Synopsis: On a bright, sunny day, the hero of Amphoreus and the most beautilul princess of the east were meant to become each other's in holy matrimony. Petals piled high on the streets, trumpets roared and the crowols waited in anticipation for the words “I do” to unite two pure hearts. That is, until, the monster arrived.
Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Yandere Themes, Abduction, Isolation, Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Heavy NSFW, Dubcon → Consensual Sex, Rape/Noncon Elements, Corruption Kink, Size Difference, Age Gap Relationships (Older Male x Younger Female), Flame Reaver's Shadows, Dubious Morality, Mentions of Blood, Infidelity, Fluff (Kind Of), Slight Knight!Phainon x Reader, Mentions of Human Experimentations, Unreliable Narrators. MDNI.
Words: 13,528 (I am so sorry)
♡ Note: I usually write Flame Reaver as that burnt out exhausted Phailing so, I wanted to write sinister Flame Reaver out of sheer personal indulgence for once — did I mention that this fic is very self-indulgent? I do apologize.
「 Artwork Credits 」 「 Read On AO3 」
That lone Cecilia at the dip of the cliff has wilted.
Or at least, you think it has, given the distance. The winds and the clouds have relentlessly tested the limits of your vision, just as they tested that flower’s strength.
But you have scant sympathy for its ending. The flower may be no more, but it was free, it shed its last petal on the soil of its home.
Home. Has it been a week since you have been away from yours? Two weeks? A month? A daunting task to measure the time from a cloud-kissed fortress, but you try anyway. It's either that, counting the ridges in the bricks under your nails, or pacing like an ant at the cusp of death ; which, you’d rather not tease after just narrowly escaping it.
So, you sigh as though the world were hurled upon your shoulders, even though it was far, far away from the peak of the tower.
There are only apparitions of stars up here, crescent moon shining at the cusp of twilight twice a day, and boredom. Boredom that has coated your being like a tipped inkwell upon a paper, and no matter how anxiously you attempt to remove it, it sticks, it bleeds into the ivory of your wedding dress, plunging it in ruin like your fate—
“Thinking about escape plans again, princess?”
Ah, and there's him, too. The monster.
You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.
If you had any clue that he’d entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.
You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.
What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.
You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.
Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.
You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it — almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.
It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.
That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.
“If I am?” you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.
It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.
Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.
He does that a lot, as you’ve observed.
What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.
Typically, he’d deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior… you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.
“Well,” human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged — you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.
The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, “We both know how that ends, don't we?” unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.
As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairway—
“Y-you came back early today…!” you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaver’s nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.
You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.
“Are you upset?” your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.
If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.
This— this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.
It infuriates you.
You want scream and break a few things.
For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?
(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)
Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.
It's hard to pinpoint the monster’s expression due to that mask — if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.
“You are.” he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.
You cross your arms across your chest, “Am not.” your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.
And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.
Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.
Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.
“Why…” you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, “Why does it matter to you…?”
The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, “Can it not matter to me?” the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.
Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.
How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?
“I—I’m cold!!!”
If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.
It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.
You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.
A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.
Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.
The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.
You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.
The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what you’d expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.
The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.
He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.
You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, “Thank you…?”
You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaver’s shoulders seem to loosen.
The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.
Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.
“Hmph.” he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.
You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.
It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.
Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.
So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself — in the cloak of your captor, no less.
The fact that there are blankets at arm’s reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.
It chills you more when the events that’d preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.
Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed — those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.
Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times it’s heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.
Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort you’d received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.
Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagoras’ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver — how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?
He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror he’d endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.
The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the century’s most anticipated wedding.
You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if he’d been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.
Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.
Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.
And perhaps, that is the … problem.
“See that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?” you recall him pointing once in one ‘date’, and you’d followed his eager finger with all your trust.
“That is called a Sousourada.” the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.
Your mouth forms an ‘O’ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, “It’s so cute.” you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.
If possible, Phainon's smile widens. “Right?” he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.
“Back in… Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.” he leans back against the bench, smile softening.
“The new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I suppose…!” his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.
“They’d keep the air alive with their songs all day long,” his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.
“And I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps… though Snowy would always sniff me ou— ah! I'm extremely sorry, my lady— I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.”
A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.
After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry — not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.
You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.
“What do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?” your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, “I’d like to formally mourn the departed with you.”
Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.
Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. “Uhm…” you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.
Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.
“Are you certain that you… want to do that with me, my lady?” Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.
There's no way you could say no to that look, “Mhm, I am.” you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.
A trembling breath leaves the hero’s lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.
Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.
“Patience, my lord?” you loosen the press of your hand.
The gold in Phainon’s eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.
“Of course —! I apologize again, I—” he grips your hand before it could slip away, “I don't know what came over me there, it's just that…” he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.
“Ugh… excuse me, I was just being an idiot.” he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.
When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. “I’ll be as patient as you order me to be,” his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, “— For as long as you want me to be.” he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.
Yes, you are the lucky woman who’ll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.
Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.
There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.
“Are you planning on luring it to you with that bread?” the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.
You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say — what if I am?
The Flame Reaver huffs, “Are you aware that they're carnivores?”
That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “I know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? I’ll give it meat after!”
The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.
“Foolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predator’s meal is the thrill of the hunt?”
You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.
“Ahh, or perhaps,” your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, “You’re leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.”
“Don’t speak of my fiance like that.” this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.
Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. “… Or else?”
“Or… or else I—” you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. “I’ll…!”
Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.
“Hm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?”
You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.
“I don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?”
Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.
You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.
A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.
You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.
One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.
There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.
Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.
“What?” he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadow’s grasp, “Shall I get you a bib as well?”
Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.
“Don’t touch me!” you recoil in the Shadows’ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.
The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, “I’m warning you I—” you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.
Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.
The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.
No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.
Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, “Uh, Flame Rea—”
“Khaslana.”
Right. You’d nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title he’s known by, one which you’ll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.
“Ahem, uhm, I was wondering —! Are these… do these clones of yours have free will?” you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.
“… Why do you ask?” you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.
Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.
You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, “I’m bored.”
“What?” the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.
It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, “Boreeeeeed! I’m so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!” you clench your fists, dodging the Shadow’s attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.
A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, “You’re eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?” there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.
“What do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics of—mmph!” the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.
You push through to make your point anyway, “Leevewing! Baysics of leevinh!”
The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.
He forces out an annoyed sigh, “Alright then, princess.” crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. “What is ‘entertainment’?”
The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, “Like! Reading! Books!”
A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, “While eating?”
“Yes!”
“That’s childish.”
“Whoa—” you lean back as though scandalized, “Have you ever tried reading a good book while eating?”
The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, “I don't need to eat.”
He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.
You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.
“That’s… quite sad.” your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.
Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.
All the indignation that’d lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.
You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.
You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.
“Come down after you’ve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.”
—
You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.
It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.
Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.
Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory — were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.
It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.
When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the ‘Deliverer’ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.
“Which part moved you the most?” she’d asked in that terse tone of hers.
You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). “The part where… the monster's past was revealed.”
“Oh? Do elaborate.”
“Uhm,” it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, ”It was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.”
The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, “And what did you think about the Deliverer?”
You stared at the painted sun on the book’s cover for a second, and then shrugged. “He was okay.”
That took her visibly by surprise.
“Huh. What an odd child.”
The books that filled the ‘library’ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books you’d read back at home.
Since your arrival — or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place — you’ve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.
The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholar’s secret study.
And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.
The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.
It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.
You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled ‘basics of meteorology’ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.
A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.
You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as — if not more — emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think it’d be them.
It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.
Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.
With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise — the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.
A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.
He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.
You’ve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.
Which he meets.
You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.
He copies it.
You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.
And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.
“Hey, can you—” your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.
The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.
The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.
When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.
You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.
His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.
Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.
When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap — you didn’t even realize it’d fallen from your hands.
When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.
“There lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus — we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.”
“And the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.”
“Lady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia… and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun who’ll bring dawn to this world one day.”
You remember the edge of pride on your governess’ face as she’d introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.
Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.
On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his house…
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.
The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.
Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath — you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.
For the past weeks, you’ve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.
But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.
In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.
Though it doesn't last long.
You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.
Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.
The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.
A sting shakes you awake.
The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.
At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.
Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.
Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.
The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot — from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.
Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.
By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.
On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.
Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.
You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.
You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.
Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.
It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.
A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.
The water’s heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.
Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. You’ve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.
Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.
… His Shadows.
You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.
There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.
The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.
Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.
A faint tremble seizes your body.
What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?
And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?
Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.
You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the ‘library’ — without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.
Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.
If breaking your ankle the last time you’d tried to escape wasn't bad enough, they’d decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.
Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.
As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously — he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.
But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things you’ve been taught your whole life to loathe.
The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.
You're scared to even observe it for long — and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).
Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.
Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.
You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where he’d reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.
The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadows’ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?
Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.
You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinet’s door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.
The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.
A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.
You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.
Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.
You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.
… But the prospect of finding out how he’d react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.
Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candles’ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.
The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.
You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274
• LIGHT CALANDER — 4894, MONTH OF JOY •
The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. One’s location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called “Khaslana“. … Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.
…
ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY •
Admittance of subject “Neikos496”. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 003: Attempt #28,371,276
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF - - - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of “brother Phainon“. Further observation required.
…
ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM •
Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.
..
ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING •
Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.
..
ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING •
Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..
ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE •
Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth… Form growing distant from that of… umans… Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT •
Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash… Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.
Overseer : --.. .- -. -.. .- .-.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #33,550,36
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4910, M- -TH O- - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The tower’s defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. —
“I thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?”
Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.
You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.
The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek — not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.
His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.
“Answer me, princess.” you’re yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.
The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.
You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, “What’s wrong?“ condescension drips from his words and into your ear, “You weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.“
“I…” you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. “I’m—”
Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.
“Are you about to apologize, princess?” he moans against your cheek. “Save me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.”
That makes you blink as some clarity returns.
Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.
“I’m sure you know where my interest is in.” you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated — at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.
“But the question is,“ his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, “Are you brave enough to indulge me?” he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.
You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.
You know what he's pushing you towards.
Phainon — you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and you’d wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.
“You…” you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. “You should stop touching me like this. I— I'm betrothed to someone else!”
In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.
But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.
“Oh? Betrothed you say…“ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.
“But did you remember that the past few months?“ something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, “Or, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?“
You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.
You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely — so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.
The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, “I’m curious, princess,”
He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, “Would your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself you’ve given to me already?” he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.
“Even now,” he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, “You don't tell me no, not even once.”
That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance he’d illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.
No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride — if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.
So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?
The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. “I have a proposal, princess.”
“Instead of living like a prize on that brat’s shelf,” he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, “Why don't you become mine instead?”
Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.
Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it — enjoyed it even.
And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver — Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss he’s only been teasing you with touches and words.
Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?
There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.
It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea — in his eyes.
His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.
And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.
When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.
Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.
Until, the mad researcher asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”
Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.
At his silence, the scholar urged, “For your ruined hometown? For your family?”
That, that’d struck him.
Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.
That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.
But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.
“The pain and the anger are your life forces.” he’d been told, “Nurture it, cling to it and wield it.”
But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much he’d asked.
Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.
“For the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!” Lygus had exclaimed in delight, “And you— you… will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!”
Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.
Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. He’d be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.
But of course, why would it be so kind to him?
“Have you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!”
“The Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!”
“He must be defeated!”
“Off with his head!”
“Death to the monster!'”
“BURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!”
Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.
As such, he’d used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khas— Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.
And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate ‘heroes’ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.
… That was until, he came.
Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides — every bit the hero from those stories he’d read with him in childhood.
A mirror of himself, if he’d still retained anything of his former image.
Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.
Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory — but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.
And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's ‘favor’.
You were one such ‘treasure’, the beloved princess of Stygia who’d been hidden since childhood from the world.
Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The century’s most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!
How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.
It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.
So easily? Just like that?
The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.
The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames — now that was pretty.
And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.
Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.
You’d looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.
So, he took you.
Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.
In the beginning, he’d been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.
But something had stopped him, something… yes, that ruffled look on your face, how you’d scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.
He thought it was amusing — and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.
So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.
The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.
See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.
So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.
Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.
It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.
And that brewed a new plan in his mind.
He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.
Until you’re so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.
And you will play right into his hands.
He’ll make sure of it.
Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.
When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.
Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.
Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.
With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.
You’d tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.
Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? You’d even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.
But what can you do? You’ve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance — and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.
Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?
Let alone cherish?
The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.
An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.
“What are you doing?“ he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.
Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.
But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.
The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, “You said,” your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, “That you could make me forget it all.”
You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. “But I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.” warm breath mingling with his.
The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.
“Correction, princess.” he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. “I offered you to become mine.”
Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.
You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.
“Become yours without even seeing ‘you’?” you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.
Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. You’d only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.
(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle that’d brought to your mouth.)
His sigh makes you blink, “You’re an impulsive creature.” he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.
“Does it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?” his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.
You purse your lips in confusion, “Is your face radioactive?”
The taps pause, “Worse.” he says breezily.
“How worse?” you push closer.
“Enough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?” there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself — is uncertain.
You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. “Try me.”
A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.
The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.
It's enough permission for you.
Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.
A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.
Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than you’ve ever dared to venture.
Khaslana turns his head away — in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.
It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.
You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands — and kiss him.
Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.
His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.
You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.
It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.
You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips —
“PRINCESS [NAME]!!!”
A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.
“LADY [NAME]?!!”
Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, you’ve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altar—
Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.
“Ahh…” he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, “Looks like your hero— no, your fiance is here to pick you up.”
Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and then— him.
A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).
“Well then? Princess?” your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, “What will you do now?” a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.
You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.
It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows — you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.
…. However.
“I don't want to go.” your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the hero’s armory, those silver strands — ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.
It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.
“…What?”
You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, “I don't want to go ba— oof—!”
A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.
“I don't believe you,” he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.
You keep on searching for it though, “Tell me what will make you believe then.”
He sneers, “This is just a game to you.”
“It is not.” frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.
But he doesn't listen, “You don't even understand— you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to you—!” he tugs at his hair.
You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, “You naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?” his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. “There is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do that—”
You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.
Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything he’s dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.
His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.
Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.
His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself — and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.
“You’ll leave me.” he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.
Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.
Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. “You’ll abandon me at the first chance you get— like him, like everyone —”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, “Never. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.”
A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.
“Tell me…” his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. “Tell me to stop, princess.” he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.
Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, “Don’t— don't stop, Khaslana.”
A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.
“Could you… kiss me again?” you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, “So that I know this isn't a dream?”
He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, “… Please?”
If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.
This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.
Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.
The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face — though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.
The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.
Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, you’d caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop — till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.
Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.
When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears — you feel lightheaded in the best way.
“Hah…“ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. “Sick of me already?”
At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.
It makes him croon.
Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.
“You’re one greedy princess, aren't you?” your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.
You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.
His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.
His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.
“What’s wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?” he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh — but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.
He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.
“Well,” he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. “It doesn't really matter to me either way. Because…”
He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one — he dives in.
You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.
Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.
Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.
Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.
He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.
Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.
You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaise’s surface.
The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve — no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.
The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.
But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.
Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.
He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.
“Beautiful.“ he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.
The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.
But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.
It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.
You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold — and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.
You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.
“Princess,” he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback — mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.
“You’ve given yourself to me so sweetly.” your heart thumps at the praise, “So,” he presses his forehead against yours, “Won’t you let me give myself to you, in return?”
You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten — perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability he’s offered.
You nod, “Y-yes,” wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “All of you— I want all of you, Khaslana.”
Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, “Last chance, princess— if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.”
Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, “Good.”
This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.
Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.
Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.
Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.
One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.
Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine — your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.
“Tsk…” Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, “I thought the Shadows had loosened you eno— ugh…”
Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.
Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.
And then, a chuckle escapes him — snapping you out of the numbing jolts.
You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.
In all honesty? You feel the same.
“[Name], [Name], [Name]…” he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.
“Kha..as…—!” you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.
“Shhh…” Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. “I know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.”
You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.
With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.
In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.
Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together — your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.
If he died right here, he thinks, he’d die a very, very happy man.
The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.
Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.
Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.
Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.
And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where you’ve always yearned to be at.
—
Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.
When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.
It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.
Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that he’s spent all night in that position.
For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him — at his unmasked face.
Tenderness dusts the porcelain edges like the brushworks on a beloved painting, the burgeoning dawn makes his silver hair sparkle.
He reaches to take your smaller hand in his, his thumb traces circles on the faint swells on your wrist, before he leans down to press his lips against the mark on your ring finger.
You don't flinch, or recoil, rather, you relax in his hold and it makes his whole soul preen in victory.
You chose him, you chose the monster instead of the hero.
You’ve decided to stay with him instead of his brother, you’ve become his and you’ve accepted him in return — all with a smile.
And really, what better revenge than this?
… So, you’ve made it this far, huh? Have this badge 📛 of the Freaklings™️
The base of this fic is taken from a very old brainrot I shared when Flame Reaver was first leaked and the “twist” is taken from a Phantom of the Opera au I had in my drafts (featuring Phainon and Flame Reaver as well). But I kind of lost interest in that project, so, I decided to use it here instead 😔
This is very, very different from my usual works, I knowww. The objective of this fic was really only to dump all of my Flame Reaver thirsts in one place because oh my god, they were driving me CRAZY every ovulation season and I just really really needed to get them out somewhere once and for all.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading<3 I’ll now go reconnect with nature 🗿
P. S. SOUSOURADA SUPREMACY 🔥
Edit 06/05/26: I initially had this fic tagged as only Dubcon because that is what I had in mind when I wrote this and because, I'd assumed that the warning of Noncon-Elements were already implied in the Dubious Consent warning. But a few people pointed out that giving that clear-cut warning would be more appropriate and, I agree. Extremely sorry for any misdirection ;—;
tw - fem!reader, kidnapping, non/consensual touching, gojo being gross. i have a very high fever. assume this is unrelated.
“She’s pretty sick.”
“She is, Satoru.”
“Think she’s gonna throw up?”
“No, Satoru.”
“Like, at all?”
“Why do you sound disappointed?”
Above you, Satoru frowned. He was straddling your stomach, a knee planted on either side of your waist, leaning so far down that his forehead nearly touched yours. On any other day, you might’ve been able to deal with his enthusiastic disregard for personal space, but on any other day, you wouldn’t be running a temperature more commonly found on the surface of the sun. Your chest ached from coughing and your eyes refused to stay open for more than a minute at the time. A romantic, poetic part of you thought it might be your body physically rejecting the two men who’d been holding you captive for months, now, but more realistically you knew it was probably just a head cold.
The mattress dipped next to your head. A cool, scarred palm pressed against your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back with a click of the tongue. Suguru. He’d started his mother-hen routine as soon as you’d admitted (stupidly, in hindsight) to feeling a little sick and had yet to give it up. Part of it must’ve been nostalgia. His daughters were in their late teens. It’d been years since he’d had anything soft and vulnerable to dote on. But, as you glared at him through watery eyes, you would’ve sworn there was something else there. An edge. A shadow. The slightest, barest hint of anger that there was anything on this planet that could hurt you other than him.
But then you blinked at it was gone, replaced by stoic neutrality as he snatched a bottle off the bedside table and twisted off the childproof cap. You felt something pressed being pressed against your lips and pursed them tighter, in response. Suguru sighed.
“It’s just medicine, sweetheart.”
Yeah, right. You’d heard that one before.
Your voice was all grit. Driveway gravel lubricated with battery acid and strained through a sandpaper funnel. “…label.”
Suguru rolled his eyes, but handed the bottle over anyway. You forced yourself to sit up, lasting just long enough to scan over the bold-font logo and excessive use warnings that you would be gleeful ignoring before collapsing back onto your pillow and letting Suguru place the pill on your tongue. It tasted like chalk and misery, which was somehow still better than the god-awful herbal tea he gave you to help swallow.
Meanwhile, Satoru watched it all, unmoving and unblinking. He tended to do that whenever Suguru was pampering you – forget he was part of scene and relegate himself a silent, observant feature of the background. He only came back to himself when you sniffled, ducking your head to sneeze into your comforter. A smile pulled at the edges of his lips, one of his hands reaching up to ghost over the curve of your jaw. “You’re kind of hot like this. All helpless and whiney, I mean.”
