back was straight; his tailored shirt did no favors in hiding the brace.
“Do you still wish to proceed, Tsarvena?” You nodded and he gestured with the top of his cane. “Then sit facing me.”
Skirts rustling, you did as he asked and settled onto the smooth, polished bench. The Doctor rested his cane nearby and held out a flat hand. “Your foot.”
Brow furled, you raised your leg and rested your ankle into his awaiting hand. He stepped closer, bending your leg and pushing your skirts up, revealing the stockings. You felt his cold fingers against your thigh as he traced the material from your ankle to your thigh, a jolt running through you at his touch as he reached the soft flesh near your bottom.
“Good girl.”
You stared at him, watching his face as you felt a strap fastened around your leg, a small device pressed into your thigh. The Doctor’s fingers didn’t stop and climbed higher, tracing the hem near the apex of your legs. You caught the softest hum of approval as he dipped beneath the fabric and brushed against your hair, the worn pad of his finger meeting wet lips as he slid a small, round device between them.
“What is that?” you asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
He let go of your leg after a squeeze of your thigh before reaching into his pocket. You saw a small pill before he slipped it into his mouth as though he was in thought for a moment.
“I need time. If you had given at least a few weeks’ notice, arrangements would be different.”
The Doctor settled into his usual armchair and you arranged yourself on the bench properly, the round device prodding your wet folds. It sat in such a way that you felt a little pressure on your clit, and thus every shift of your hips made your eagerness all the more prominent.
“Play as normal. We’ll see how the rest unfolds.”
Heart pounding, you took your position and began to sightread, willing yourself to focus. Huh. A tarantella. This one looked old judging by the sun damage on the paper. Quick and daring, like an arctic fox across the tundra, darting through ice tunnels. You read ahead to keep the pace only for your pinky to slip and hit a sharp rather than a flat.
You felt a jarring sensation and buzzing beneath you that ran from your core to your belly button, your breath catching. Maybe just the pressure. Angling your hips a little differently, you pressed on and continued smoothly, fingers flying across the keys.
Wait, was that a quarter or an eighth note? The pencil marks weren’t erased neatly, echos of previous thoughts not faded enough. The strange feeling returned, stronger than before, and you gave a surprised yelp. You felt yourself grow wetter, the dull throbbing you’d felt all morning giving way to a painful ache.
Thankful for the easy refrain, your fingers kept the melody. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the Doctor with one hand on his cane, the other idly playing with a small corresponding remote, half-hardened member pressing against his thigh. You caught his thin lips in the trademark smug smile that the Segments were known for.
“Poor planning should be punished accordingly, Tsarvena. Keep going.”
You tried to even out your breathing as you shifted pedals and recognized patterns. These notes were part of a scale, follow through and hold two beats, not one. Notes blurred together and you winced as you realized your mistakes just as the vibrations ran through your core, a taste of white hot heat ripped away from you. Your hands slammed the keys before they slipped off the board entirely and gripped your skirts. The sound that ripped itself from your lips was almost feral, sharp and keening.
“I didn’t think you had the stamina but that was simply pathetic,” the Doctor sneered. “Not even halfway through a single sheet. Come here.”
“I don’t recall you having authority over me, Harbinger,” you hissed, chest heaving.
“You’re in no position to bicker, Tsarvena. If you had come to me weeks or even months ago, I’d have planned accordingly. As it stands, I’m likely shaving off a decade of my life for this experiment. Do as I say and come here.”
You cried out as the device demanded your pleasure again and you rose on shaky legs, every step towards the Doctor complete agony. Burning red eyes took in every inch of your flushed skin and parted lips, your entire being drunk on arousal. This must be what it was like, you mused, to be consumed by pure fire. And he hadn’t even touched you properly.
He reached for the stays on the front of your dress, undoing the hooks with experienced practicality. Pushing it away from your torso, the Doctor ran his fingers over the lace, callouses nipping at the gentle material. He tugged you closer, only long enough to play with your hardened nipples. Flicking, squeezing, sucking. You felt teeth against the soft flesh underneath before he pushed you away.
The damp lace was irritating, no doubt the intention.
“On your knees.”