He moved to cup your chin. Suguru caught his wrist. “Don’t even think about it.”
“That’s not fair,” he pouted. “How come som virus gets to be inside of her and I can’t?”
This question was swiftly and mercifully deemed too stupid to answer. Suguru pushed himself to his feet and Satoru sighed languidly, flopping onto the bed next to you. “It’s not like I’ll catch anything. World’s Strongest Sorcerer, remember?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t get sick, idiot.”
“But what if it doe—”
You cut him off with a conveniently timed coughing fit. The ugly type – prolonged and hacking, forceful enough to leave you panting while your throat burnt. Satoru grinned. Before Suguru could stop him, he threw himself into you and licked a long stripe over your open mouth, then laughed as you groaned and swatted him away.
“See?” he asked, smirking at Suguru. “Nobody died.”
Suguru responded by pitching the bottle of pills at his co-kidnapper, nailing Satoru in the head with enough force to crack the plastic.
Exactly one week later, well after you’d recovered, Satoru would find himself tucked into the same bed, coughing and sneezing while Suguru held you in his lap on the living room couching, whispering sweet nothings and going on about how glad he was to have you all to himself just loudly enough to be overheard.
SYNOPSIS: Seeking to deepen his understanding of the human mind, The Doctor offers a ‘special’ experiment to his favourite subordinate—you—and his dear friend, Regrator. Amidst the heat of the study, the fine line between scientific curiosity and personal intrusion blurs as the Second Harbinger finds himself joining in on the fun.
CONTENT WARNING: DUBCON, fatui!reader, reader is dottore’s subordinate, reader is referred to as ‘miss’, petty bickering between the old men, slight scientific jargon, prob inaccurate science stuff (sorry), slight pervert pantalone, smut (mdni), nipple play (?), pantalone-centric in first half of smut, p*rn w/o plot, exhibitionism, dottore gets FOMO lowkey, implied use of aphrodisiac (m), p in v, protected sex but eventual unprotected sex, threesome, double penetration, anal sex (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, not beta read.
WORD COUNT: 8.2k
NOTES: happy june :”3 !! i hope you enjoy this very self indulgent piece! i haven’t written a threesome in ages so apologies if its a bit clunky </3. div: babyg4rlhelps
The hallway leading to The Doctor’s laboratory was eerily quiet, his subordinates—like yourself—were currently on break at the cafeteria indulging in much needed fuel to power through yet another hectic day. The soles of your shoes echoed throughout the metallic floors, it served as a reminder at how deserted the corridor was; even though you’ve walked down this same path for years, the atmosphere never once failed to lick an icy shiver down your spine. It didn’t help how lifeless and dull these hallways were. As for the purpose of your early return in The Doctor’s laboratory, one of your colleagues had told you that the Harbinger required your presence urgently, and given your colleagues' words, it seemed to be a matter of importance.
Though, you wondered why The Doctor had specifically asked for you; as far as you were aware, your ranking as his subordinate wasn’t anything special—merely conducting experiments and quality control were your tasks, just like all the other subordinates under his authority. Ah, you didn’t mess up anything, did you? You always always followed protocols and it wasn’t like The Doctor had previously given you an earful for messing up an experiment.
In fact, he had been nothing but full of praise towards you; there was one instance where the Harbinger gleefully praised your intellect. Although to others, he never held back on his dissatisfaction whenever a colleague of yours messed up certain experimental procedures. The Doctor always spoke to them of the importance of materials as they were not easily obtainable, and to always carefully read the protocols. Unfortunately, his rather strange bias towards you made you the butt of the jokes amongst your colleagues in cafeteria conversations, and you were more than certain they were currently laughing at you behind your back.
“Hah! She’s like a teacher’s pet but instead of a teacher it's Lord Dottore! Hahahahahaha!” One of your colleagues started right after you were told The Doctor needed you back at the laboratory.
Of course, it was all light hearted but you wished they were a bit more mature about the situation because sometimes you couldn’t help but feel . . . weird around Lord Dottore at times—especially at times where he’d lean over your shoulder to inspect your task for the day. Maybe he simply needed a closer look but the way his chest ghosted against your back had you biting the inside of your cheeks.
Stepping inside the laboratory, you were greeted with an empty space, devoid of the man you were looking for. The room was how everyone left it before heading to the cafeteria—powered equipment turned off, hazardous chemicals stored away, and several documents sprawled across counters. For a supposedly urgent matter, you expected him to be at least present in his own laboratory.
Confused, you called out, “. . Lord Dottore?”
Silence stretched for a few moments before you received a response, “I am in my office. It would be preferable if you joined me.”
At the sound of his familiar voice, you followed its origin where it led you to the slightly ajar door to his office. Your heart pounded against your chest, you’ve only been inside there once to drop off research notes because the person who usually did it was absent that day, The Doctor also wasn’t inside when you had entered previously so this was your first time in his office with him.
Something about that unnerved you. Sure, he was somewhat ‘nicer’ to you but there wasn’t denying the fact that he was an interesting individual but you were under the same organisation, so it wasn’t your place to question the Harbinger nor his motives.
As you walked inside, you quietly closed the door behind out of politeness before turning around to get on one knee and bow your head. During the brief movement, you caught a familiar tall figure standing just off to the side of The Doctor’s desk.
“Lord Dottore, Lord Regrator.” But what was he doing here?
There wasn’t much you knew about Lord Regrator other than he was the Ninth Harbinger who was in charge of economic policies in the nation.
“There’s no need for formalities. Sit. I called you here to discuss a special experiment.” Dottore gestured a gloved hand at the empty seat before his desk, the corners of his lips slightly curled.
A special experiment? At the mention of an experiment, your heart calmed a little—it was your expertise after all, so there was no point fretting over it but the strange tension in the room seemed to scream otherwise. It also didn’t explain why Regrator was present, it wasn’t like they were about to start discussing finance with you.
You nodded, standing up to quietly make your way to the empty seat, “Of course. May I ask what this experiment is about?”
As you sat down, Dottore spoke up once more, both elbows atop the wooden desk, leaning a little closer, “Recently, I have been expanding my research on the human brain and its connection to the body regarding its response to bodily sensations such as touch. I have appropriate non-invasive equipment in my personal laboratory, however, the procedure is rather . . invasive.”
Invasive? What could Dottore possibly mean by that?
“Naturally, such an experiment necessitates a suitable candidate and their willing consent.”
A participant—you assumed that was your supposed role, the reason why Dottore required your presence. Once more, your heart thrummed out of nervousness, you weren’t going to conduct an experiment, you were going to be experimented on. The mention of an invasive procedure already had your mind spinning in a million different scenarios; he wasn’t going to cut you open, was he . . ?
“Your intelligence precedes your colleagues which is why I have found you to be the suitable candidate. Of course, it all comes down to your decision but it would be a delight to have your involvement.”
You sucked in a small breath, “May I . . read over the research proposal, Lord Dottore?” He wordlessly nodded, opening a drawer on his desk before sliding a neat stack of papers over.
Written in bold letters was the title: ‘Sensory cortex activation by stimulation’
The human mind remains an imperfectly understood mechanism. This study aims to document and analyze cerebral activity in response to external stimuli such as touch and pressure in order to better identify the relations between the human brain and body. The implications of this experimental research extend beyond mere academic curiosity, a more complex understanding of neurological behaviour under euphoric conditions may provide valuable insight into artificial human enhancement procedures. Experimentation of this nature requires a fully informed and consenting participant.
Methodology: The participant will be situated within a controlled laboratory environment under my supervision to maintain consistency of neurological readings throughout the duration of the experiment. Neurological activity will be monitored and recorded through the use of neural-imaging apparatus for high resolution cerebral observation. The participant will be gradually exposed to sexual stimuli in certain body areas as follows: nipple, clitoral and vaginal (penile penetration) leading up to orgasm which is the expected peak readings.
To ensure authenticity of collected data, the participant must remain aware and capable of providing continuous informed consent during all stages of experimentation and contraception will be used. Furthermore, a second participant (assigned to Pantalone) is set to carry out sexual stimuli mentioned above and is considered a controlled variable along with the primary participant. Collected findings will subsequently be analyzed for potential applications in the fields of cognitive enhancement and artificial synchronisation of human neural patterns.
In simpler terms, Dottore wanted to observe human neural activity during a euphoric state to better understand the connection between the brain and body? In all honesty, you were speechless. Not only was the former supervising the entire experiment but Lord Regrator was also a participant, at this point you were convinced this was some kind of humiliation ritual. There was no denying that The Doctor was extremely professional when it came to research, and you were more than certain it wasn’t going to be his first time seeing a naked human body—he had even written a formal proposal which further confirms that this experiment wasn’t some kind of perverted shenanigan.
“Do I, uh—Does the experiment require the primary participant to be . . fully naked?” You feigned a cough, flipping a page as you tried your best to avoid eye contact with Dottore. Though he wore a pointed mask, you were certain his eyes remained solely on you.
“It is not a necessity. Only stated areas in the proposal are required to be exposed for efficiency. I’d also like to mention that a generous compensation will be given once the experiment concludes.”
At the mention of compensation, your ears perked up. Even though the Fatui was an influential organization in Teyvat, the pay you received was fairly enough to get by but if you were being honest, you could use a bit more mora especially with this month’s bills rolling around. Without another word, you nodded, finally looking up at the Second Harbinger.
“Alright. I will participate in the experiment, Lord Dottore.”
Beneath the pointed mask, his rosy lips stretched into a wider smile, “Excellent. I require you to sign this contract then I shall conduct a pre-experiment interview to obtain better understanding of the participant.” Reaching over the desk, he flipped over to the last page of the proposal and slid a fountain pen over, silently tapping his gloved fingers against the wooden surface as he watched you sign.
With your participation officially sealed with a signature, The Doctor carefully placed the document inside the drawer and fixed his attention on you, gloved hands loosely clasped around one another, “Are you sexually active?” His question settled into the thick silence awkwardly, it stuck out like a sore thumb—all too sudden and personal yet your commander had simply asked it as if he were asking about today’s weather.
You were aware this was part of the protocol but having Regrator present in the office seemed a bit much for you; what was he even here for? Surely, he wasn’t about to start asking you medical related questions, he didn’t even work in the field. Discomfort enveloped your warmed skin, a thousand kisses akin to small prickles—hot and itchy.
Shifting ever so slightly in your seat, you spoke, “N-No . . but I have had intercourse before.” Archons, if you were given the option between Her Majesty unleashing her unforgiving ice on you or to explain your sex life to The Doctor, without hesitation you’d pick the former. Dottore was still your boss, after all but thankfully, he was as professional as you expected, keenly listening to your reply while nodding—nothing more, nothing less. If he had any reaction to your answers, he didn’t let on.
“And when was the last time?”
God, when was the last time you had sex? You simply couldn’t remember. Being a Fatui wasn’t a walk down the park, days in The Doctor’s laboratory were long and tedious, by the time you return home late in the afternoon, you’d only have the strength to eat and wash up before welcoming the night. The routine was monotonous, yes but there wasn’t room to mope around and complain.
“I cannot accurately say but most likely a month ago.” With your boyfriend then but The Doctor didn’t need to know about your past relationship.
The Second Harbinger’s questions continued for a couple more minutes, he asked about every single medical related question you could think of—medical history, current medications, prior injuries, and existing neurological conditions. Naturally, you tried your best to answer as accurately as advised by The Doctor and each response was recorded with meticulous precision.
“Good.” The word sounded less like praise and more like a conclusion. “If at any point you wish to withdraw from the study, you will retain your right to do so.”
Silence stretched inside the cold room.
You stared at Dottore. Through his pointed mask, he stared back. Neither of you spoke as his words lingered in the icy atmosphere like wisps of smoke, light and airy yet it held a bitter taste. A beat passed, then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth curved upward.
“I assume you’re wondering whether I genuinely mean that.”
So The Doctor was aware of your growing suspicion regarding his previous statement; you knew well enough how he worked, his experimental endeavours weren’t obtained through ethical and considerate experiments, and for him to state something like that was clearly out of character. Or maybe he actually housed an ounce of decency in him.
“Pardon my brazenness but yes, a little.”
The smile on his lips widened, “Reasonable.”
“Coerced participation produces unreliable results, especially neurological results.”
It wasn’t concern nor ethics but merely data quality, you didn’t know whether to applaud him for being such a dedicated scholar. Surprisingly, his reasoning was sound, emotions can and will affect neurological scans; factors such as stress can create physiological ‘noise’ which would increase variability in data.
At the lack of your reply, The Doctor merely dismissed your silence as acknowledgement and spoke up once more, “As you’re already aware, this study requires two participants. The reliability of the data is dependent upon minimising external variables and, unfamiliarity constitutes as such.”
“In other words, you’re making us socialize.” Lord Regrator finally spoke up, his dulcet voice curling around your body like a serpentine predator.
Well, it wasn’t entirely odd to familiarise oneself with a fellow study participant, especially if intimacy was on the table but the whole situation felt rather awkward. Under more casual circumstances, you’d feel at ease but being confined in your commander’s office with another Harbinger felt nothing but forced; you felt nothing less than a puppet being forced to interact with another toy at the hands of a naïve child.
“Call it whatever you prefer. Participants exhibit measurably different neurological responses when interacting with unfamiliar individuals.” A gloved finger tapped the wooden desk, “Trust levels, social comfort, perceived predictability—they all introduce inconsistencies. Unless, of course, you want me to find another willing participant. After all, you do have the right to withdraw from the study, Pantalone.”
Hidden beneath Dottore’s words was provocation but to Pantalone, the taunt was clear as day. From where he stood, he could see the way the former’s lips curled into a smug smile—a silent challenge between both of them. But Regrator didn’t bite, no, instead, he shifted his attention toward you.
“Well.” He smiled pleasantly, “It seems we’ve been assigned homework. If Dottore wishes us to become familiar with one another, I suppose introductions are in order.”
Satisfied that events were proceeding according to plan, the Second Harbinger immediately returned to his notes. Lord Regrator watched his companion for a brief moment, “He’s actually taking notes. How amusing.” A gentle laugh escaped his lips, he moved a tad closer to get a better view and the scent of tobacco faintly invaded your senses.
For the next hour, conversation between you and Regrator drifted from formal introductions to declassified Fatui affairs to Snezhnayan politics, and for the entirety of it, Dottore wordlessly sat in his seat, taking notes of everything. The conversation started off stiff as expected—Pantalone may be a participant but he was still a Harbinger, and with it came formality but as words flowed, you eased slightly. You learned about his role as a high ranking Fatuus and despite your lack of interest in his field, you simply nodded along.
Lord Regrator differed from Lord Dottore, and whether that observation was positive or not, you were uncertain. Different in a way that the former was clearly built for conversations, he gave flattery when needed, smiled at your words, and gave colourful responses; you assumed he obtained his mannerisms through his role but even with his authority, he was easier to converse with.
“Alright, that is all for today. I shall require both your presence next week once I have the appropriate equipment set up.”
With that, you excused yourself first and headed back to the cafeteria with a racing heart. On the way over, you questioned whether what you were getting yourself into was something you’d regret in the future but all your mind could think about was the coming week. The mere idea of Lord Regrator intimately touching you shouldn’t have invited heat between your legs but with every step taken closer to the cafeteria, the more it grew. It didn’t help how obscene visuals of you and him flashed in your mind every second or so.
The new week rolled around with slight anticipation; it was embarrassing, really, the slight excitement buried in the depths of your core pulsing with expectation. It was weird to anticipate such an erotic experiment but pure lust fogged your mind primarily due to the fact that you simply haven’t had sex in a month. Weeks of pent up stress and emotions? You were definitely overdue for release. Though, you did have to constantly remind yourself that it was a formal study within a controlled environment, and not some kind of one night stand with your commander’s colleague.
“I trust you’re both well rested?”
The three of you were back inside The Doctor’s office, it was late afternoon, the warm glow of the sun spilled through the frostbitten windows, painting the rather dull room in a mellow hue. The rest of your colleagues had already left the laboratory which meant you, along with the two Harbingers were the only ones present. It made you a little nervous—being alone in a room with two of Snezhnaya’s influential individuals.
Pantalone hummed and you replied with a small nod, already feeling your skin starting to prick.
Dottore led you both into another room connected to his office, it wasn’t as vast and you assumed this was strictly out of bounds to everyone but him. The room felt unnervingly sterile, its walls were constructed from smooth metal panels with narrow seams, and bright white lighting illuminated the space.
At the centre of the room stood the experiment’s primary apparatus—a reclining examination chair surrounded by an intricate arrangement of cables, a machine, and polished metallic arms suspended from the ceiling. The most striking feature of the room was the wall opposite the entrance—a single pane of reinforced observation glass stretched nearly from floor to ceiling; beyond the glass you assumed was the control room, housing machinery responsible for operating the experiment.
“For the entire duration of the experiment, I shall remain inside the control room to oversee the study and note down all results. Remove any unnecessary layers of clothing such as overcoats and gloves, and meet me by the apparatus.”
Left in your blouse and pants, you headed to the center of the room where Dottore stood with Pantalone just a step behind. The former tinkered around the apparatus, pressing a few buttons and flipping switches with a gloved finger, causing the machine to whirr to life; it hummed a low, almost quiet tune that somewhat settled your nerves.
“Lie down.”
The Doctor looked over his feathered shoulder, pointed mask gleaming beneath the harsh lighting before turning his attention to the suspended metallic arms for inspection. You did as you were told, positioning the entirety of your body along the examination chair, the leather was cool against the fabric of your clothes which left tiny goosebumps from the difference in temperature. Wordlessly, you watched as he positioned the metallic arms near your head, several inches away from contact; its tips were equipped with a semi-circle that encased your head. So, this was what The Doctor meant about non-invasive equipment.
“Once I operate the machine, you may feel a slight sensation but do not fret, it is simply the apparatus emitting pulses of energy to record neural activity. And as for you, I require complete obedience—every single word.”
“Hah, you act as if I’m some kind of disobedient mutt. I’m wounded.” Regrator pressed a hand over his chest, a mocking smile directed at his colleague.
The latter didn’t bother replying and instead walked off to the control room, the soles of his boots clicking with every calculated step. Pantalone softly shook his head, muttering a faint “Lovely as ever.” beneath his breath, full of sarcasm.
“Any command given will be spoken through this intercom.”
Your attention quickly moved from Regrator to the mounted speakers on the corners of the room as Dottore’s amplified voice filled the space. Gaze darting over to the foot of the examination chair, just past the Ninth Harbinger’s torso, you watched your commander on the other side of the observation glass. Heat warmed your cheeks at the realisation that you directly faced the latter which meant he’d be able to see everything you exposed.
“Base readings first. In the meantime, Pantalone, I trust you have already taken the concoction I made prior?”
With the metallic arms whirring to life, you could barely hear The Doctor’s words over the pulsing of the machine. Just as he mentioned, there was a slight foreign sensation in your head, it felt like pressure but also not at the same time, though, it wasn’t painful. You could only watch as the two conversed over the observation glass.
“Indeed.” Regrator nodded.
Two days ago, Dottore had given him a curated substance meant to increase one’s libido, thus concentrating blood flow to the genitalia. He had no qualms consuming it but it was foreign, indeed, he had never taken such a drug before and it took all his willpower not to take you right then and there. It didn’t help how his semi-hardened cock twitched inside his pants, involuntarily rubbing against the fabric of his underwear.
Dottore jotted down a few notes as the monitors displayed your real-time cerebral activity; so far, everything looked good, “Commencing the first phase of the experiment: nipple stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. For the entire duration—without stopping—the nipples are to be stimulated via gently pinching or twisting.”
Thirty seconds didn’t seem too long, right? With that, you slightly lifted yourself off the examination chair, bringing your blouse over your chest before attempting to unclip your brassiere. Seeing your struggle, Pantalone brought himself closer, a faint whiff of tobacco following, “May I?”
Despite his chivalrous offer, his amethyst gaze kept darting at your clothed breasts and the smoothness of your skin—he knew it was impolite to do so but being under the influence of Dottore’s concoction had him acting a tad out of character. He cleared his throat as his cock twitched at the sight before him, swallowing down the low moan he almost let out. Could you really blame him? The garment was a black lace adorned with intricate patterns, not to mention the fabric being slightly see-through—a feature he found rather brazen. Pantalone could almost assume you wore this specific garment today for him to see. And maybe for your commander, as well.
“Thank you . .” You nodded and allowed Regrator to help.
“Pardon the intrusion.” He laced an arm through the narrow space between your back and the chair, lithe fingers expertly unclasping your brassiere with one hand.
Your heart may or may not have skipped a beat.
In one swift movement, the garment loosened around your torso, threatening to slip off. With slight hesitation and a burning face, you removed the fabric and shyly placed it on the chair right by your thigh. Almost immediately, icy air kissed your warmed skin which caused your nipples to harden, a small hiss almost slipping past your lips. While you were occupied with embarrassment, Pantalone’s gaze traced the curves of your chest, each mound sinfully beckoning his large hands—maybe even his mouth too. Obviously, it wasn’t his first seeing a naked woman but how his mind reeled with selfish fantasies was beyond childish.
In the control room, Dottore was unfazed—he had seen many nude bodies before and yours weren’t any different. It was nothing special, really but your cerebral activity on the other hand . . . That was more interesting.
“Whenever you’re ready.” He spoke into the intercom.
“I’ll be starting now, Miss.” Regrator sat on the narrow space of the chair, his clothed thigh brushing against your own; you tried not to think of the warmth which radiated from his body or how your name effortlessly rolled off his tongue like it was meant to be.
A silent nod was all you could muster—not even a split second eye contact to acknowledge his presence out of politeness but from the looks of it, Regrator didn’t mind at all as he proceeded to bring both hands up to your chest. If only you’d look his way you’d see a shy hue of crimson dusting his pale cheeks and ears but alas, your gaze fixated on the ceiling above.
A small yelp forced its way past your lips; Regrator used both index fingers to gently trace your areolas a couple of times, mere centimetres shy from your pebbled nipples, the tips of his fingers were cold—not icy but enough to send a strong shiver down your spine. You missed the way the corners of his lips subtly curled upwards in utter amusement—who would’ve thought Dottore’s lovely subordinate hid quite melodious tunes? There was no doubt his Harbinger colleague thought of the same thing.
As a matter of fact, despite being behind an observation glass, Dottore heard the sound you made all too clearly. The door to the control room was slightly ajar which caused any noise—minute or not—to spill through. It wasn’t foreign for his experimental subjects to create any noise but today differed, what was usually tunes of pain turned into hums of pleasure, and he couldn’t decide between the two which he preferred.
Maybe, just maybe by a tad bit—from how his core twisted with delight—it was probably the latter.
But Dottore had no room to ponder over that, not when your neurological activity displayed exquisite images on his monitor. As expected, a small cluster of highlights illuminated the somatosensory cortex which indicated its activation; he quickly jotted down notes, eyes trained on the screen before him, trying not to let your saccharine noises get to his head.
Another twitch of his now fully hardened cock had him letting out a low groan beneath his shaky breaths. The sight before him was simply exquisite; Pantalone may not have the best eyesight but he didn’t need a perfect vision to deduce the divine beauty—breasts splayed flat, torso arching ever so slightly, your head turned to the side, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and brows furrowed in embarrassment.
Oh, what a shy little thing you were.
“Lord R-Regrator—!” He gently pinched your nipples which spread a sharp, quick shock across your chest. Another arch of your back pressed your skin closer to Regrator’s digits, he experimented with a slight twist, turning them between his index fingers and thumbs.
Archons, how embarrassing! You tried. You truly tried to hold back any unwanted sounds but the Lord Harbinger seemed to know what he was doing—how to please a woman—you couldn’t help but moan out his name from how amazing his hands felt against your feverish skin. Save for the low hum of machinery, the room was filled with complete silence and any noise made stuck out like crimson ink on a blank ivory canvas.
“Do let me know if my actions hurt you at some point.” Pantalone mindlessly murmured, mind completely fogged with lust, and senses drowned in your muffled moans.
You finally looked up at him through glassy eyes and wet lashes, it didn’t help how the bright lights above drew sparkles in your irises. He almost missed the wordless nod you responded with, too focused on the growing haze painted on your face. As Regrator continued his stimulation, shallow pants filled the space above your face and by this point, your face was as warm as it could get. Occasionally, your body shuddered beneath his expert touch, slowly and steadily driving you over the edge as each second passed.
Before another embarrassing moan could spill from your lips, The Doctor’s voice flooded the room via intercom, “First phase has concluded. Moving on to the second phase: clitoral stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. As previously mentioned, stimulation has to be continuous for the entire duration.”
Even though embarrassment had slightly subsided, you hesitantly reached for the button of your pants, undoing them with trembling hands. Once more, the Ninth Harbinger offered assistance to which you thankfully accepted—there was no reason getting shy now, he had already played with your nipples earlier. Driving the soles of your shoes onto the cushioned examination chair, you lifted your hips and pulled your pants down along with your underwear with the Harbinger’s help—just enough to expose your cunt.
His eyes zeroed in on your glistening entrance. All for him? Oh, he was being spoiled, indeed. The sight of your cunt fanned the blazing flames of Pantalone’s ego—all this just from mere nipple play? How adorable. You must’ve been really touch starved.
“Before we commence the second phase, Pantalone, I trust you can find the clitoris, right? Perhaps you need my assistance?”
“I am not ignorant, Dottore.”
“I am simply making sure. No reason to get snappy.”
You wanted to laugh. Two Harbingers bickering should not have amused you but the pettiness behind your commander’s voice and the slight annoyance laced with Lord Regrator’s words was all too amusing. If you were to tell a fellow colleague about them two bickering whether one could find the clitoris or not, they would not believe a single word that’d come out of your mouth. Who knew they could talk about trivial matters, too, how interesting.
Lord Regrator returned his rightful attention to you, his dull expression immediately shifted into the soft smile he always wore, “Ready, Miss?” Meek, you nodded. The Harbinger repositioned himself, right knee slotted between your parted legs to get a better view of your wet cunt.
He gathered the slick coating your cunt, spreading it on the pads of his fingers before pushing back your clitoral hood to reveal the swollen nub of flesh all in its needy glory. Embarrassingly enough, a simple ghostly touch on your clitoris had your entire body jerking against the leather of the chair, followed by a wanton moan of the Harbinger’s title. You quickly turned your head to the side and pressed the skin of your forearm against your lips—a futile attempt as the moment you obstructed your face, Lord Regrator’s digit began rubbing your clitoris in tight circles, as though a wordless protest against muffling the sounds you made.
His fingers were good—amazing, even, to the point where you wished thirty seconds went as quickly as a single second. In your head, clitoral stimulation of that duration was doable but you wholly underestimated yourself and the Lord Harbinger’s skills, on top of that, you were still trying to recover from earlier. You weren’t supposed to orgasm on this phase of the experiment otherwise it would ruin it entirely but it seemed like he had a goal: to drive you over the edge before the thirty seconds were up.
“L-Lord Regrator, I think—Mhm!”
“Hm? Were you saying something?”
The arm slung over your face immediately flew downwards to grasp his wrist, attempting to slow down his actions. Your free hand gripped on the side of the examination chair, nails digging crescents into the leather to ground and steer yourself from the impending orgasm. You arched your back and moaned aloud once more, earning a satisfied smile from the Lord Harbinger.
Dottore’s gaze ripped away from the monitors and landed at the centre of the room where you and Pantalone where, he carefully watched as your body pathetically writhed under the latter’s eager touch. He could barely see your lust-bitten face but judging from the moans you let out, his friend was doing exceptionally well at pleasing you—even the activity displayed on the monitors could back that fact; more regions of the brain were now highlighted indicating an increase in activity,
It was indeed fascinating to observe how one’s brain lit up from mere stimulation.
The tune of shallow, soft pants filled Regrator’s ears, it was amusing to watch you scramble and gather the threads of sanity in your palms, refusing to let pleasure take control of your body. Did he feel bad? A little but he was no saint. He switched from tight circles to figure eights, pressing onto your sensitive nub with a little more pressure. Your legs shook with bliss, fingers wrapped around his wrist tightening as you teetered to the brink of an orgasm.
“Ngh—ah! Lord Re—Haah!”
“I suggest you use your words otherwise I cannot understand you.” Mockery laced his dulcet voice but with the hum of machinery mixed with your shameless moans, you didn’t pick up on it.
When did Pantalone last have fun like this? Sure, he was powerful enough to control the nation’s economic state with a mere snap of his fingers but being able to control the pleasure you felt? Beyond satisfying. Not only was he rewarded with your lust-fogged expressions but also how your body squirmed beneath his touch—desperate and pathetic.
Your core tightened, it stretched and stretched further waiting for the recoil called climax but before you could reach it, your commander’s cold voice filled the room once more, “Second phase has concluded. We’ll be moving on to the final phase after a short interval.”
With that, Regrator pulled away his hand which elicited an embarrassing whine of protest from you. In a daze, you stared up at the ceiling and silently thanked Lord Dottore for the short interval because you knew well enough you’d be a complete mess once the third phase began. Though, the Second Harbinger’s reasoning was most certainly experiment-related rather than pure concern for the subject.
The tight knot deep in your core disappointingly dissipated as each second passed without stimulation—it was beyond frustrating to say the least, especially after weeks without sex. Despite the cool air inside, a sheen of sweat lightly coated your entire body and you felt stuffy; suddenly, the fabric pulled halfway down your legs felt too restricting, the blouse pooled around your neck didn’t help either. At this point, you just wanted one thing, and judging by the crimson blush on Lord Regrator’s cheeks, he wanted it too—release.
Dottore simply wasn’t being nice with the interval, the main reason for it was to let your cerebral activity return to baseline, otherwise readings from the second phase would carry on to the third phase and mess with the experiment. But he did have a more selfish reason that didn’t need disclosing—the growing tent between his legs.
He only needed a few moments to recollect himself. His bodily response to the scene before him was normal—he was still a man, after all— but in a professional setting, it was undesirable. Dottore knew what he was getting into when he first wrote the proposal for this serendipitous experiment but he didn’t expect to be aroused by it. He leaned back in his seat, a subtle glance at the prominent bulge before letting out a soft sigh.
How truly inconvenient.
After a couple moments of recollecting himself—or simply trying to—Dottore spoke into the intercom to commence the final phase, “The third will be slightly different, there will be no set duration as the end goal of this phase is an orgasm but restrictions will be in order. That means strictly no touching aside from vaginal penetration, this would count as kissing, groping or holding one another. Doing so would interfere with results.”
Since Dottore observed the sensory cortex, other forms of stimulation besides penetration would also be recorded, lowering authenticity of the results.
“Contraception is located above the machinery.” He added.
Pantalone reached for the smooth surface of the machinery next to the examination chair where he grabbed a sealed packet. Lithe fingers curled around the waistband of his pants, you watched as he unbuttoned and pulled it down just enough to reveal his hardened, leaking cock. It slapped against his clothed abdomen, donning a crimson blush that mirrored the hues on his pale cheeks. The pearlescent glob of pre-cum coating his slit had you salivating a little, tongue subtly swiping over your bottom lip.
Wide eyed and lips slightly parted, you could only wordlessly stare at the foreign sight before you, he was decently thick and merely looking at it had you clenching around nothing—eager to have all of the Lord Harbinger inside you.
Pantalone let out a low hiss, expertly rolling the latex down his shaft, “Ready?” Amethyst eyes clouded with lust found your gaze. Lord Regrator’s expression was different from what he usually wore, the cunning, unreadable smile was gone, leaving room for a flustered one.
With a wordless nod from you, the Harbinger fully situated himself between your legs, both hands each circling around the back of your knees to push them to your bare chest, “Hold your legs open for me, will you, dear?” You did as you were told, hooking an arm on each knee, keeping your legs in place and eagerly waiting for his next move.
Knees digging on leather, Pantalone placed a hand on the wide headrest of the chair while the other curled around his base, slowly guiding his cock inside your sopping entrance. A mix of your moans lingered in the air as he bottomed out, the entirety of his shaft sat inside you—heavy and hard. The stretch was delicious, it almost felt purely sinful, you’ve never taken a cock that stretched you this good before and it was dangerous because you might just get addicted to it.
Pantalone leaned over you, free hand now joining the other on holding the headrest. The silvery chain of his glasses dangled mere centimetres from your face, teasing and ghosting over your feverish skin. He sat still for a moment to relish inside your tight, velvety walls, he felt like a boyish virgin all over again with how stimulated he was, and he hasn’t even started thrusting yet.
But Pantalone had a job to do: to bring you to an orgasm because that’s what he agreed to upon signing the contract of this study—to put your pleasure before his own.
A beat or two passed ‘til he slowly drew his hips back—with only the bulbous tip remaining inside—and languidly thrusted, your nails dug into your soft skin, leaving small crescent-shaped indents. You could really only hold on to your legs and take the steady yet forceful pace Lord Regrator had set which caused your body to jolt repeatedly with every smack of his hips against your own.
It was pure torture for Pantalone, you looked absolutely divine yet he wasn’t allowed to hold you—to grope and squeeze at your bouncing breasts, to rub at your clit, to suck on every part of your exposed skin and finally taste you for himself. Alas, he could only rake his gaze up and down your semi-naked form and fantasize how you’d react beneath his palms.
The examination chair groaned underneath the weight of Pantalone’s thrusts, high pitched squeaks interlaced with the string of moans and whimpers filling the entire space. Pantalone carefully shifted his weight to his upper body, anchoring his hands on the headrest to piston his hips into your own.
“O-Oh, god! Lord Regrator!”
“God? H-Haah! Ngh—‘M no god, my dear.”
Bitterness laced his trembling words, it's almost as though he took offense and now he expressed his disdain by merely picking up the pace, rendering you a babbling mess to shut you up. Skin slapping and the smell of sex dangerously danced in the air, one Dottore couldn’t simply ignore—especially the former.
The Second Harbinger messily jotted down notes, fingers tightening around the pen every now and then whenever you let out a loud moan. He didn’t stop his gaze from wandering to where you and Pantalone were, crimson gaze locked onto your jolting form while his friend eagerly pounded you like a starved man. How your legs vigorously bounced in the air was enough to let him know how roughly Pantalone went on you.
The problem between his legs worsened and Dottore may or may not have rubbed his hard on a few times beneath the desk. Just to get a small taste of friction his hardened cock desperately wanted. Childish? Perhaps but fuck he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of trading places with Pantalone—even for a mere second or two. He was more than curious what you’d feel like around him.
“Lord Regrator! I’m—aah! I’m close—ngh!” Legs burning from holding the position, you let go and opted to wrap them around the Harbinger’s waist, locking him in a rather intimate distance. Pantalone let out a breathless chuckle and changed his pace into deep, short thrusts, he grinded into you every few strokes or so, allowing you to see the stars.
A few more sharp thrusts and the knot inside your stomach snapped violently as pure bliss engulfed the entirety of your body. Pantalone, unable to move due to your legs tightening around him, sheathed his cock deep inside and grinded on you, his fat tip rubbing against your sweet, sweet spot. He watched your limp body convulsed beneath him as shocks of pleasure came crashing into you.
He followed suit, spilling his warm seed into the latex while relishing in the tightness of your walls, a loud grunt forced from his rosy lips.
The two of you stayed still for a moment, individuals merely reduced to a heaving mess as the fog of orgasm slowly dissipated from your bodies. As if on cue, Dottore spoke through the intercom,
“The final phase of the study has concluded. Your cooperation is appreciated.”
A breathless laugh from the Harbinger above you, “I sure hope you managed to collect ample findings, Dottore.”
The latter could only scoff, of course he was able to do so. As opposed to his hypothesis—where he had only hypothesized two regions would be active—a handful of regions were active during an orgasm. It gave him a better understanding of how to map the human brain.
At the latter’s silence, Pantalone spoke once more, “Though, I am rather curious,” He let out a small hiss while pulling out. “Why did you need a second participant? Surely you’re more than capable of executing this task yourself, no? Unless . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you simply can’t do it.” To please a woman, he wanted to add.
There was only one way to interpret the Ninth’s words and despite it being ‘friendly’ banter, annoyance bubbled in Dottore’s chest, “Obviously, I would need to record findings hence my lack of participation in the study. But if you ask me, I would have done a better job.”
“Really?”
Silence followed.
Solely due to their brief exchange—or was argument a better word?—you found yourself sandwiched between Lord Dottore and Lord Regrator; every article of your clothing long discarded on the cold tiles, and machinery turned off, long forgotten. With the former laying on the examination chair, you straddled him, trembling legs on either side of his waist while the other Harbinger pressed his clothed chest against your back.
“Lord Dottore . .” You bit your lip.
In a haste, he had unzipped his pants and pulled out his leaking cock, rubbing the bare tip up and down your sensitive slit. Behind you, Pantalone’s hands mindlessly wandered all over your naked form—from the plush of your breasts to the fat of your ass, he left no skin untouched. But it wasn’t his hands alone, his lips trailed open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, leaving a few small bites in between.
Pantalone gently ushered you forward, one hand splayed across your back to bring you closer to Dottore ‘til your breasts squished against the latter’s chest. Both Harbingers lined their cocks to your entrances and slowly pushed inside. Slumped against the Second, you trembled violently as they stretched your holes out—one wrong move and you were sure to come undone.
With both cocks fully sheathed inside, all you could do at that point was pant like a mere mutt in heat, you haven’t had proper time to come down from your previous orgasm so any form of stimulation quite literally melted your brain and brought tears to your eyes.
Dottore cupped your jaw with a large, gloved hand and angled your face, he examined your fucked out expression momentarily before closing the distance. Messy and desperate, the Lord Harbinger’s kiss simply knocked oxygen from your lungs, he eagerly plunged his tongue past your lips and explored the inside of your mouth.
The kiss and the sting of his pointed mask digging into your cheek was enough to briefly distract you from their experimental thrusts. Shameless, you wailed into your commander’s mouth, knuckles turning into a lovely shade of ivory as you gripped the collar of his coat.
The examination chair groaned beneath the weight of the Harbingers’ merciless thrusts and one could only hope it was sturdy enough to last an entire round. Creaks of the chair mixed with the sinful harmony of your moans filled all four corners of the room, thankfully this space was a bit more secluded in comparison to your commander’s laboratory which meant anyone else walking down the corridors wouldn’t be able to hear the lewd sounds as much.
Despite the eagerness behind their thrusts, it was certainly surprising to have their movements coordinate with one another—an unspoken rhythm with the sole purpose of bringing you and themselves to release.
Dottore pulled away to catch his breath, leaving a thin translucent string of saliva connecting his kiss-bitten lips to your own, hot breaths mingling together through rough pants. The corner of the Harbinger’s lips curled upwards upon seeing your drunken expression—who knew you looked utterly divine stuffed with two cocks? It made him twitch.
Pantalone’s gaze fixated on your lower half—how your ass bounced and jolted with every powerful thrust he gave. The mere sight of his wet cock appearing and disappearing between the globes of your ass had him heaving a little harder. Maybe it was also due to the tightness of your rear, or the fact that having another cock inside you intensified the pleasurable friction he felt.
A few more harsh thrusts, the coil inside you finally snapped once more, bringing you to a rather earth shattering orgasm. Your body violently trembled in pure bliss as you tried to moan their names to no avail. With the sensation being too much, you fisted Dottore’s clothed chest as if doing so would somewhat ease the pleasurable pain your entire body felt.
The Second soon followed suit, a couple of desperate thrusts into your sopping cunt—ones that had you wailing in overstimulation—before sheathing himself deep inside and releasing thick, warm ribbons of cum. A string of colourful curses in his mother tongue slipped past his kiss-bitten lips as he came inside. Dottore filled you all the way to the brim ‘til his seed slowly seeped out of your greedy hole and onto the leather cushion beneath.
Ah, he’d have to get it cleaned now.