The carpet was plush as you sank down, thighs soaked with your own juices. You’d expected only penetration, the act itself, not this. What was he—
“Come closer and undo my belt.”
You pushed yourself up and reached forward, elbows resting on his thighs as you pulled at the metal. You pulled the leather through the shining loop and flicked your gaze up to find him watching you. He didn’t protest when you reached for his fly and he hissed in relief as he sprang free.
You blinked, shocked that a man his age could even—
He shifted his hold on his cane and placed it across his knees, pinning you in place. The dreaded device at your entrance hummed and felt your walls clench at the sight of his cock. Worn, veiny, and when you dared touch, somehow still like velvet over steel. He remained silent as you continued touching him, reaching the base and lower still, finding his balls, heavy and weathered.
The thought of them slapping against you clouded your mind and without much thought, you leaned forward to wrap your lips around the glistening tip. The Doctor inhaled sharply, twitching against your tongue.
It took some coaxing but you finally were able to press your nose to his base, the ache in your core unbearable. You bucked your hips on nothing, shifted your hips so your heel pressed the device against you harder, unsure of what you were seeking other than relief.
The Doctor growled and grabbed your head, pushing your face against him. “No, no, save that orgasm for when I’m buried inside you, Tsarvena.”
The pleasure was momentarily broken as the Doctor set an unforgiving pace. You sputtered and gagged as he came, refusing to let you pull away until he finished, the last remnants shooting across your lips and chest.
His laugh was gleeful as his fingers painted his cum all over your mouth.
“Works much better than the evidence originally indicated,” he snickered. “Perhaps I should thank you for forcing my hand, I might never have finished this project without your little request.”
Dazed, you didn’t quite understand what he meant until you realized he had yet to soften. Virgin though you were, you were well aware of basic reproductive anatomy and expectations. Wasn’t he at least tired? He looked almost refreshed, like he’d just had a cat nap.
“Stand up and turn around.”
He shifted his cane to provide the freedom necessary and you turned around, reflection catching in the polished piano’s open lid. Hair was falling from its pins, your dress hung like a death shroud, and neither of you wiped the pearly substance from your collar. One look at you and no one could mistake the events.
The Doctor pawed at your skirts and pulled you back, arranging his legs between yours. Hiking up the layers, you felt cold air on your thighs and bottom. Fingers plucked the soaked device from your lips and you peered over your shoulder to see him lick it, your slick glistening.
“One experiment we have to forgo, Tsarvena. Had I been able to plan properly, I would know every facet of your body and you would have the experience you so desire.”
“So you keep telling me,” you replied. “But are you sure you would have been up for it?”
“I’d find a way. I always do.”
More squeezing, exploration of the exposed skin between the stockings and the panties. The lace was pulled down, and you stepped out of them before you felt hot breath on soft flesh, teeth grazing and nipping at one cheek, and then the other. A shiver ran up your spine and he bit harder, likely enough to bruise. You tried to reach back to swat at him but you missed.
“No marks, I thought that went without saying,” you snapped.
He gave a chuckle and bit you again, your mouth opening in silent shock at the pain. “You’ll think of me every time you sit down.”
Casting him an indignant look, the Doctor reached up to spread a hand over your back, bending you over. The other, now free of the remote and his cane, gripped your hip to pull you back. His shaft sat between your cheeks, hot and hard, sticky with your saliva.
“Really, like an animal?” you bit out.
“I warned you that Regrator would have been the romantic choice,” came the reply as his touch left your back and he slid his length along your flesh, jolting you as his tip brushed past another sensitive entrance. “This angle should, however, provide intense results.”
You felt his tip finally pass along your soaked entrance and clit, slick swollen heat sliding around his length as he nestled between your lips. Your inner walls throbbed eagerly, twitching at your opening, and he groaned in response.
“Last chance, Tsarvena.”
You gave no reply and instead rolled your hips, catching his tip with your entrance. You wiggled and tried to sink down, your body pliable. Long fingers grabbed your hips, guiding you down slowly until you sat down entirely, toes brushing the carpet. Your body stretched to accommodate with a dull ache, unaccustomed to the intrusion. The Doctor leaned forward slightly, as much as the brace would allow, letting go of your hip long enough to take your hand and guide it between your legs. You felt his length and then where your body took over, until he took your hand lower, your slick coating his worn skin. You cupped his balls, earning yourself a groan as you brushed them against your thighs.