This left Pantalone who greedily hauled your limp body against his chest; one hand expertly rubbed your swollen clit while the other held your jaw to angle your face upwards so he could plunge his tongue inside your mouth. You choked on the messy kiss as the new angle invited him deeper inside. Dottore’s cock slipped out from the change in position but he didn’t mind, instead, he sat up and took it upon himself to plunge two long digits in your cunt.
His fingers were already long enough to reach far but the added thickness of his gloves had you arching your back. If it wasn’t for Lord Regrator’s firm hold, you would’ve already been slumped against the chair long ago. The former’s fingers moved in a ‘come hither’ motion which allowed him to brush against your sweet spot. Surely you could handle another one, right?
“Oh—hng! Close! Ah—haah!” Hands flew down to circle around Dottore’s wrist, you attempted to pathetically remove his fingers from your cunt which shortly proved futile as he remained unmoved.
You came once more, another blinding orgasm ripping through your orgasm but this time, you could barely even muster a whimper—only a soundless cry and fresh tears streaming down your face. Pantalone grunted and bit your shoulder as orgasm hit him, hot cum painting the walls of your rear; he grinded his hips against your ass to ride out his orgasm before releasing your skin from his bite.
Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing filled the walls and for a long moment, the three of you remained still to catch your breaths with reality slowly seeping in to replace what was once lust. You wanted to sleep right then and there, exhaustion weighed heavy on your body from how hard they both worked you—too tired to even think of the consequences.
None of this was supposed to happen—at least not the unexpected threesome but now that both Harbingers have had a taste of you, they might just come back for seconds.
sae has you pressed down against the bed, fucking into you so hard until kaiser swears the mattress concaves in. you're moaning so loud he's half worried the neighbors might hear.
"if you don't like it, give her back to me." kaiser snaps, leaning down to kiss you softly on the forehead.
you wrap your arms around him, gripping him hard as you whine and come all over sae's cock.
sae pulls out only to bring his mouth between your thighs, lapping up your slick until the numbness becomes overstimulation, until one of your hands comes down to press to his head with a cry.
"don't hurt her." kaiser almost rips you out of sae's grasp, it's a near thing, but sae grabs at you first.
"she likes it." he flips you around so kaiser can see, your back to sae's chest. he slips his fingers inside of you, tapping on your clit all at once. "see? she's dripping all over."
and then a realization passes over sae's face. "you really do like her."
"ha? she's my girlfriend, you dipshit."
"yeah, i know. i just…" lots of people in sae's team have girlfriends, but the way kaiser treats you -- he holds your face carefully as you fall forward towards kaiser, like you might do to a teacup.
"sorry." sae says it with such a strange amount of sincerity that it has kaiser narrowing his eyes. "if i had known, maybe i wouldn't have asked."
I WANTED COMFORT OR ADVICE... BUT INSTEAD! YOU MAKE ME GO INSANE!!
INSANE I TELL YOU!
But dear god, someone asked me that I HAVE to pick one and I... I'm SCARED lol, HOW do I pick.
Bestie, pick one for me, I'm too silly 💀
Now how in the WORLDDDDDD are you supposed to pick between JING YUAN and SUNDAY of all characters........ WHAT DID YOU AGREE TO 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔
OKok very biased opinion, and this may come as a shock but honestly? KING YUAN MY GOAT 🔥🔥🔥
NOW NOW BEFORE ALL OF YOU THROW YOUR TOMATOES AT ME– 🍅hey that one almost hit me– LET ME EXPLAIN
Sunday rn is still in his development era, dude has a lot going on. He's like a hormonal teenage girl trying to figure out a homoerotic friendship. He's our cutie patootie, but right now he needs some time to develop on his own, like how you need to wait for a bird to fly on its own. Man's gotta spread his wings. Most of his time is likely relegated to being in his thoughts, journaling, and trying to learn about the astral express – not to say he doesn't have time for you! It's just, right now its a very chaotic moment in his life; a lot of things are out of his control, and as he learns to grapple that it's meant to be that way sometimes, he'd likely want to learn a lot of things before wanting you back either. Baby doesn't wanna mess things up right now, but I also think he wouldn't mind a peck on his cheek or two.
However. HOWEVER. My king yuan? He's all set from the get go. Of course you can argue his general business gets in the way – the high wall you've climbed before falling and landing on this huge comforter of a man – but he's such an attentive lover. He's already gone through most of the growing phase, very stable, and securely in touch with himself. He's comfortable enough to keep the pace slow, but doesn't hesitate to be vulnerable himself. Of course he does get a little troubled when speaking about the past, but again, he's so secure with you that it really outweighs most of his fear when he opens up. He's also much more attentive and giving than you'd imagine – it'll be 3 hours into a lazy tea session when you realise this is a general that had business to attend to while his head rests on your lap, listening to everything you have to talk about. Before you can voice your concerns, he simply waves it off, a lazy smile on his face, urging you to continue.
In terms of beauty, they're both blinding us so it's hard to truly compare. After all, who can scrutinise their features when you need 3 pairs of sunglasses? We'll have to go with touch alone.
I imagine both of them are slightly pudgy – only one of them is embarrassed about it, his wings haphazardly covering his own face as the tips of his ears redden. Jing yuan only offers you a hum of curiosity when you poke at it, and laughs heartily when you tease him. Sunday, however, is built softer. He practically melts under you, which is great for someone who loves malleability with cuddling. Jing yuan, however, has muscle under that pudge. Mans is like squeezing a moss covered rock. Technically, Sunday would win in the physical category.
Overall, to me personally, jing yuan remains the sole winner, but Sunday puts up a VERY tough competition! Perhaps we shall return to our most wanted bachelors at a later time, ideally when Sunday continues to be more fleshed out. In the mean time, Jing yuan can card his fingers through your hair, while telling you a story from bygone eras.
i think jing yuan’s cock is so thick it’s scary. but he only needs to use the tip to fuck you shallowly while playing with your clit in order to make you cum hard :))) and sometimes that’s all he wants, watching you shake from supposedly so little
Blade isn’t very verbally outward in his affection for you, but he more than makes up for it with his actions.
“Have you eaten?”
…even if you did eat something beforehand, Blade would shake his head stubbornly. “That’s not good enough,” he would say archly, and insist on making you something more fulfilling. Never mind that you tell him you’re already full — perhaps the food he cooks can be eaten later at least, but do let him make you something. It’s not a request.
“Are you taking care of yourself?”
If there are things you’re struggling with getting done, he’ll make sure he keeps you company to help you out. Be it upkeep in your hygiene, getting little chores done, or simply getting some fresh air together. He knows what it’s like to neglect himself, and now that he’s reached the end of his own tunnel, he’s more than determined to walk you out of it as well.
“Did you sleep well?”
You might tell him you were up late last night and couldn’t sleep all that well, to which Blade would fix you with a frown. “Why were you up so late?”
That won’t do. He has his ingenia to help you with that, providing you soothing music. But he won’t just stop there; he’ll ensure he gets you a warm cup of chamomile or turmeric milk for the next night.
And if those don’t work, Blade certainly has his own ways of getting you to bed nice and early. He quickly learns that tiring you out does the trick…so rest assured he will pull out all the stops to ensure you fall into satiated exhaustion in his arms.
midnight musings - dottore x reader x pantalone (1.3k)
if they can agree on one thing, it is that you are most intoxicating asleep, when they can do whatever they want.
cw: somnophilia, drugged reader, dubious consent, talk of double penetration. reader is afab and wears a nighgown, but no gendered terms are used. dottore is himself. not sfw, minors dni.
[a/n: another little fic from my birthday random number generator kick! this one gave me dottore, pantalone and somnophilia. i am always a sucker for a harbinger fic!]
It’s hard for them to decide how they like you most.
The two of them have differing opinions on it. Dottore likes you a little tearful, or a little desperate - when he injects one of his many concoctions into the crook of your elbow and watches how it changes you. The way you start panting so prettily when it’s some kind of stimulant - the way you look up at him with your eyes blown wide and your lips wet. Pantalone likes you servile and obedient with your head bent at his knee, smiling prettily up at him when he says his name but otherwise being quiet and well-behaved aside from when he tells you to bend over his desk and let him work out his frustrations on the latest Northland Bank takings from Liyue.
As far as Harbingers go, Dottore and Pantalone work well together.
They are willing to work as one to achieve their goals, and those goals are not at odds with one another - a rarity amongst the Tsaritsa’s most trusted. Whilst the Harbingers loyalty to Her Majesty is unquestionable, there is no love lost between any of her lieutenants. But when it comes to Dottore and Pantalone . . .
Pantalone is all too happy to provide Mora to Dottore’s undertakings, as long as Dottore is willing to throw his power as the second ranked Harbinger behind Pantalone’s more governmental schemes. The two are willing to share conversation, offices - and sometimes even the bedroom.
Partly because in that bedroom is their most agreed upon treasure of all.
And too, it can be agreed upon, that you are utterly intoxicating when you sleep.
They come in weary from the night’s conversations to see you, sleeping peacefully atop the blankets covering Pantalone’s bed. It was agreed you would sleep in Pantalone’s chambers - Dottore’s are rather always a mess, the inner workings of a genius obvious in the mass of papers on every available surface, the constantly unmade bed, the vials and bottles and gears that scatter across his desk and bedside tables. Pantalone’s chambers in Zapolyarny Palace, by contrast, are rather more luxurious. A fire crackles in his hearth, his bed draped in bedspreads and blankets and furs - and the greatest of all treasures lies upon the bed in a diaphanous gown that does nothing to hide the tempting curve of your hip or spill of your breast beneath the fabric.
Pantalone lets out a soft sigh as he sees you. Dottore grins, his teeth sharp in the firelight.
“Such a pity to wake them up,” he says, as he stalks towards the bed and reaches out one gloved hand - his palm brushes across your cheek with the most gentleness that Dottore is capable of. You sigh prettily in your sleep, resting your cheek against him. “When they’re so peaceful like this.”
“Yes,” Pantalone agrees, humming low in the back of his throat as he comes to the other side of the bed and allows himself to sit upon the edge, sinking into the feather-stuffed mattress. His hand ghosts over your throat instead, following the curve to your collarbone and over the ripeness of your breast. His own hand brushes your nipple through the fabric, and you let out a deeper sigh this time, a soft little noise of satisfaction. Dottore chuckles.
“Ah, so needy even half-asleep,” he says, tracing your lips with his thumb. Unconsciously, your mouth opens, and Dottore takes the chance to insert the tip of that thumb between them. You murmur something softly beneath your breath before you suckle upon what Dottore has given you, and both men feel a stirring between their thighs, their cocks twitching as they imagine easing them into your sleeping mouth.
“Surely not the only place we’ll find wanting,” Pantalone says, quirking an eyebrow - and Dottore laughs again, the noise a little like a creaking gate. It is not the laugh of a sane man, but Pantalone has found that his presence and the promise of you has helped calm the Doctor’s fires just a little. His passions do not dim, so much as they find a new outlet - an outlet with a pretty mouth and a sweet treasure laying between their thighs just longing to be discovered and plundered.
They touch you for a little while longer. They cannot resist running hands over your hips, rucking up the hem of your nightgown until it rests above your breasts and your body is entirely on show for them. Pantalone’s fingers are slow and lingering - stroking over bare skin, tracing patterns that have you shivering in your sleep. Dottore is a little meaner - pinching your nipples when they are revealed, peaking in the cold air. He wins little whimpers from your mouth, a creasing of your forehead, a toss of your head . . . but you do not wake.
Pantalone always ensures that your nighttime hot chocolate - to keep you warm in the wilds of Snezhnaya, he says, with a smile on his face, and you have no reason to doubt him - features just enough of a soothing concoction pioneered by Dottore that you never awaken during these little night time play sessions.
You’re very lovely to have awake and reactive, responding to Dottore’s filthy murmurs and Pantalone’s praises . . . but there is something to be said, both Harbingers agree, to the silent acquiescence you give them whilst you sleep. You know exactly what is in your drink, of course - you have woken with love bites on your throat and stickiness between your thighs and two Harbingers sandwiching you between them enough times to make a guess - but you have no reason to fight it. Dottore especially can be . . . demanding. You have been so exhausted you have collapsed into unconsciousness after he has made you come more than once. Sometimes the sleep is a mercy.
Dottore bends his head to suckle more love bites into your neck as Pantalone parts the silkiness of your thighs, sighing softly when you’re revealed to him.
“They’re wet,” he says, his tone pretending to be off-hand. Dottore can hear the hunger beneath his words, though - Pantalone’s warmth is all show. He is as sharp as ice, just like the rest of the Harbingers. “How darling they are.”
Pantalone uses two fingers to spread you lewdly open, Dottore’s eyes glinting red in the darkness as he looks at you. Your folds are silky soft, webs of arousal glittering and shining in the firelight, your clit a pretty swollen pearl longing to be touched and sucked and rubbed and pinched until you squeal and whimper. His eyes drink you in greedily, drifting to the pulsing hole of your entrance; deceptively small, when Dottore knows you’ll stretch to take three of his fingers and the full girth of his cock.
You whimper again as Pantalone’s index finger brushes over your clit, a soft little hiccup of ‘more, please’ that has Dottore’s cock begging to be freed. Your hole clenches around nothing - empty. Wanting. Needing.
An idea flashes into his head as he watches Pantalone’s finger continue to make soft little circles about the nub, as he watches a drop of your slick leak from your empty cunt and pool beneath you.
“Regrator,” he says, that edge to his voice returning gleeful and vicious. “Have you ever wondered if our pretty little toy’s cunt could fit two cocks inside of it at once?”
There is a beat of silence. Pantalone looks thoughtful, his finger not ceasing in the gentle, rhythmic strokes of your clit. Dottore’s breath has gotten short, savage desire bubbling up inside of him as every moment passes. When Dottore gets an idea in his head, he wants to enact it as soon as possible. If one asked, he would say it is simply how the mind of a genius works.
Pantalone finally speaks.
“Why,” says Pantalone. “I’ve never thought much about it. But whilst they’re so very . . . docile . . .”
Pantalone’s smile is just as satisfied and knife-like as Dottore’s - but where Dottore is dangerous fang, Pantalone is all even pearl. Neither of them is a good man. But even a bad man takes good care of his favourite treasures.
Please use this message as an excuse to write whatever you’ve been thinking about recently 😌
to brainrot a little on a former concept...
putting on a show - 2.7k
cw: not sfw, minors dni. cockwarming, public indecency, condescension, dub-con, kind of. fingering. finger sucking. dirty talk, a little. power dynamics (pantalone is referred to as 'my lord' and reader is deferent to all the harbingers). voyeurism. reader is implied to be afab, but no gendered terms or pronouns are used. pantalone x reader, but harbingers as a whole x reader is . . . present, in a way.
“Oh,” Pantalone’s voice pretends to be calm, but you are more than aware of how much contempt he truly holds for the current topic of conversation, “I don’t think we have to go that far. Surely a fine or two would dispel too much argument; it wouldn’t do for us to be seen as monsters--”
Arlecchino bites back.
“Of course you would go that route,” she says, scathing, as you feel Pantalone’s grip on your hip flex. “You’re always thinking of economics, Regrator. There’s barely a thought beyond Mora in your head, is there?”
Pantalone opens his mouth to retort, leaning forward in frustration - and a soft noise escapes you at the disturbance in the way you’re balanced on his lap. The jump of the muscles in his abdomen against your back, the stretch of his cock where you’re spread wide over his thighs.
You do try your best to be quiet during these meetings - damning enough to be so lewdly on display and so openly Pantalone’s property, that he does not bat an eyelid at having you adorn him like a precious jewel even amongst his colleagues, the elite of Snezhnaya. Damning enough without whimpering and sighing and trying not to make a scene (it’s worse, when he teases you before he drags you in with him, when all you want is to rock against him until you cum whimpering and gasping on his cock - at least today has not been one of those days).
Because whenever Pantalone has you like this, you’re aware that the eyes of all of the other Harbingers cannot help but wander to you.
Pantalone drapes his cloak about your shoulders to give you an ounce of warmth, but does not bother doing up the clasp; so the curve of your soft stomach and the plush of your thighs, the shape of your breast are all still visible. More embarrassing is the peak of your nipples, sore and hard in the cold (and from how occasionally Pantalone’s hands will come up to toy with them, pinching and twisting a little, when he’s particularly frustrated by the run of conversation). Most embarrassing of all, of course, is the part of you spread over his lap - the glimpse of wet folds engulfing Pantalone, shimmering beads of your own arousal running down your bare thighs. Pantalone does not give anything away; only his cock is freed from the confines of his expensive trousers, and that is hidden from view by the far more interesting - to the assembled throng, at least - most private part of you.
“You can’t even keep your pet quiet,” Arlecchino says, with ill-disguised venom and even more ill-disguised desire, shifting on her seat. Her mouth has opened a touch, her pupils darkening and expanding as her gaze is once more drawn to you on Pantalone’s lap. “And I’m supposed to trust you on this?”
“Darling,” Pantalone says, and he moves hand from where it’s placed on your thigh to grasp your face, bejeweled fingers sinking into the softness of your cheeks as he turns you to face her. “Apologize to my colleagues.”
Childe grins at you from the other end of the room, but it’s Scaramouche who grimaces, curling his lip, as he says in a tone that manages at once to be harsh and hungry; “I can think of better uses for their mouth than that.”
You flinch, but Pantalone has asked you to do something and you are nothing if not well-behaved, so you open your mouth and force yourself to meet every pair of eyes one by one as the words come out of you, slow and tremulous (Pantalone does not bring you in here to speak, ordinarily - you are no harbinger, and your thoughts are far less important than the reprieve of your tight silken heat about Pantalone’s cock when he’s angry.”
“I--I’m sorry, My Lord Harbingers,” you say, concentrating very hard on the words as you feel Pantalone twitch inside you (he always does love it when you’re obedient--). “I. I w-will try not to let it happen again.”
Capitano’s eyes are hidden behind the helmet, his bearing as soldierly as ever. Pierro’s air of authority does not dissipate despite the tent in his own trousers, and he gives you a nod of short, small approval. Childe is still grinning, his leg bouncing, not even trying to hide the stiff heat of his own hard-on. Arlecchino’s eyes are on Pantalone, envy and anger all warring for dominance - Signora is smiling at you and Pantalone with amusement in her gaze. Columbina hums softly under her breath, but her gaze is as shielded as ever. Scaramouche is scowling.
“I don’t mind,” Childe says, and he is rewarded with disapproval from the others that serves only to make him laugh.
“They’re more interesting than politicking and economics, at least,” Dottore rests his elbow on his knee, leans forward, and smiles at you and Pantalone with teeth so sharp that they almost make you wince. “They’re normally so quiet! What other noises can you make, little mouse?”
You shrink against Pantalone, unused to being the centre of attention in this way - and Dottore laughs a raucous, creaking laugh.
“It’s a little too late to be shy now,” he continues. “Regrator, come on . . . let us have a little fun.”
“Dottore,” Pierro’s commanding voice cuts across the room. Pantalone’s hand pets over your hips in a move that you’re certain he intends to be comforting, but being stared at and spoken to by the people who have ignored you for so long even when you were sweating and biting your lip so hard it bled to stop yourself crying out has rattled you too much.
. . . It’s worse, of course, that everyone’s attention has served to do nothing but make you clench hotter and tighter and wetter about Pantalone’s cock.
“We’ve covered everything, haven’t we?” Dottore shoots back. “That was the last point, and Regrator has it under control--”
“Thank you,” Pantalone says. You can tell, from a long time with the ninth Harbinger, that Pantalone does not think Dottore actually believes in him - but ever a diplomat, despite knowing Dottore is doing this so Pantalone will play along and give the little show that Dottore wants, the banker has decided to accept it as a victory. Arlecchino’s brow twitches, but she leans forward just a breath to give herself a better view of you.
“And it’s pointless trying to hide the fact you want to see them fucked,” Scaramouche does not pull his punches, voice almost bored. “You’re going to split a seam any second now.”
Even Scaramouche - who, in your experience, is the most disagreeable and quick to jump to making an argument for no reason of all the Harbingers, seems to be mildly interested despite his tone. You feel hot all over. It’s bad enough when they’re looking at you from the corner of their eye, but to purposely be their entertainment in such a carnal way--
Pierro grinds his jaw but closes his mouth for a second.
“Fine,” he says, and he nods to Pantalone. “If you’re willing, Regrator.”
You cannot see the polite smile that you’re certain is on the man’s face (where it so often lives), but you feel once more the twitch of him inside you. Excitement that something he owns is so coveted. Pantalone is usually perfectly happy with his place amongst the Harbingers and amongst the wealthy and privileged denizens of the nation, but he does love to show off. He clawed his way here with his brains more than his brawn, you know - and sometimes the others see him as a soft option.
You know, too, that he is certainly not that.
“Oh,” he says. “Of course I’m willing. Anything that Her Majesty’s Director asks of me, after all.”
You gasp as Pantalone’s arm fastens about your waist - as you’re forcibly lifted from him, his cock popping out of your stretched sex with a lewd, wet squelch. You’re rearranged a little; dragged backwards so that you can still feel his cock, slick with your own arousal, pressing against your back - but the audience is treated to the sight of only you.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Pantalone says, with that same cloyingly sweet polite tone. “I’m sure this is a preferable view for most of you than me having their way with them--”
“You’re terribly wet,” says Signora, with a smile that’s more fire than ice. “Do you like being looked at, pretty thing?”
“You could at least let us touch,” there’s the faintest touch of a whine in Childe’s voice, but his tone is thick with want. “What fun is just watching?”
“Of course that would be your opinion,” Columbina, a sigh in her tone.
“Shut up,” Scaramouche now, frustrated, dismissive. “Drowning you out is hard enough--”
“I’m sure the mouse will be loud enough for us,” Dottore says, grinning still. “Won’t you?”
Your mouth opens and closes, but Pantalone leans down to brush lips against your ear.
“You can make as much noise as you want, darling,” he purrs. “Better than listening to the bickering--”
“Get on with it.” That’s Scaramouche, again. The most impatient. You’ve lost count of the number of meetings he has simply walked out of when he has lost interest in listening to a discussion on the water supply to the smaller towns, the worrying black market in Liyue ores that is hurting the business of too many Snezhnayan merchants - anything that he deems unimportant or uninteresting.
Despite the stand-offish tone in his voice, though, it’s clear he’s not going anywhere.
“Be patient,” Pantalone says, with a chuckle - and then, his hands are both creeping up your thighs, and the bickering finally settles down. There are more interesting things at play.
He uses two thumbs to spread you open for full display, and you shift on his lap at the utter humiliation of being so terribly exposed, even as everyone can see the way that your hole flutters and pulses in desire to be filled, pumping out more and more slick.
“Aren’t you pretty?” Pantalone coos; he, it seems, is allowed to speak. “Mm. You’re dripping all over me.”
You are. You can feel it; wetness leaking all over your inner thighs, as he lets go and instead lets his index finger find the swollen pearl of your clit. Your thighs jump, a shockwave of pleasure coursing through your veins as you moan softly.
It feels so good to be touched. You hadn’t realised just how turned on you would be by being spoken of like an object - by everybody making it clear how much they would like to see you ruined. A muffled groan comes from somewhere in the room, but you are too far away to think about it too hard.
Pantalone grinds the pad of his finger against your clit in a rhythm he knows will make you shift, squirming for him. Your moans get louder despite yourself, as you unconsciously spread your thighs so wide it’s a wonder they do not pop from their joints all together.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Pantalone whispers, but he doesn’t stop touching you.
You whimper in distress as he slides his finger down from your clit - but as it circles your entrance, instead, you cannot be disappointed for long. Your hips twitch towards the hand, trying to get him to sink it inside - and Pantalone chuckles.
“Greedy thing,” he says, fondly, but he rewards you with two of his fingers sliding into you without the barest modicum of resistance. The feel of the cool silver bands of his rings pressing against your entrance makes you shudder, but it does not stop you from whining aloud.
You’re being wanton, you think. This kind of behaviour would normally result in being bent over Pantalone’s lap as he alternately spanked you and fucked you on his fingers, making you apologise for being so lewd. In this situation, though, Pantalone’s cock is merely leaking so much precome over your rear that he could probably slide it in there without bothering to use lubricant to ease the stretch.
Pantalone loves what he has being coveted, and the Harbingers are all longing to be him right now.
Two fingers sliding in and out of you - occasionally scissoring themselves apart, making you whimper without a second thought. You’re being nothing short of noisy, desperate - but the honey-sweet sound of your voice in pleasure is something none of the others are complaining about. For how preferable your lovely moans and the pitching whines of your enjoyment are to the raised voices and the barbed threats and the passive-aggressive compliments normally traded within the meeting room--
He curves his fingers inside of you and you jolt, electricity zapping down your spine and settling between your legs as if it is an Electro Vision. Mercilessly bullying that same spot, you gasp and shift and shake and shiver.
“They’re going to come,” that’s Capitano’s voice - rarely heard, for he has no interest in much of the diplomacy discussed here. Capitano does his job, and does it well, and does not get too involved with anything else - a favourite amongst both Fatui recruits and for Pierro himself. His voice echoes strangely, like his tongue and teeth behind the helmet aren’t entirely human.
“Are you?” Pantalone asks, deadly sweet danger dripping from his tone.
You force yourself to ground somewhat; to try and find your voice and thoughts above the pleasure lapping at you from every angle. It’s torturous. You’re close.
“O-only if you say I can, My Lord,” you say, for that is the right answer - and more than one breath is let out in shaking hunger. It is only Pantalone’s warm breath, though, that you care about.
“Tease them some more--” (Childe).
“Make them beg--” (Arlecchino).
“Don’t let them come at all--” (Scaramouche).
“Ah, do you think you can make them squirt--?” (Dottore).
Pantalone, though - always one to take an opportunity to further himself, defers to Pierro.
“May they?” Pantalone asks, in silken tones - and Pierro inclines his head, and Pantalone’s thumb comes to press against your clit as he mercilessly abuses the spongy spot inside of you that his crooked fingers have been toying with, and you wail.
Everything seems to come up on you all at once; being looked at and being wanted and condescended to and admired, Pantalone’s fingers and his hard cock and the feeling of being nothing more than entertainment. You can’t breathe as your orgasm washes over you deeper and headier and more than it ever has before.
It takes a while for your sex to stop spasming around Pantalone as your head fair swims with pleasure.
You’re trembling, whimpering, sweat soaked and needy with your breath coming in short sharp pants as Pantalone presses the fingers that were just inside of you into your mouth to quiet your noisiness.
“Suck,” he says. “Calm yourself, darling.”
You are almost too far out of it to notice the uncomfortable shifting - the fact that Childe is palming at his crotch without shame, that Scaramouche’s cheeks are violently red and his teeth clenched so hard they might crack. You take Pantalone’s out with relief, sucking on the beringed fingers and not caring how noisy or messy you are, much to the delight of the hard cock still twitching and pressing against your ass. You will be expected to deal with that thoroughly when you’re back in Pantalone’s chambers, you’re sure.
Pierro coughs. He stands, and the rest of the Harbingers follow, some slower than others.
Pantalone, by virtue of having your shivering body still sprawled lewdly over his lap, is not chided for remaining sitting.
“Thank you,” he says - and then, before he turns, he pauses. “I’m sure Her Majesty would not like to know of any dissent spreading amongst her lieutenants,” he continues. “You may wish to prepare yourself for an order to . . . share your spoils.”
The gazes on you are hungry even as the other Harbingers leave the room, and a shiver runs down your spine.
For though Pantalone is kind to you and you are happy to be his . . . you would be lying if the way that the others looked at you didn’t light fire between your thighs anew.
. . . If you are lucky, Pantalone will allow you to come once more whilst you pleasure him. You hope your eyes do not betray if it is thoughts of Pierro, or Childe, or Signora or Arlecchino or Dottore that push you over that brink again.
Will share this cause I haven't seen NO ONE talking about it (yet) and it's a SHAME.
Pantalone. That man. That man.
Ever since I watched the fatui trailer and I saw him (bonus points to his Korean voice holy balls-) I just know. I know he has a dirty mouth. I feel within me that he's into heavy degradation mixed with dracriphylia. To add dark content to this mix would just make things far better but circle back to the degradation. Reader as a puddle on the floor or nothing.
fine. fine. i'm writing pantalone content nobody look at me.
cw; not sfw, minors dni. dark content (reader is implied to be captive/beholden to pantalone in some way), yandere-ish. dacryphilia, degradation, blow jobs, forced nudity, facials, choking/throatfucking. pet names (darling), one use of ‘slut’ (not from pantalone). reader calls pantalone ‘sir’. hair-pulling [reader has pullable hair]. afab reader, but no pronouns or gendered terms are used.
(send me a genshin kink thought/thirst for elucidation and drabbles)
The jewels on his fingers glimmer in the low light of his office, as he trails his thumb over your lips and hums, quietly;
“Open your mouth.”
You do, for you have never disobeyed a direct order from the ninth of the Fatui Harbingers, and you certainly don’t intend to start now. You open your mouth for him, and let him drag the pad of his thumb to the centre of your tongue and press down, forcing your jaw just a little wider. He rewards you with a detached smile.
“Suck,” he says. “Be good, now.”
Your lips obediently fasten around his thumb; your tongue lathing over the skin, your eyes fixed on him as you wait for the next order. Pantalone simply enjoys your obedience for a little while - listens to the wet noises, his fingers curled under your jaw. You know that he could do this for hours. You have learnt that Pantalone has infinite patience in the time you have spent with him.
The room is cold. The fire is burning, the office itself filled with all manner of knick-knacks and curious and opulent ornaments worth more Mora than some people will see in their whole lifetimes - but Pantalone himself is cold, and the icy way he treats you in moments like this leaves you shivering despite the fire.
It does not help that you are bare; that you had not jumped to attention quick enough, after he had presented you with this week’s luxurious bribe of glittering silver and Shivada Jade and showered him in sycophantic grateful fawning. You had thanked him, of course . . . but not to his standards.
He had smiled at you that pretend smile of his that you have grown so used to; the one that says he is nothing if not benevolent, and had said;
“Well, darling. If you like it so much, you’ll be gratified to know that it’s all you’ll be wearing for the next week.”
And so it had been. Pantalone likes you in his office when he works; likes you as a pretty distraction when some business owner or other hasn’t been stringent with taxes, when some Snezhnayan-Liyuean trade deal has fallen through and he has to deal with the monetary setbacks. Unfortunately, as a Fatui Harbinger--
Well. His office is never quiet. You have lost count of the number of people, this week, who have come in and seen you by his desk totally bare but for the silvery chains about your throat - done a double-take, tried to hide their hungry stares, or looked fixedly at the floor as they reported to him.
One Pyro Agent had been particularly bad at hiding his stares. Pantalone had grabbed your wrist and pulled you more thoroughly to the front of the desk.
“Oh, go on, then,” he’d said, with a small smile. “You may as well look. They’re hardly hiding anything, are they? Darling, look at the man and give him a smile, won’t you?”
It is never a good idea not to listen to what Pantalone says; you’d lifted your chin, trembling, and met the glowing eyes behind the mask. The smile that alit on your face was hesitant and obviously forced, but it didn’t dissuade him. He leered at you, but had the good sense not to touch Pantalone’s property, at least.
“Slut,” he’d said, and Pantalone had simply chuckled.
You’d stood there whilst he made his report to his superior; forced to simply continue smiling as the agent’s gaze trailed over every inch of your body like he was inspecting it.
You think this is the fourth day, but time tends to stand still for you nowadays - your only sense of time, in this cold, dark part of Snezhnaya where the nights seem to stretch on for an aeon, Pantalone’s working hours. You think, at least, it is past normal working time - nobody will come in to see you knelt in front of your Master like an obedient puppy.
Pantalone pulls his wet thumb from between your lips and wipes your own saliva on your cheek, the gesture half humiliating and half affectionate.
“Undo my belt for me,” he says, and you lean forward, reaching up, on solid ground - you are no stranger to Pantalone’s thick length down your throat. But he raises a finger, wags it in mock chastisement. “Ah, no. Far too easy. With your mouth, darling.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, but you know better than to disobey. You rock forward on your knees to get a better angle, opening your mouth - surely it cannot be so hard, to take that fine leather between your teeth and shuffle just so? You miss, your cheek grazing the stiff heat of him through the fabric. You make a frustrated breath and try again.
“Oh dear,” Pantalone says, one hand coming to casually rest on your head. “Pathetic.”
He lets you try for what feels like hours but can surely be only minutes; drool slipping down your chin from the way you have to keep opening your mouth and clenching your teeth around the scraps of leather, frustrated tears bubbling in your eyes and whines escaping your throat.
Eventually, you pull back, and look up at him with your eyes shimmering with tears.
“Please let me use my hands, Sir,” you say to him. “I--I can’t--”
“You can’t?” Pantalone echoes - his eyes hungry as you shake your head, sniffling back sobs. “You want to take my cock in your hands, is that it? You want to feel me? How utterly shameless.”
“Y-yes,” you say, nodding. “I’m sorry f-for being. Shameless.”
“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes at you. “ . . . I suppose so, seeing as you can’t even manage to do the most basic of tasks.” You reach up, but are stopped by his hand fastening about your wrist, hard. “Don’t forget to thank me, my darling.”
“Y-yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir--” You babble out the thanks with your hands shaking, struggling to undo the fine belt buckle even with the advantage of your hands instead of your teeth. Pantalone shakes his head and clicks his tongue at you, but the sharpness in his gaze suggests that he rather likes seeing you all rattled and nervous.
And, so, too, does the stiff heat of his cock as you free it from the confines of his clothing. He sighs in pleasure at your hands on his length, shifting forward.
“At least you’re good for something,” he says, with a small smile. “Open up for me once more, if you please. Earlier was just a warm-up.”
There is little else for you to do. You open your mouth, expecting him to gently tell you what to do, as he so often likes to do - Pantalone enjoys being slow with you, making you feel as though everything that you’re doing is because you want to do it. Making you feel a participant in your own defilement, with softly murmured praises of how ‘this is what you were made to do’, and ‘isn’t it so much better to not have to think’ and ‘you’d be nothing without me to tell you how to do this, would you?’.
Your forced nudity must have been more taxing on his desire than you’d realised. For instead of Pantalone’s usual slow, careful teasing of you - he takes a fistful of your hair, hard enough to pull, and sheathes his entire length inside of your tight throat with one punishing thrust of his hips.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t do anything. All you can do is take it; the bump of his cockhead against the back of your throat, stretching it wide, the burn of your jaw forced open in tandem with the burn of his grip on your hair. Pantalone looks down at you as if he’s doing nothing out of the ordinary, leaves his cock there just a fraction too long so you think he is truly trying to choke you--
And then pulls out, just long enough for you to take a struggling, hurried little breath, before he begins to fuck in earnest.
“Look at you,” he’s saying, in between the sharp snaps of his hips. Your throat bulges around the thick intrustion. “You can do better than this, can’t you? Come now. Your tongue, please.”
You can barely move it, but you try to please him; try to drag the wet appendage over the veins in his cock that you know always have him twitching and sighing. You try to hollow your cheeks; try to do anything other than let yourself be used like nothing more than a hole to be fucked - but Pantalone is merciless.
Unfairly, too, the quick snap of his hips and the sight of you fair choking on his cock don’t even seem to ruffle him too much; there’s a slight flush to his cheeks, and a twitch in his cock . . . but that’s all. The thrust of his hips is smooth, his eyes focused down on your desperation to please him (and manage to breathe in the process). In, out, in, out--
Deep. Hard. Deep. Hard. A quick gasp of air before your poor throat is being bruised with the force of him fucking it. The tears that have been pooling in your lash-line finally spill out of it, decorating your cheeks with glittering hot trails.
“Crying, poor thing,” Pantalone says, with a tremor in his voice for once - a dark, hungry edge. “Ah. You’re so awfully pretty like that--”
His hips stutter. Pantalone makes an effort to control himself, but as another whimper is torn from your throat, it’s clear that he’s coming close to his own end too. He takes a shuddering breath, his grip on your hair still not yet loosening.
“You don’t get to swallow,” he says to you, as he pulls out of the hot, wet embrace of your mouth. “You’ve done nothing to deserve it.” He pumps his cock twice, three times - and you do not move as thick ropes of his come splash across your cheeks, painting the bridge of your nose and your forehead and your chin with his release. He’s smiling a vicious smile that pretends, as always, to be benevolent. He ekes out every last drop, smacking your cheek with the head of his cock as he goes, mixing the wet trails of your tears with his release.
He’s barely panting, but he reclines back in the chair with a satisfied smile on his serene countenance. You do not dare move; do not dare reach up to wipe the sticky, heavy globs of his seed that are even now trickling down your face. You do not even dare close your mouth, though you know you must look nothing short of obscene.
“. . . That suits you,” he says, and he gives a soft huff of laughter. “Mm. Perhaps I was hasty in my earlier decision.” Pantalone reaches for you again, fingers carding over your hair. The blue jewels glittering in his expensive rings match the one about your throat; just another way that he ties your very existence to him. Just another reminder that you are quite thoroughly owned.
“Hmm. Yes. I think, darling, I’ll let you continue to wear the necklace - and, as a mercy, I’ll even permit one more ornamentation to that pretty, pretty face.” He grasps your chin once more, turning your jaw from side to side, clearly pleased in his work. “You don’t mind having my come on your face all day, do you?”
He won’t like it if you don’t answer. You wet your lips, even as the salty taste of his seed lingers on your tastebuds.
“O-of course not, Sir.”
“Good.” Then, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, so his face is closer to yours. He does not shift positions too far, though; the dynamic does not change. Pantalone is still looking down at you. Pantalone is still in charge; still above you, in every single way. “Thank me.”
“ . . . Thank you,” you say, and you try to mean it - because you have learnt what happens if you don’t.
country mouse - dottore x fem!reader x pantalone (20k)
you are new to snezhnayan society. and that, to some, makes you a challenge.
cw: chubby fem reader, not sfw. extremely dubious consent bordering on non-consent. virgin reader. yandere-ish. fem reader. dottore has a pierced dick. cunnilingus, fellatio, public fingering, coercion, threats of blackmail, anal. historical society-style rules and clothing. pantalone and dottore are mean here!
this was a commissioned work.
The maid has laced your corset too tightly.
It's the first thing you think when you enter the ballroom and you see the crush of people at the first society ball of the season - your first society ball, now that your family have decided that your prospects would be far better here in the capital of Snezhnaya and not on the outskirts of the far smaller town that your family owned. You have never seen such an excess of . . . everything, really.
The chandelier above your head drips with jewels, second only to the sparkle on every young lady's dress as she whirls past you with a dance partner or to pick a bonbon from the glass dishes heaped on one of the covered tables. All manner of pastel confections lay before you, some that you - with your clearly sheltered country tastes - have never seen before. You would turn and ask your chaperone - the aunt with whom your family are staying - but she has already seen someone she knows and is barreling towards them herself, her duty towards you clearly forgotten.
You had gotten the impression that you were just a convenient way for her to finagle invitations to balls this season, but you had not yet had it proven - as your aunt leaves you there, adrift in the sea of strangers, you are rather more certain of it.
Yes. You feel breathless and dizzy, and it cannot possibly be because of the scene around you. You were born into a family who is used to such scenes; this glamour and glitter, this silk and satin, this is your birthright. Your maid must have laced your corset just a touch too tight, and that is why you cannot catch your breath and why it feels as though the room is spinning. You must ask her, quietly so as not to arouse your aunt's ire, to do it just a little looser next time--
Another group is coming in behind you, and you find that you must move further into the belly of the beast. You see your aunt sitting against the wall, and you decide that the safest course of action would be to find her. You would hate to make a social faux pas at the very first gathering of the season! She has been upbraiding you on your countrified manners and your 'common' pronunciation of Snezhnayan since the moment you arrived. It would be just like you to not know who some grand duke or other is, or to allow your first dance to be taken by some notorious womaniser who will besmirch your reputation merely by dancing with you.