“You seem to be quite bold despite your inexperience,” he grumbled into your neck, teeth grazing near the hem of your dress.
“I’m merely curious,” you replied.
“A healthy trait in the right dose,” his breath tickled your skin as he guided your hands to the chair’s arms, pressing them in. “This works best if your feet are flat.”
Planting your feet and gripping the arms, you let out a shuddering moan at the slick sound as your bodies parted. Nails dug into the flesh at your hips as the Doctor guided you along his length. He lifted you to the point where he almost left you entirely, bouncing you on his tip before forcing you back down, your legs burning. You relaxed into the rhythm he set, every stroke a spark stoking a fire building deep inside. He bit you as he pulled you down into his lap, your toes balancing your weight and curling into the plush carpet.
Your sounds were obscene, squeals and cries and moans you never thought would fall from your lips. Panting as your legs trembled, you tried to focus on the pressure building inside you, urging whatever release your body craved—
The Doctor slowed, setting long strokes that toyed with your entrance. You gave a whining keen, your body craving the fullness, walls demanding more.
“Breath, Tsarvena, and let go.”
White hot heat engulfed your vision as something gave way, your body shattering like ice.
“Good girl. That’s it, keep coming.”
You shuddered in his lap, swaying your hips, as you clenched down on his cock. The sensation was so sweet it bordered on painful, your core wanting more despite having just had a taste. You didn’t want to stop.
A second wave hit you harder and you gave a sharp cry as he guided you through it with a rougher pace.
“Hungry little thing,” he chastised. “You wanted me that badly for all these years?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Yet you waited until the inevitable to come to me. Pathetic. We’ll just need to make the most of the last hours we have, then, hmm?”
The pace was unrelenting and you found yourself tumbling over edge after edge as he chased his own release, slamming you down as he twitched. You felt warmth shoot deep inside, flooding you.
Your eyes locked with your reflection again, this time an image of complete ruination. Hair truly in tangles, lips parted, eyes dazed.
The Doctor lifted you onto unsteady feet and you felt his essence drip down to your swollen lips. Rough fingers scooped up the substance and plunged back into you, plush walls more than accepting of the touch. One hand grabbed a cheek, squeezing and pulling at you.
“Admiring your handiwork?” you slurred, arching onto his fingers.
“If you behave this way for your intended, you have little to worry about, Tsarvena. We’re hardly finished.”
You gasped as he slid his length between your cheeks again.
“How are you—“
“Anything is possible with the right chemical composition. You will be little more than a stumbling fawn when I’m through with you.”
He was true to his word. The piano and score long abandoned, you instead spent the rest of your time in a haze, pleasure so intense it bordered on painful. By the end, you had no thoughts, filled to the brim and then some.
“I’ll feel you with every step down the aisle,” you mumbled, legs high as you were splayed on the nearby couch.
“Then my work is complete.”
You managed to find the energy to dress and tidy yourself. When you reached for the lace panties long abandoned, the end of his cane kept them in place.
“Those are mine now. A parting gift, if you would be so kind.”
Your skirts would be soaked with your mingled juices, then, you wanted to protest. The glint in his eyes told you that was exactly the point.
Amid the crowd the next morning, you spotted a younger visage next to Pantalone. The one always sent in the Doctor’s stead when he could not travel long distances. Younger, the face the public always saw.
The smile and head tilt you received as you walked up the aisle with your husband was unsettling enough. It was the lace tucked into his breast pocket, peeking out for all to see, that dropped your stomach to your feet the rest of the evening.
You spent your wedding night with thoughts of red eyes and worn fingers, unable to forget.
You returned from your honeymoon weeks later, routine upheaved as you eased into married life. To no one’s surprise, you looked a little worse for wear despite spending so long in the mild climates of Mondstadt and Fontaine. At first you only thought it was motion sickness, the boat ride home far choppier and unsettling than the initial trip, but it lingered; when you missed your cycle not once, but twice, all doubt disappeared.