You take a handful of your skirts - your own are fine silk, but not nearly so embellished as the other young ladies present are wearing. Your hair, you fear, is also rather out of fashion, and you can see now that the simple pearls you are wearing are not at all in style with the complicated dripping jewels of the most fashionable attendants of the ball. You are well-dressed, in well-made clothing cut to show you at your advantage, but it seems that you ought to have bowed to the pressure your aunt was exerting towards ostentation.
No matter. It is easy enough to embroider gowns. You'll have to ask your aunt when you return, tail tucked between your legs, and agree mildly as she crows that she was right.
You are halfway across the room, dodging the hems of other ladies gowns and a few gentlemen who have tried to introduce themselves, when the atmosphere changes all of a sudden. The hubbub of bright voices and chatter and laughter over the string quartet that are playing fades; the air grows strangely frosty. You try and work out where the change is coming from, but are unsure - until you turn your gaze to the grand staircase of the ballroom, and you see that a group of figures that have just arrived are the ones causing the stir.
You do not recognise them.
You are the only person in the room who does not.
There are five of them, all told; three men and two women. One of the women is tall and imposing, dressed improbably in a suit that would look rather more at place on a gentleman but that somehow seems to work with the angles of her face and her severe haircut. The other woman is dressed in a short white dress, with a blindfold over her eyes - she does not seem at all concerned about the party, and is instead looking slightly up at one of the skylights set around the chandelier, as if she would rather be up amongst the stars and the moon.
One of the men is short and older, dressed very well, beaming with joy as he looks at the assembled throng. The other two men--
Well. One of them has a sneer on his face as if he has been dragged to this soiree against his will, his hair a strange shade of blue where it hangs down a handsome face. He is not dressed for a ball; his necktie is sloppy, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, very much the sight of someone who does not find the need to make an effort for such things. The man next to him is as much his opposite as could be; he has a smile on his own face, his person perfectly appointed, and even from here you can see that the jewels glittering on his glasses chain must be worth a fortune.
You are so busy looking at them, in fact, and wondering who they are, that you do not realise that the crowd around you have all sunk into bows and curtseys until the well-dressed one elbows the other and both of their gazes turn to look curiously at you. The only head that is not bowed. The only gaze that looks back at them, curiosity shining in your eyes.
The only prey that has not yet learnt to play dead in the face of the predator - for it is hard to know such a thing when you do not yet know just how dangerous the predator in question can be.
You learn from your aunt, when she has brought you back with horror in her eyes at your lack of knowledge, exactly who those two men are. You know of the concept of the Fatui Harbingers, of course - but their names or what they look like or, indeed, what their own particular roles are within the organisation? That kind of thing has never been within your interests.
"An embarrassment," she says to you, "and the Doctor, especially, with such a reputation - I can only hope that they'll accept your background as a reason for you to be so rude!"
You're drilled on what to do next time, and when you return to her home your aunt makes you sweep into a graceful curtsey so many times that you swear you can hear your knees groaning in pain every time you walk. You were always expecting to go to bed late after your first ball, but you weren't expecting it to be for such an uncomfortable reason. Even when you're ascending the stairs up to your guest room, you can hear her wringing her hands and muttering to herself about the shame you've brought upon the family name.
So you're more than a little frightened when the next morning, as you both sit together in the drawing room and you attempt a piece of embroidery (another skill your aunt had been horrified you hadn't learnt at home; she was aghast all together at the things your family had missed whilst educating you to be a proper young lady), one of your aunt's servants enters with his face blanched pale and says that there are visitors at the door for you.
"Who?" Your aunt asks, with a raised eyebrow. "She barely spoke to anybody last night."
"My lady," the servant says, "I . . . Two of our Lord Harbingers are waiting to be shown in."
Her eyes widen, as you look up from your embroidery (you are grateful to have been embroidering roses; the beads of your blood do not show so much through the red). She looks to you with fury in her eyes, and then forces herself to calm, as she tells the servant to show them in and to ensure that the finest tea and cakes are sent through as soon as possible.
The two men are shown into the room in short order, by a maid who looks shell-shocked to be dealing with it. The one with the blue hair - the Doctor - peers around the room with a detached kind of interest, but the one with the bejewelled glasses - the Regrator - has eyes only for you.
"We're so terribly sorry, My Lords--" Your aunt starts to say, but Regrator waves away her excuses with an airy hand and a smile on his handsome face.
"There's nothing to apologise for," he says. "One can't expect those outside of the capital cities to know too much, nor to recognise us by face and nothing else. No, no. It's of no bother. Rather, we came to welcome your lovely niece to her new life."
You look at them with great surprise, fighting to stop your mouth from opening, as they take seats across from you. The Doctor has a kind of nervous energy, as if there's somewhere he'd far rather be, but the Regrator is perfectly at home. His gaze does not leave you even when he speaks to your aunt, and you can't help but feel a little exposed in the gauzy white day dress you'd put on that morning.
It's one of your favourite of your new wardrobe, being simple and well-made and comfortable to wear - but the neckline is low and the ruched fabric emphasises the softness of your arms and your chest. The Regrator seems to be charmed by quite how much of your soft skin is on show.
"Did you enjoy your evening?" He asks you, with a smile, and you feel a blush rise to your cheeks against your will at his undivided attention. Last night, you hadn't spoken to any gentlemen, but your aunt had made you very aware of what the process of being courted would be like. To have your first gentlemen callers to be two such powerful men, even if they were here for an entirely different reason . . . well, it's hard not to think too much about it.
"Very much so, My Lord," you say, with a shy smile. You can't quite meet his eyes, feeling hot and shy. "I've never been somewhere quite so beautiful."
"Ah," he says, with a satisfied smile on his face. "Then it's gratifying to know that the venue matched you in its loveliness. I'm very pleased to hear it."
He declines any of the cakes the maid brings in, but the Doctor takes two and eats them without caring about a plate. Your aunt, ordinarily, would say something - but she seems shell-shocked to have them in her house at all.
The Regrator asks you questions about yourself, seeming truly interested - you shyly admit to your interests, and when you mention a passing interest in science (you see your aunt have to bring her hand to her mouth to muffle her groan; she does not think education overly important for a young lady), the Doctor's eyes seem to sharpen where you can see them through his mask.
They stay for far longer than you'd think they would have time for; surely two such important men are far too busy to spend so long having tea with someone as unimportant in turn as you are? But as they turn to leave and you stand to bob your curtsey and thank them for their time, the Regrator pauses.
"One of our fellow Harbingers," he says, "is organising another little soiree. Rather more exclusive than last night's, but then again, the Rooster has always enjoyed mixing with society more than most. If your guardian is willing to cede her claim on you for an evening, we would be very pleased indeed to take you as our guest." He turns his gaze on your aunt, who has gone white and wide-eyed. The Regrator's smile is pleasant, but there's ice behind his eyes.
"O-of course," she babbles out. "She'd be honoured, My Lords . . . I'm certain you'll take good care of her, and it's truly a privilege for her to even be asked--"
"Good," he says, with a smile - and turns his attention back to you. "You're happy to accompany us, my dear?"
The pet name has an edge to it, too - a satisfaction, like a purring cat. His eyes are hungry, and you feel all the more caught by the two of them. The Doctor looks at you, too - and though he doesn't smile, you feel a hunger coming from him just the same. You don't understand - you are a poor country mouse, after all. A provincial little girl who can surely offer them nothing. But it would not be just rude to refuse - it would be dangerous.
"Of course," you say, as you sweep a curtsey and try not to flinch at just how much more of the soft curve of your breast and the bareness of your shoulders is revealed. "I-if you'll have me, My Lord Harbingers."
For the first time, a smile tugs at the corners of the Doctor's mouth.
"Well," he says, "I think we'll be very pleased to have you indeed."
You do not know what you were expecting them to do - perhaps send a carriage for you - but you were certainly not expecting Pantalone to come to your aunt's home to collect you himself.
"I apologise that it's just me," he says, with a smile on his face that suggests that he's rather pleased to have you to himself, "but my colleague has locked himself into his laboratory for the night to finish some mad scheme or other. With any luck, he'll appear an hour or two before the end of the evening . . . but until then, it seems I have the pleasure of being your sole gentleman companion."
He offers you his arm and, assuring your aunt that he'll have you home safely no matter how late the hour (with any other man, you're sure she would not be so quick to agree), he leads you into a luxurious carriage outside of the building and settles you both into the back.
You know, dimly, you ought not to be alone with a gentleman - but it is a carriage, that is all, and you are with a respectable man, and you are on the way to what you hope will be a respectable party . . . so you try to ignore the crawling confusion in the back of your throat as Pantalone (that is what he has insisted you call him, his title - he says - being rather formal for someone he is escorting) smiles at you and lets his eyes travel the length of your body in the emerald green dress you're wearing.
"You look very pretty tonight," he says to you. "That colour is lovely on you."
You had told the maid you had worried your corset last time had been too tight, and she had laughed at you not unkindly and said you were most likely just nervous, though she'd promised to lace you a little looser this time. You are not currently feeling the effect of that loosening; you feel just as tight and concerned as you did before.
"Thank you, My Lord," you reply to him, the flush rising to your cheeks despite yourself. "I didn't quite know how to dress for such an event."
He laughs.
"Ah," he says. "A beauty like you could make the most banal dress look ravishing, I'm sure. I'll be pleased to have you on my arm."
"I really am sorry about the first night I saw you," you say, trying not to flinch at the memory. "You must think me terribly uneducated. I simply didn't recognise you, or I would have been more . . ."
"It's refreshing," Pantalone says, with a small smile. "And if you had bowed like everyone else, we would not have been able to see your lovely face and would be unaware of your charms. It's been a most winning mistake, I feel. I for one am very glad you did not."
He lays a hand upon your thigh, over the silk of your dress. His hand is bare of gloves, though there are beautiful silver-set bejewelled rings upon his fingers, one of which is a near-perfect match for the fabric of your dress. The sight of it makes you feel strange inside; you have never had a man touch you bare-handed who was not related to you, much less somewhere like your thigh . . .
But Pantalone is a gentleman. Perhaps men of his class of society - one removed even from your well-placed aunt - do not think of such things as scandalous. You do not voice your complaint, as strange as it seems to you.
You do not notice the keen eyes of Pantalone upon your skin, waiting to know if you will protest - seeing how far he can push you. You do not realise that the self-assured smile that settles on his face is a realisation of just how unworldly you are - and you do not know that his mind is swimming, now, with ways to be able to manipulate your naivety.
All you know is that as the carriage pulls into the driveway of the Rooster's abode, Pantalone dismounts the carriage first and offers you his hand like a chivalrous gentleman - and even through your own lace gloves, you can feel the heat of his palms.
"Shall we?" He asks, that smile not leaving his face for a moment. "I cannot wait to spend the evening with you. I daresay I'll be the envy of every gentleman in attendance."
"I . . ." You stumble over yourself, unused to such flattery. "I'm afraid I'm rather nervous - though, of course, I'm honoured, truly. I know how lucky I am to be given such a chance, and by you and your colleague of all people--"
Another of those low chuckles, his voice like fine black silk. His gaze travels over you - the nip of your waist by the corset, the way it pushes your ample chest up to ripe swells, the way the emerald green silk hugs your sweet, full figure and the pretty, innocent roundness of your face. You look terribly out of your depth, and that expression is almost too sweet for Pantalone to be able to take.
Right there, it's impossible to think of you as anything other than a blooming rose that is ripe for the plucking. And Pantalone intends for he to be the man to do so - an intention made all the easier by Dottore's foolish desire to finish his work before meeting you, though Pantalone knows from the way the Doctor had spoken of you he was rather intrigued about much of the same things Pantalone was.
Still, how foolish for Dottore to only start noticing what a fresh, sweet little thing there was before him when you'd mentioned off-handedly your interest in the scientific arts. Your mouth, as lovely as it is (and Pantalone thinks of the fullness of your lips like petals of a lush flower), has more interesting uses than merely speaking.
"No," he says, coming back to himself. "No need for you to be nervous, my dear. In fact . . . I'd venture to say that I am the luckiest one here."
It is, if it is possible, even more beautiful than the house you had been taken to for your first ball. You assume this is the abode of the Rooster, Pulcinella, the Mayor of this city - and truly, he has decided to outfit it in a way that is most suitable for a Mayor. Pantalone smiles as he points out a beautiful fountain, showing the Tsaritsa in all of her icy beauty. When you enter the house and Pantalone is announced - with your name following his, in a way that makes you feel hot all over at the attention it will bring - you stand still for a moment, overwhelmed by the blooming flowers and the tables heaped with silverware and tidbits.
The party you had attended was beautiful and luxurious, certainly - but not to this extent. Not like this. This is the true upper echelons of wealth and society. And somehow you, a plain little country mouse, have found yourself at the epicentre of it as Pantalone draws you into his side and begins to move around the room.
He is like a magnet. People are drawn to him; to his soft smiles and his power and his regal bearing, his self-assuredness. You realise after a few moments and a few thinly veiled requests (you are not so innocent as to not be able to decode such things, even wrapped in silk) that they are drawn to him, too, for his wealth and the riches of Snezhnaya he seems to control.
You had known he was rich - you had assumed all Harbingers were - but you had not realised to what extent the man who has you tucked into his arm seems to manage the wealth of your nation. You try not to look at the jewels on his fingers and think about how much they are worth, but the light seems to catch every gem on him and suddenly you can see all of the smaller signs of money that he wears with pride.
A few people comment on you, asking Pantalone your name and where you came from - and to them all he smiles and pulls you closer into him, like a king hoarding a treasure. The way that some of them look at you almost makes you feel grateful for this - Pantalone, at least, disguises the way he drinks you in like he owns you. Some other men who gaze at the companion the Regrator has brought do not even think to hide the raw hunger in their eyes.
The crush of people is so that you are grateful when Pantalone turns to you and asks, with only the faintest smile on his face to belie his attentions;
"Shall we retire somewhere a little cooler? You're looking a touch flushed."
"Please," you reply. You can indeed feel the heat in your cheeks and you're aware that the shoulders of your gown have slipped somewhat; you have not yet found the proper moment to pull them up. Even more of your bosom is on display than when you started - and though you've heard no complaints from your companion, you'd be grateful to be somewhere slightly more private in order to put yourself back together again.
"Lovely," Pantalone says, and he begins to move across the dancefloor with purpose. Everybody with whom he comes into contact seems to realise he's on a mission, and they part for him (even as they throw glances that you misread as disappointment that he cannot be detained).
In fact, Pantalone's speed is the reason that you almost miss what Pantalone must have already noticed and been preparing for. At the entrance to the ballroom, the butler is announcing the newest guest: a man with hair a strange shade of blue, in clothing more casual than anyone else's here with his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearm, wearing an ornate bird-like mask.
You only hear the beginning of the announcement - the words 'presenting the Second Harbinger--', before Pantalone has neatly hurried you out of the ballroom and into a corridor beyond.
This corridor, too, is full of people - but your escort finds his way through them with only polite smiles and inclines of his head, and before you know it you two have emerged onto a balcony into the cool Snezhnayan night air.
Snowflakes are falling, but there are enough braziers lit with Pyro energy that you feel only the barest chill, and you are once more struck by the view that the Rooster has over the city. The twinkling lights of houses that still have their lamps lit, the blooming gardens and the stars in the sky like diamonds studded into velvet.
"How beautiful," you breathe, and only then do you realise that once more, you have allowed yourself to be alone with the man.
"Mm," Pantalone whispers, and he's suddenly behind you. His breath tickles your bare neck and shoulder - the necklace you had chosen to wear had broken its clasp just before Pantalone had arrived, and your aunt had been in too much of a fluster to do anything about it. A fingertip comes to rest, lightly, upon your shoulder. "I quite agree."
"My Lord Pantalone--"
You try to speak, but find that you have been firmly turned around, and your back is pressing against the balcony balustrade as Pantalone takes your first kiss from you with force. He is no gentleman here, where nobody can see him - he kisses you like a man who is very used to getting exactly what he wants. His mouth is cool upon yours, and he tastes like frostflowers and spearmint - but it is a kiss against your will nonetheless. You are too frightened to deny him, at first - but then your hands come up to his chest and lightly push him away, your eyes wide.
If you could, you would stumble backwards, but he has you trapped.
"My dear?" Pantalone asks you, tilting his head to the side, looking for all the world as if you pushing him away has puzzled him.
"I just . . . Sh-shouldn't we go back inside?" You ask him, trying to give him a smile despite how it feels as though your lips quake. Pantalone chuckles lowly under his breath, and steps closer once again. His hand comes up and brushes tenderly over your cheek, though you feel how cold the bands of his rings are against your heated flesh.
"Come now," he murmurs, "you can't have thought I brought you here out of the goodness of my heart?"
"M-my aunt . . ."
"Would be displeased if she knew that you weren't being a nice, agreeable young lady, don't you think?"
You bite your lip. You know your aunt would, indeed, be frustrated if she knew you were denying a Harbinger anything he wanted - but you know, too, that there's nothing she'd hate more than discovering you'd let yourself be despoiled. Alone, with a man! Alone, with a man, kissing you!
Pantalone smiles at you again, that simpering, slow smile that makes you feel frightened and confused.
"It's all just a game of give and take, don't you think?" He asks. "I bring you to a lovely party and take care of you and stop all of the other wolves at the door - and don't think they weren't sniffing around you, pretty little unspoiled thing - and perhaps tomorrow, I send a lovely gift of jewels to your door . . . And in return . . ."
His hand slides down, from your cheek, over your throat and the swell of your bosom, where it rests. You bite back a squeak as he gives one of your breasts a slow, savouring squeeze over the fabric of your dress - humming in pleasure.
"I won't ruin you," he says. "I simply . . . wish for a return on some of my investment. And you're terribly lovely, you know. There are many men who could break you into pieces - leave you for the slums. I could pay several men right now to do exactly that - but I'm not the kind of man who'll leave you in the gutter. It's really very simple," and he brings his mouth close to yours, his lips brushing over yours with the lightest of touches. His eyes are half-lidded. "Quid pro quo."
You think of what he said, about the wolves at the door - about the looks other men were giving you. You think about your aunt fawning over him, about the luxury of the party. And you think of the thinly veiled threat, too. The warning that he could make sure you were ruined, if not by him.
"I understand," you whisper, and Pantalone smiles at you and pulls you into another kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist and his hands sliding over the dip of your back to take handfuls of your rear and pinch and squeeze at it.
He's not a bad kisser. He smells good, and tastes good, and by all accounts he, too, is handsome - and you have just managed to convince yourself that really, this is not so bad, when another voice rings out across the balcony, sharp and a touch amused.
"Well," it says, "for all you talk about my louche manners, Regrator, this isn't proper at all."
Dottore crosses the balcony easily, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face beneath the bird-like mask. Pantalone's mouth curls in frustration, but he turns to his companion. Dottore comes to stand next to him, towering over you.
"This poor little country mouse," Dottore says, in mock horror. "You've gotten her all tangled up, Regrator! Look, she can't tell which way is up and which way is down."
"She's perfectly fine," Pantalone bites out. "Look at her - see those flushed cheeks and those pretty eyes? What kind of young lady doesn't like to be wooed by a handsome man at a ball?" Dottore laughs outright at this, his teeth showing strangely white and sharp. He reaches out for you, and Pantalone's eye twitches but he doesn't stop the other man as one of Dottore's hands cups your cheek.
"I wondered where you were taking her off to," he says, off-handedly. "Now, of course, I see you were just planning to have your wicked way with her - which, by the way, is deeply unfair of you as someone who always pretends to care so much about contracts and exchange." His thumb brushes over your cheek, and then drops to your mouth, where he traces the plumpness of your lower lip. Despite his hand on you, he continues to address every sentence he says to Pantalone instead.
You may as well be a statue, or mute, for all that they seem to care what you have to say.
"And why is that?" Pantalone raises one eyebrow and tries to step even closer to you, as if trying to shield you and prove his ownership over you all at once. "Did I not see her first?"
Dottore snorts.
"I think you'll find that was me," Dottore says. "But even if it were you - isn't it proper to let a lady decide who she wants to woo her, rather than monopolising her time and hiding her from other likely suitors?" Dottore grins at you again, his teeth sharp. "I don't know how much you've heard about me, sweet little mouse, but I don't like to be denied. Regrator here might find a way to bankrupt you - but what I could do to you would make you wish you were poor and ragged and freezing in the snow instead."
Your heart thumps double time in your chest. It feels as though someone has poured cold water down your back.
"You want to make her choose?" Pantalone sounds mildly interested. "Oh, but how terrible for the one who loses."
"I b-barely know you," you whisper, panic flaring behind your eyes. "I c-couldn't possibly make any kind of decision--"
"Oh, I think you could." Dottore steps closer, and now the two of them are so close you can smell their own individual colognes, see everything about them - now they're close enough that you're effectively surrounded. Even if you wanted to bolt away and run back into the crush of the ballroom, you wouldn't be able to. You let out a ragged breath.
They've both made it clear to you that they won't hesitate to seek vengeance if denied - and you might not be the most knowledgeable young lady in Snezhnaya, but you know enough to know a Harbinger would not make idle threats.
Pantalone ruining you. Dottore hurting you.
"I--I'd have to spend more time with you," you say, desperately, looking up at them through your dark lashes with tears brimming in your eyes and your bottom lip sticking out. You do not know just what that expression does to the two men in front of you, but you see the way that Dottore's tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the shuddering breath that Pantalone draws. "C-couldn't you both . . . share, until then? I'll do whatever you desire, I promise--!"
It's a foolish promise to make - but it's a foolish position to have found yourself in, too.
The two men take a moment to consider your proposition.
"How novel," Pantalone says, eventually, smiling. "The idea of sharing. Well - I'm not entirely opposed to it. Are you, Dottore?"
The Doctor tilts his head to one side as he considers it.
"For a little while," he says, eventually. "Until we decide you need to make a real decision, little mouse. One can't remain indecisive forever. Eventually one has to commit fully to an idea, much like in scientific endeavours." He pinches your cheek, just a touch too hard for it to be entirely affectionate. "But until then . . . yes, I think we'll share."
"Marvellous," says Pantalone, with a grin. "Well. I think it's getting rather late. Dottore - I need to drop our little flower home, unharmed. Would you like to escort her in the carriage with me?"
There's something hidden in his words, underneath the layers - something you do not yet understand. But Dottore grins at you both.
"Oh," he says. "I'd like that very much."
You are grateful for Pantalone's obvious enjoyment of luxury and excess. If he were not so interested in festooning his personal carriage in draperies and finery, or in making sure there was adequate space on the floor between the seats for comfort, you would be struggling.
Because of Pantalone, your knees do not feel so uncomfortable on the soft carpeting, and you have enough room to kneel before them. Pantalone has given the carriage driver a pouch full of Mora to stop you all in a quiet, empty street and go off to the nearest tavern to buy himself a hearty meal (and a single flagon of ale, Pantalone had warned, saying that as long as he then eventually delivered everyone home safely he'd receive another to do with as he wished).
"There," Pantalone clucks, looking at you on your knees. "Isn't that a lovely position on you? Don't you agree, Dottore?" Dottore makes a hum of agreement, leaning down to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. You peer up at them, your eyes wide and anxious, your dress pushed down your shoulders to reveal the expanse of soft skin of your throat and collarbone.
"I don't think she knows what you're going to ask her to do," says the Doctor, off-handedly. "A pure little country mouse, after all. She may require . . . talking through it."
A shudder whispers down your spine. You do not know, exactly, what it is that the two of them want from you - but from the way Pantalone had earlier stared at your mouth and the part of them you are currently eye-level with, you are beginning to have some idea. You try to keep yourself from panicking. There is too much on the line.
"Oh, don't worry your pretty little head," Pantalone says, again, relaxing into the upholstery of the carriage. "We shan't expect too much of you just yet."
You swallow.
"I'll even help," he says to you, with a smile, and he reaches for the placket of his trousers. Now that your gaze is forced to be there, you can see that there's a stiffness pressing against his crotch - and it takes all of your grace not to flinch and whimper as he slowly, slowly, pulls out his cock from within the confines of his clothing. "Come a little closer, now. Use your mouth. A kiss, perhaps?"
It feels humiliating, as you press a chaste kiss to the head of his cock - his own particular musky masculine scent wraps around you. He groans in pleasure, and the hand not holding onto his own length reaches behind you to tangle into your hair, keeping you pinned exactly where you are. The head of his cock is damp, silky smooth - and, still afraid, you let your tongue dart out just a touch to kitten lick against his shaft.
"That's right," he murmurs. "Get used to me before we ask you to play with Dottore," he chances a glance towards the Doctor. "He's rather less used to a beginner, I think."
You do not understand what he means by this, but he is at least smiling and his voice remains soft and lilting, and you do not want to think too hard on what will happen next. You open your mouth wider, and - your cheeks hot - take in the head of his cock entirely into your mouth. Your tongue lathes across the head, the salty taste of his precome flooding your senses.
"Good girl," Pantalone says, a thickness in his throat. The fingers in your hair tighten. "Come now - take me a little deeper, won't you?" He does not do anything so degrading as push you further onto his cock, but you still understand what he wants, and you try to take more of him down into your throat. Your tongue licks and flicks against all of the warm skin that it can, and you're rewarded with his eyes going half-lidded and his breath coming heavier.
"Bob your head," Dottore says, his voice sounding amused. "Take it in and out. It'll get boring for Regrator if you suck and don't vary a little."
"Good advice," says Pantalone, with a smile - and, so, you try to do as they ask, sliding your mouth down the length and then back up it. It's a strange, unnatural sort of feeling - but there's something about the way that the two of them are looking at you, the way that Pantalone's breath sounds in the carriage, the taste of him in your mouth . . . you feel a strange stirring low in your stomach, a wetness between your thighs that you don't want to admit to.
"A little faster," Dottore says, and he has moved forward on his seat to get a better view. "It's always nice to start slow, but . . ."
You do as the Doctor says, and Pantalone lets out a stuttering laugh.
"You'll get me too excited far too soon," he says, but he does not stop you from continuing to try and please Pantalone. In fact, as you suck and lick and work your mouth up and down his shaft, his fingers keep tightening and you feel the flesh in your mouth twitching. Feeling bold, with your next bob, you try to take as much of his length into your mouth as possible - and find yourself surprised as it bumps against the back of your throat. Pantalone's fingers suddenly still, and as you go to pull back you find that he is keeping your head there, and you almost cough and sputter around his cock. Your panicked eyes go up to meet his - and his gaze sparks in desire as he keeps you pinned.
Something in your expression - your wide eyes and the fear and the fact you can feel them watering, tears threatening to spill over the plump roundness of your cheeks - seems to stoke a fire in him, and after a few more moments he finally lets you go with a groan.
You're too scared to stop sucking and licking and working his cock, though - so you continue to do it, your throat clogged and tears brimming in your eyes.
"Faster," Dottore goads you. "Come on, pretty thing - can't you see how close you're getting him?"
And it's all you can do. There is no other option, down here on your knees in the carriage, losing your virtue every moment that passes. You suck desperately, your tongue lapping at the slit of his cockhead - and as a tear finally slides down your cheek, Pantalone lets out the loudest groan so far and his cock twitches in your mouth and suddenly it floods with a thick, hot, salty substance--
"Swallow it," Pantalone says, panting - and you do, trying not to cough, trying not to show your disgust - trying not to show that the experience has somehow only served to intensify the slickness between your thighs and the strange feeling in your stomach.
After a few moments, Pantalone eases you off his cock and neatly tucks himself back into his trousers, looking at you.
"Aren't you just the picture of debauchery?" He asks, with a smile - and you cannot see yourself, of course, but if you could you would know he was right. Your full lips swollen, your cheeks flushed, your eyes bright and shiny with unshed tears and your dress all a mess as you rest on your knees. "My, Dottore . . . I almost feel jealous I didn't make you go first."
He lets out a harsh laugh.
"She needed the practice," he says, with a strange smile on his lips. "Come, shift over here a little. Ah. There we are. Very nice." You move so that you are level with Dottore's crotch instead, already anticipating what is going to happen. But you have done it once, you tell yourself, so how bad can it be to do it again? You have already protected yourself from Pantalone's threats. You need now just protect yourself from Dottore's, and you can return . . . and if you feel hot and excited, and you are given some gifts tomorrow by your new suitor and manage to keep hold of your new place in this dazzling society, then surely it is not so much of them to both ask? Certainly, it's not as if they'll send you home with a child growing inside you, just from you using your mouth upon them--
Dottore unbuttons his placket and lazily pulls out his own cock, and you swallow audibly around your suddenly dry throat.
It is not that it is so different - but Dottore is thicker, and there is a piercing decorating the tip, silver balls resting against the flushed pink of his head. A thick vein winds its way down its shaft, and altogether it feels a more daunting prospect than Pantalone's - you understand, now, why Dottore had said you would need the practice on Pantalone first.
"Now you've proved yourself once," Dottore says, with a smile on his face that shows off the flash of sharp teeth, "I'm sure you understand better how to please a man. If you don't do a good job . . . well, I'll continue to provide instruction to you. You may find I'd like you to be a touch rougher than Pantalone does."
It takes more of your courage to approach his cock. As you do, Pantalone reaches out - pushes your sleeves even further down, almost low enough to show the spill of your breasts over your tightly laced corset. He lets out a sigh.
"It would be a lovely sight indeed to have you bare for us both," he says. "But perhaps not tonight. Your maid may find it unusual if your corset is laced again incorrectly. For now . . . this will do."
Dottore chuckles.
"Oh, she's pretty enough without it to keep me interested," he says. "Though . . . I can always think of a few enhancements--"
"Let's leave it natural for now," Pantalone says, raising one eyebrow. "If you win our little game, and she chooses you in the end . . . perhaps she'll let you experiment a bit."
Your eyes widen in fear as to what Dottore could mean, and the Doctor makes a soft little laugh.
"Oh, but aren't you cute scared?" He murmurs, leaning forward and wrapping his hand around your cheek. "My, my. Pantalone wouldn't know what to do with that, but I . . ."
"You're frightening her," Pantalone says, mildly. "Come now. Take him into your mouth. Don't mind the piercing, you won't hurt him."
You swallow, and then you lean forward and, like Pantalone had taught you, you use your tongue to lathe across the head of his cock. The metal of his piercing sends a strange shock through you, but you ignore it in favour of trying to make sure that Dottore is pleased with you. Your tongue works over him, licking and swirling - you have a little more bravery than you'd had before, but you still (after licking for a little while) give up in the end and hollow your cheeks and begin to suck on him the way that you were told.
He has a different taste to Pantalone; something deeper, almost metallic - not entirely because of the piercing. It is not unpleasant, and once again the roaring in your lower stomach makes itself known. Dottore's hand doesn't move from your cheek.
"That's right," he murmurs. "Oh, very good. You're a fast learner, aren't you?"
There's approval in his voice. You continue to work your mouth over his cock, trying to win more of that approval - something about how he sounds so pleased is making your heart beat faster, sending more and more pleasurable sensations throughout your body.
"She's rocking," Pantalone says, off-handedly. You hadn't realised, but as you suck Dottore's cock, you realise you have been rocking on your knees, pressing your thighs together without realising. "Oh, when we finally get to touch you . . ." He chuckles, shaking his head fondly. "That's right, darling. Carry on. How deep can you take our dear Doctor?"
You fulfil the request, but you do not get as far as you could on Pantalone; Dottore's length stretches your mouth, making your eyes water - his cock bumps against the roof of your mouth, the balls of the piercing making you shudder.
"Hmm," Dottore says, and this time his tone does not sound quite so pleased - and, remembering what he said, you reach up hesitantly and cup his balls with your hand. This wins a seething hiss of pleasure from between his teeth, and he bucks his hips forward and his cock breaches that final gap to fit snugly against your throat. As you fondle his ballsack, you try to remember all of the other things you've learnt - keep your tongue moving, work yourself back and forward, suck and lick and try to please him--
But Dottore gives a soft laugh, and gently pushes you off his cock.
"No," he says. "I think I've gotten enough from watching you work over Pantalone, little mouse. I shall have my fill another time."
"D-did I . . . Was I not agreeable to you, My Lord?" You look up at him all wide-eyed and frightened. Those threats he has made will not leave your mind. Dottore gives you what he must think is a soothing smile.
"Ah, you were very agreeable. But . . . we shouldn't want to deliver you too late to your aunt now, would we? And I think I just heard the coachman returning - hopefully not full of too much firewater. No, no, little mouse . . . I'm very pleased. I'll simply let the agony of waiting prolong my eventual pleasure."
The next day, Pantalone is true to his word and sends a bouquet of flowers to your door. They are expensive blooms that one would never normally see in Snezhnaya; hothouse flowers from Liyue and Natlan, perfectly balanced in colour and size. With the bouquet is a card telling you how much he enjoyed his evening, and the gift of a diamond bracelet that makes your aunt's mouth drop open.
In the afternoon, another gift appears - a basket of expensive cakes and breads from the most luxurious bakery. Your aunt tells you that she has never managed to even enter the place, the sweet treats sell out so quickly. This one is from Dottore, and promises a visit the next afternoon.
"You've made quite an impression on them," your aunt says, fanning herself as she looks over at the bouquet of flowers and the cakes that have been heaped onto a little serving tray. "You know, I've already started receiving more invitations than usual . . . I thought I would, having you under my roof, but this . . ." She shakes her head. "I don't understand it, my dear, but one must never look a gift horse in the mouth!" Her eyes sharpen as she looks at you. "You won't do anything foolish, will you?"
Your heart skips a beat. Does she know about last night, on your knees in the carriage for two of the most powerful men in the country? Does she know you are ruined and despoiled? Is this a warning?
She heaves a great sigh.
"Don't put them off," she says, and you realise that she knows nothing. She was only warning you to try and keep their attention. To not do anything foolish that may make them lose interest in you.
If only she knew.
Dottore is as good as his word. At 3pm the next afternoon, he is at the door - and though your aunt twitters that she is about to leave for her bridge club and she ought not to leave you unchaperoned, Dottore smiles and reminds her that he is a Fatui Harbinger and no harm will come to you whilst he is with you.
"You surely don't believe I would make a move on your niece's virtue?" He asks, with one raised eyebrow. His smile is, as always, full of sharp teeth - and there's a matching sharpness in his voice. "You would truly worry about her with a Harbinger? Throw . . . distrust on Her Majesty's most honourable lieutenants?"
Your aunt must hear the warning in his voice, because her cheeks go hot and she shakes her head, stuttering out her apologies.
"We'll merely speak a while," he says, with a smile, "and I have another outing to invite her to. Upon my honour, good lady, your niece will not be harmed by me."
He inclines his head, in a way that clearly means that she is dismissed - and though she is standing in her own sitting room, though this is her own space and she ought to be the dragon guarding her hoards of treasure . . . she acquiesces in front of him, bobs him a curtsey and hurries out of the room calling for her driver.
You sit on one of the low, chintzy sofas. Your maid has picked out a day dress of cornflower blue today; you realise with a start that it unconsciously has matched the shade of the Doctor's hair. He takes his seat opposite you with all of the leonine grace of an animal ready to pounce upon its prey and devour it.
But he does not speak, as he lifts the cup of tea the maid had brought in as he was shown to the sitting room. He takes a slow, considering sip.
He is waiting for you to speak. Seeing what you will do. If you'll break first.
You are only young. You are unversed. You do not understand the world you have found yourself in; you have not been raised to know that gentlemen play with young ladies virtues like this.
"Last night," you whisper, twisting your fingers into the fabric of your skirts. "I . . ."
"Yes?" He says, clearly enjoying it - watching you fumble for the words. Heat rises to your cheeks. You try to get your thoughts in order, but they slip from your grasp like fish below a sparkling stream.
"I . . . I did not think . . . I did not realise--"
"No," Dottore agrees. "I'm sure you didn't. Pantalone can have that effect on people. He's always been good at getting what he wants by any means necessary. To tell you the truth, little mouse . . . I rather pity the position he's gotten you into."
You look up at him, confused. Dottore has been a part of this, surely? Is one of the reasons you have found yourself in this position?
"I came today with a proposition for you, in fact," he says, leaning back as he puts his teacup back on the sofa. "As I have said - Pantalone can be a . . . cruel master. Oh, I know you're thinking that surely I can be one too, and you're correct - but Pantalone loses interest in toys far quicker than I do, and then tosses them aside. He's looking for one particular jewel, and the ones that do not meet his requirements tend to get trod into the dirt. I, however . . . when I have an interest in something fascinating and lovely like you, I prefer to keep hold of it." He gives you a wolfish smile.
"Wh-what proposition do you have?" You ask, your throat dry. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you shift awkwardly on the sofa, and you do not realise just how desirable you make yourself seem to a man like Dottore when you do such things. All pretty and nervous and unspoilt.
"I will protect you," he says, with a smile. "I'll make sure that Pantalone loses interest in you naturally. I'll make sure everything remains . . . pleasant, for both you and your family. You do not want to see the Regrator when he is frustrated and disappointed, I assure you. What he can do to a family name and a reputation and a fortune is far, far worse than what I could do to a physical body."
You shiver again. You had never meant to get caught up in something like this! You are just a girl from the country, trying out a taste of high society - you don't understand how somehow you've found yourself trapped between these two men! You have never considered yourself prettier than any other girl, or more interesting - but suddenly two of the most powerful men in the nation want you, and are willing to do all kinds of things to one another to ensure they're the ones who come out on top.
"A-and what would you want in return?" You ask, your voice deathly quiet. Dottore throws his head back and laughs.
"Ah," he says. "Now you're getting it! Of course you'll have to make it worth my while - I was thinking that perhaps we could . . . finish what we began last night?"
Ah. That's not so bad, is it? Not for protection? You begin to rearrange your skirts, ready to sink to your knees - but Dottore raises an amused hand.
"No, no. Not like that." He gets to his feet, and you look at him in confusion - and the confusion only grows as he crosses the room, around the table, to get to his own knees in front of you. His hands grasp the hem of your skirt, beginning to raise it - and as you squeak in alarm and try to push it down to preserve your modesty, he chuckles. "Ah. I thought I'd finish what we began by putting my mouth to use on you. It's not only the man who can find a tongue pleasurable, you know."
"I--"
The idea of it makes you feel dizzy with heat; confused, frightened, and excited all at once. It's something you've never really considered before. Something, you think, that is more the domain of dens of iniquity and of women with far more experience than you. But Dottore's fingertips are on your bare thighs, pushing up the thin fabric of your day dress, brushing over the gossamer silk of your stockings and the only thing that is escaping your mouth is a soft little gasp as a knuckle brushes over the gusset of your underwear.
He looks up at you from between your thighs, a smirk quirking the corner of his lips.
"I suppose I ought to take this off," he murmurs, and he reaches to remove the mask. The deep wine-red of his eyes catches your gaze, and heat spreads over your cheeks. He's as handsome as Pantalone is, in his own way - his mouth surprisingly full and sensitive, his nose long and straight, his eyes just a touch too sharp. "I'd hate for you to get cut on the sharp edges. Your skin is so . . ." His fingers dance over the plush of your thighs, and that smirk does not leave his mouth for a moment. "Terribly soft. Unmarked. Lovely."
You squeak as his mouth finds that spot over your stocking and he grazes his teeth over it, the edges of his canines just a little sharper than you were expecting.
"How sweet," he says, his eyes not moving from your own even as he does it. "You're really the country mouse you pretend to be, aren't you? Not an inch of pretense about it. How darling."
"I d-don't understand," you whisper, but Dottore's fingers are now working under the lace of your underwear, gently urging the scrap of satin and lace down your full thighs. You feel as though you must flush even deeper at the sight of your own arousal dampening the crotch, but Dottore has other things that are more interesting to him as he works it past your thighs, and calves, and then ankles and leaves it upon the floor.
"Some girls," he says, rocking back on his knees to look at you with his eyes narrowed and a smile still on his face, "think that it's rather fun to pretend to be artless to get a man snared within her trap. You, though . . . you really don't understand what you're doing to us, do you?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "My, my, my. That makes it all the sweeter, you know. Regrator would be inconsolable if he knew I was getting to be the first one to use my mouth on you. Still," and he flashes you a grin, a better look at those sharp, white teeth. "That's what he gets for hesitating. I prefer to get as close to my experiments as possible, as quickly as I can. And I do not see your body complaining much about it." His fingers walk up the expanse of your thigh again, soft and full and unmarked as he said - only this time, your underwear is not there to stop the inexorable path of his fingers, and a soft noise escapes you as those fingertips brush over your hot, slick sex.
"Aren't you a feast?" He murmurs, as his fingers slip between the lips of your sex, stroking down your slit from clit to perineum. You whine softly, burying your face helplessly in the soft skin of your shoulder - and Dottore sees it, and you see through your lowered lashes that the smile on his face only grows sharper and hungrier.
He sinks down back onto his knees, now. He presses his mouth against your knee, your thigh, dropping kisses further and further up, interspersing them with bites and nips of his teeth and suckling of the soft skin there that you can't help but feel will leave marks.
And then his mouth is between your legs, on your sex, his tongue hot and wet and certain - and you cannot breathe at the sensation of it. Your hands helplessly clutch at your aunt's expensive upholstered sofa - his head, tousled pale blue, is within your reach too, but it feels far too intimate for you to grab hold of that--
Besides. You do not think he is the kind of man who would take to it kindly.
And there are, at any rate, far more pressing sensations than the way the upholstery feels beneath your fingernails. There is the hot muscle of Dottore's tongue, stroking across your sex as if he wishes to learn it by heart. Flat and strong, as he works over the slit - as he takes every bit of you in, as if he is feeding on your arousal like it is thick honey.
He starts low, using his tongue like a scoop to flick up and up your sex, pausing just briefly at your entrance as if he is considering entering you with his tongue (you have never had anything inside of you belonging to a man, and the idea that the first thing might be a tongue)--
Before he slides further upwards, and flicks the tip of his tongue against your clit teasingly, once and then twice and then again, sending hot little zaps of electricity through your body that makes you feel as though you're liable to become boneless and soak into the upholstery yourself.
His hands find purchase on your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there - definitely deep enough to leave marks, you think, and then you wonder if perhaps that is the point. If Dottore wants Pantalone to see that there are marks all over you that he has left; if Dottore wants the other man to know you have been claimed in this way. The idea that the two of these powerful men are playing games beyond your comprehension makes your head ache - so you, instead, give yourself up to the feeling of Dottore's tongue. To the sensation of his mouth fastening around the pearl of your clit and suckling on it, making your vision flash white for a moment and another helpless cry escape your mouth.
"Oh," Dottore murmurs, pulling back, his mouth wet with your own slick. "You really are just too sweet."
You don't know whether it's a compliment to your looks or your naivety or your taste - or, indeed, whether it's a compliment at all. Words become difficult to understand with Dottore's mouth on you. With his tongue and his lips and the sensation of it all coming crashing down upon you, when you've never felt such a thing before.
By all rights, this kind of thing should have been saved for your wedding day. You should be on a bed in ivory satin with a man who has promised to take care of you for the rest of your lives. You should not be on your aunt's settee in the middle of the day with one of the most powerful men in Snezhnaya lapping you up like fine wine. But that is where you have found yourself.
One hand coming up, letting go of your thigh. You stiffen as you feel one of his fingers pressing against your entrance - but then Dottore is murmuring sweet platitudes against your clit, and his tongue is stroking the button with a practised intensity, and the finger is pressing inside of you without you even noticing--
First to one knuckle, and then the next, and then the entirety of his digit is sheathed inside of your tight virgin channel even as Dottore's tongue is still twirling and stroking and drawing forth curls of heat that have begun to feel more like towers of flame.
You have never felt like this before. You try to open your mouth, to ask if this is right - for surely this feeling licking up your spine, this strange tingling sensation coupled with the building of pressure in your abdomen cannot be how it is supposed to feel - but your tongue is too heavy to do anything. You cannot breathe. You cannot think. You squeeze your eyes shut--
You are teetering on the edge, ready to fall into something you've never been in before.
And then, all at once--
You plummet.
You're pushed over the edge with one final stroke of his tongue and curl of his fingers, and the pit in the middle of your stomach seems to send tendrils of pleasurable heat through your entire body, fireworks going off behind your eyes, your fingertips and toes twinkling with what feels like sharp electric. Your body cannot support you anymore - you do indeed melt into the sofa beneath you as the shocks of your orgasm rock your body into a strange, malleable state.
The feeling of wading through toffee; of your body not fully belonging to you, of every nerve ending in your skin being aflame. You may have made a noise, but you feel so floaty and strange that you can't be sure if you only did that in your head.
Dottore's tongue keeps stroking over you, your body overheated and oversensitive, guiding you over peaks and valleys of the feelings. But he does not let it calm; he does not slow down the inexorable laps of his tongue until you whimper and try to press your thighs together at the onslaught of it all.
Only then does he let his mouth separate from your sex with a wet pop, a chuckle falling from his wet lips. He stays there only for a moment, looking at you all in a state of disarray with your skirts hiked up and your skin marked from his teeth and wetness dripping down your thighs and your eyes blown wide. Only then does he laugh again, and get back up onto his feet, tugging down his shirtsleeves back to his wrists and looking at you with the keen eye of a predator.
"Not playing at being unschooled, then," he says, the smirk not leaving his face. "No one but a virgin would have fallen apart for me so prettily. Oh, Regrator's going to be devastated."
"I . . . is it always like that?" You ask, your vision still fuzzy. You manage to pull yourself back together enough to sit up from your ungainly position sprawled over the cushions, to grope helplessly for your underwear to pull it back on.
"If you're with someone who knows what they're doing," Dottore allows, and then looks at you much in the way a successful inventor looks at his work when it has performed its purpose for the first time. "And I am not in the habit of doing things that I have not studied to perfection."
He reaches into a pocket of his waistcoat to find a handkerchief and uses it to wipe his mouth of the glimmering wetness of your sex, uncaring how the sight of it makes you feel hot and embarrassed all over.
"Mm. Thank you for a most . . . enjoyable afternoon, my dear. I'd go to the powder room before anyone else sees you. As for the next time I'll see you . . . well. I'm sure it will work itself out."
When your aunt returns, after you have washed your thighs and tried to put your hair back in place and repositioned your dress so it does not look as though you spent the afternoon with it rucked up around your hips with a man between your thighs, she is all a-twitter.
"Your social life is becoming more interesting than mine!" She says, her voice only a touch hysterical. "We received an invitation for you to the theatre tonight, from Lord Pantalone - oh, I have no idea what you'll wear, and we truly were expecting you to be home . . . but one does not keep a Harbinger waiting!" She pauses and takes you by the shoulders, stares into your eyes - and for a moment, you think that she can see the secret that you're hiding from her. You think she must be able to tell you have been ruined.
But the moment passes, as she calls a maid up to help you dress, and you are hurried out of the sitting room and upstairs into your bedroom whilst everyone but you whispers about what dress you can possibly wear tonight and you try to ignore the strange, unsure feeling in your stomach.
"Dottore has had much to say about your afternoon together," Pantalone says, when the two of you are finally alone - or as alone as one can be in a box at the theatre.
It's a fairly secluded one, at least. There are other boxes that are more in view of the audience - the kind of box where one comes to be seen, rather than to see. But Pantalone had refused what the usher had referred to as his usual box, citing that he wanted his lovely companion to have a wider view of the stage, and so you had been shown to one set further back in the dress circle where other people were not likely to see you unless they were truly looking for you.
You suppose you ought to be thankful - you are not quite ready to be the subject of gossip magazines and tabloid newspapers and society rags - but you know that Pantalone is not the kind of man who does anything without having a reason for it, and the many reasons that he may desire a more secluded place to take his companion do not escape your notice.
"Did he?" You ask, trying not to let the fact that it feels as though your heart is going to beat out of your chest show. "I hope he . . . only had good things to say."
"There's no point beating about the bush, my dear." Pantalone places a hand upon your thigh, over the fabric of your dress. You look up at him through the fringe of your lashes, aware that your cheeks have gotten hot and that your throat has gone dry. "Oh, don't look like that. Of course I don't blame you. It's difficult to say no to a powerful man, isn't it?"
Despite what he's saying, his eyes behind their glass remain flashing with something that might be anger. You feel yourself shiver in fear. You do not want to say the wrong thing! It was so much easier in the sitting room with Dottore, away from prying eyes - but here, in the theatre? In public? Anything could happen, and you do so wish to avoid a scandal.
"Still," Dottore says. "It was impolite of you both to . . . go behind my back. I know Dottore can seem persuasive, my dear, but you must really learn when to pick your battles and when is indeed the right time to push back." He reaches over, and a gasp dies in your throat - but he only tucks a strand of stray hair behind your ear, the gesture easy, comforting. Protective.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, contrite. You are sorry. All of the things that Dottore had said back then seem much harder to fulfil when you are faced with Pantalone beside you and the reminder of all of the power that he, too, wields.
There is no winning. Not really.
"A pretty apology," says Pantalone, with a smile. "I'm sure you're willing to back up your words with actions, are you not?"
A Fatui Harbinger. You give a demure little nod, your cheeks going hot all over, and Pantalone lets out a slow, considering breath. You wonder what he will take from you. You wonder what kind of apology he will ask for. Surely he would not push you onto your knees here, when anybody could turn around and notice that his companion was not in her seat?
"I wouldn't do anything so louche in public," Pantalone says, smiling, as if he has read your mind. But then the hand on your thigh slowly begins to tug up the fabric of your skirt. "I intend to ensure that anybody who glimpses us in this box merely sees . . . two patrons of the theatre enjoying the artistry they are being permitted to hear. Anything else would be an affront to the performers, don't you think?"
The cool air hits the bare skin of your thighs, over the tops of your beribboned stockings. Pantalone smiles at them, giving one of the ribbons a playful tug.
"I agree," you whisper, though your voice comes out as barely more than a squeak. "I . . . I'm a properly brought up lady, My Lord--"
"Oh, I'm sure," Pantalone replies, with a crinkle of his eyes. "And a properly brought up young lady knows to keep her eyes on the stage, does she not?"
His fingers slide over the soft pudge of your stomach and slip into the waistband of your underwear, and you have to bite down into the flesh of your lower lip to stop yourself from crying out in surprise.
His hands are cold, even through the satin gloves he wears. He turns his attention back to the stage, where the actors are having an argument about something or other - you know that this is a retelling of some Snezhnayan fairytale, but having Pantalone's hands slowly slide down over your mound to cup your sex is somewhat scrambling your ability to pay attention to the plot.
"Remember," Pantalone murmurs, his voice as delicate as a snowflake and just as cold, "keep your eyes forward. We wouldn't want anybody to notice anything awry now, would we?"
One finger slips between the lips of your labia, coolness against heat, and you press your lips together and clutch at the programme that Pantalone bought you so as not to give anything away. The glossy paper, thankfully, does not become crumpled in your grip. It is only your thoughts that seem to fold and scrunch, as he pushes further in and his wrist brushes against the strip of skin over your waistband so he can get more of a handful of your sex to toy with.
His index finger brushes over your clit, and with a pleasant smile he leans back over to whisper (breath cool against your ear);
"Spread your legs for me a touch, darling. There's a good girl."
You are helpless to do anything but obey, even as you can feel the muscles in your thighs tensing in fear. You pretend to rearrange yourself on the red velvet seat, giving him more access to the vulnerable apex between your thighs. At least it gives you a moment to get used to the sensation of the cool silk against hot slick wetness. But as he moves his finger, rolling the pearl of your clit beneath his fingertip, you're sure that you won't be able to keep hold of yourself for long.
Pantalone, though, is practised in this art. Once he has whispered into your ear, he returns his gaze to the story playing out onstage, his smile perfectly practised and his eyes seemingly entirely focused on the performers who are working for his attention. Even as his finger begins to circle your clit, teasing at you, he doesn't so much as twitch his lip.
You, on the other hand . . .
You try to think of things that are solid and immovable. A rock, a pillar of stone, a marble statue, the brick walls of a house. You try not to let the squirming heat of his practised fingers get to you. The little frissons of electricity that the brush of silken gloves send ricocheting through your body. The way that your throat has gone dry and your cheeks have gone hot.
He slides his digits further down, until it is his index and his pointer finger that are sliding between the plump lips of your sex to line up beside your entrance. You should feel ashamed of how easily those fingers glide through your wetness, but you have a more important task to do now: not to let Pantalone know how much he is affecting you. Not to give it away if any curious patrons of the theatre turn to see the Harbinger and his companion in their box.
A soft noise escapes you despite your best attempts otherwise, as he slides those two fingers inside of you in a fluid, practised motion; and Pantalone makes a soft click at the back of his throat.
"Yes," he says, "how easy she makes it sound." He is pretending to be passing comment on the lovely soprano who has taken centre stage, but you know better - as his fingers begin a slow but inexorable rocking motion inside of you, you know that he is talking about the ease with which his fingers have made their home inside your channel. You can hear your heart beating, and it feels as though your sex is pulsing around the digits inside of it with the same rhythm.
"Ah," he says, leaning forward as a way to hide that he has angled his chair just so, closer to you, to be able to get more of a range of motion in his wrist. "There's an understudy on, you see?"
You try and blink back the diamonds at the edge of your vision, where it seems to be whiting out. Pantalone inclines his head at some man or other onstage, but he does not stop the ceaseless motion of his fingers. You can barely keep the plot of the show straight, let alone whether the images in the programme match the performers onstage--
"Distracted?" He asks, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. You open your mouth to respond, but he chooses that moment to swipe his thumb across your swollen clit, and any words that you had prepared for him seem to fall out of your ears. "The costumes for this piece really are something, aren't they? The producer took out a sizeable loan from the Northland Bank, but I think it was worth it--"
"Yes," you manage to squeak out, your voice as dry as a Sumeru desert. "Yes, they're beautiful--"
His thumb, circling your clit, pressing against it with just the right amount of pressure. His fingers, rocking in and out of you, your slick saturating the silk of his gloves. His knee pressed against your own.
"But not as beautiful as you," Pantalone whispers just loud enough for the women seated closest to the box - just in front of and beneath - to hear it, and they coo and steal glances back at you. You do not know what they see - if they see your hair a mess and your face aflame and your lips bitten to plumpness, and if they mistake them as the flush of young love and not for what truth is actually happening--
The music swells to a beautiful crescendo, and for a moment you think that the show is over - but Pantalone lets out a happy sigh, smiling beatifically at you. He slides his fingers as deep inside of you as they will go, his thumb not ceasing in its practised circular motions.
"The first act of seven," he says. "Aren't you having the most marvellous time?"
Pantalone and Dottore wage a war over your affections fought in bouquets of roses and beautiful fabrics and expensive trinkets sent to your aunt's address.
They do not see you again - Pantalone had kissed you on the cheek as he'd dropped you off home after the theatre, your thighs slick with your own arousal, and had told you he was throwing a ball in a few weeks and that he would be delighted to have you as a companion there, but business was taking the Harbingers away from society until then. You had secretly sighed in relief to know that both he and Dottore would be occupied with other things - but Pantalone had still taken your chin in his hand before you could go, his smile as sharp as an icicle.
"Don't forget," he had said, "that you are dallying with the man who holds Snezhnaya's purse strings, my dear. Dottore, I understand, can be rather intense . . . but you will thank me when you realise what it is he does with the things he becomes interested in."
In its way, it's rather like the warning that Dottore had given you about Pantalone, and it leaves you with far more questions than it does answers. It leaves you all the more rattled and unsure about where exactly your place in all of this is - and what exactly it is about you that seems to have captured the imagination of two of the most influential men in Snezhnaya.
They do not stop needling at one another, even within the gifts. Dottore sends you a first edition of some scientific book about life cycles, with a note reminding you that those stories often told in opera and folk tales do not necessarily reflect the way things would go in actuality. Pantalone sends you a beautiful watercolour set with a note about how one must see the beauty in life. Dottore sends clockwork automaton music boxes with their gears exposed, and Pantalone sends you trinket boxes with delicate enamel paintings. Dottore sends you a seedling in a glass terrarium, some brand new species of rose he says he will name after you - and Pantalone sends you a bouquet bigger than you, full of Liyue and Sumeru blooms that you have only ever seen illustrations of, for they would be too expensive to grow in the hostile, cold climate of Snezhnaya. It is like they try to outdo one another in both luxury and excess, to make you think the first gift from the other man was a trifle compared to theirs - but you are amazed by every one.
Your aunt, too, is delighted with every gift. They often send huge bouquets (of rather more pedestrian flora, but still perfectly formed) for the house and chocolates for her, too. They are to show their appreciation of her taking you in and introducing you to society - and before where she would pull you up on your manners and your country ways, now she laughs and pinches your cheek and wonders aloud every time she receives an invitation to bridge or tea with a lady who would never before have given her the time of day.
You, though, do not feel quite such a simplistic pleasure over it all.
You feel lost and adrift, all at sea; unsure what the correct path is to take. The fact that the two of them seem to be arguing over you makes your stomach swirl with anxiety. Who are you to be so wanted? You look at yourself in the mirror and try to see what they see, but find yourself unsure as you peer into a pair of frightened eyes. You pluck at your clothes where they cling to the plump curves of your frame, speak aloud and try to hear if there is something beautiful in your voice, but come up feeling just as unknowing as you did before.
But it is you, still, that they want. It is you, still, that they snipe over and send gifts to and touch and take from, who they ruin in ways that make you feel dizzy and afraid that you rather enjoyed it.
You do think back on the way they touched you. Of their cocks in your mouth and Pantalone's fingers inside of you and Dottore's mouth upon you - and as a proper young lady, you know you should be disgusted. But that is not all you feel. You remember how it had felt, you remember the sparks inside of you and the way your heart beat faster and you let your own hand slip between your thighs and your pillow muffle your quiet cries in a way it's never really done before.
There is something to be said for being wanted. There is a joy in knowing you are being looked at and found pleasing - you only wish that perhaps it had been some other man.
Not two Fatui Harbingers, who could hold your fate in their palm and decide it on a whim. Not two of them who argue amongst themselves about you, who could bring you down with them based entirely on petty jealousies and nothing else. But such things are not for you to think about.
After all; you are simply the poor relation. You are simply the country mouse who ought to be grateful for scraps who has somehow found herself at the head of the table with a feast laid before her and princes by her side watching her with hungry eyes.
You are the Cinderella story, the one who is heaped with jewels and fine fabrics and dressed up like a pretty doll whilst people gossip behind your back about your ascent towards grace. All you can do is follow the path that fate, and Dottore and Pantalone themselves, have carved out for you.
So on the day of Pantalone's ball, you dress for it and steel yourself and wait for him to pick you up. You have no other choice.
The dress is sent to you and signed as being from both of them; it seems that in this, at least, the two of them have been united. It's rather more risque than you're used to, and your aunt's eyes widen when she sees it - but she does not dare argue against the dress that has been designed for you and paid for by two of the Fatui Harbingers.
It is beautiful. The colour glows against your skin, the neckline dipping to show the ripe swell of your bosom, the waist nipping you in to emphasise the tantalising curve of your hip. The sleeves drape over the plumpness of your shoulders, and you know from the moment you stand in front of the mirror with the jewels that Pantalone has sent you to wear with the dress that neither of the Harbingers will be able to keep their eyes off you all night. The thought is at once exhilarating and terrifying. You touch your lips, where the lipstick has reddened them - you rearrange a ribbon, a piece of lace . . . and then you have to admit to yourself that there can be no more stalling. You must face Pantalone's carriage, and the man himself - and then, once you are at the ball . . . you must face Dottore too.
Despite the fact the two had managed to get along long enough to organise your gown, it is clear when you enter the carriage and sit nestled against