Part of you had known. You didn’t expect to feel changed but ever since the night before your wedding, your world felt ever-so-slightly off kilter.
It wasn’t until months later, during a seasonal summit, that you saw the Doctor again. You hadn’t felt much movement over the last day—hardly a concern for your physician—but it worried you all the same. To come this far, only for something to go wrong…you only wanted to do this once.
Did he speculate, you wondered, as you did? You felt it in your bones that the child was his: an intuition that he would never believe until bloodwork proved otherwise.
“Play for me, Doctor?” you asked simply. “She’s been lethargic lately. It’s harder for me to reach the keys now.”
He looked older than you recalled, the angles of his face harder, and gaze more pointed. His shoulders must ache, too. His words about shaving off years of his life were true, it seemed. All to give you what you wanted.
What he clearly wanted, too.
You swayed in your seat on the sofa as he obliged you, a familiar tune that your father used to play. Soft and tender. How did he remember that?
It wasn’t until the last notes of the song that you felt the familiar flutter in your belly, relief spreading through you. You eased yourself out of your seat and walked over to the piano and then reached for his tired hand to press it against the swell of your abdomen.
“She’s yours,” you whispered.
“The probabilities are doubtful. Your husband was boastful of your excursions over post-dinner drinks.”
“And you don’t think it’s strange that she’s active for you?”
“New stimulus provides that result.”
“We’ll see.”
Something softened in his face for the faintest of moments, as though he was entertaining the idea. How ironic, you thought, the known heretic impregnating the daughter of the Archon he served. Fitting.
He left after a strong kick, patting your hand wordlessly in departure.
You recalled seeing him next in a fevered haze. Fighting with your physician, the one your husband insisted on, hurling insults at your spouse. Your mother, Archon of her people with larger worries, pressed cold compresses to your head to keep you awake.
“The right thing to do would be to deliver the child,” the Doctor snarled. “If you wait longer or hope for a natural rupture, you risk both lives. Pathetic, you’re her partner, you dolt!”
“Zandik,” your mother said, the older man pausing in his rant. “Is that what you do?”
He stared at you, solemn. Perhaps it was the fever but you swore he looked guilty. After a moment, he shifted his gaze to your mother and said, “It’s the only thing to do if you wish to give both of them a chance.”
“Then get the steadiest pair of hands among you for the task.”
The last thing you recalled was your mother singing to you as a figure with glasses and shining red eyes lowered a mask onto your mouth and nose.
Hours later, morning sunlight kissing the walls of your bedroom, you woke to find the chair in the corner occupied. The aquamarine nestled into the figurehead of the walking stick glinted at you. Murmurings of a language you identified as a dialect of Sumerian rang over the rattling of the nearby radiator.
A bundle, whining. Tiny fingers reaching and rubbing cheeks.
“Ah, mamusya is awake, little duchess,” the Doctor murmured. “You should meet her properly.”
Instinctively, you reached for the covers but the glare sent your way and the sharp stabbing pains in your abdomen halted you.
“I’m old but not incapable, Tsarvena. Stay there.”
The babe was small and scrunched, cooing as she was shifted over to your arms. It was impossible to miss the dusting of blue hair, the wrong shade to match yours. The eye color would reveal itself in time.
“I told you.”
He was silent, idly playing with his walking stick as he watched not you, but the baby. The Doctor reached out and the child wrapped a hand around his finger.
“Zandik,” you murmured, his name strange on your tongue.
He left without another word and you never saw him again. Only the shadow of his younger self remained, ever present, ever curious. The segment in the prime of his life offered you only few words when you were well enough to travel.
“Keep her from the others. Take her far away from here. She deserves that much. It’s what he would have wanted.”
And when she began to show signs of darkening eyes, you did exactly that, determined to give her the freedom neither of her parents ever had.
what old people quirk do you think old man zandik had?
See, if I remember the leaked voice direction, the older he got the more like a patient professor he was.
So I can’t see him being the old man who yells at clouds but I CAN envision him insisting on having a particular preference for the way his food and drinks are prepared 😂
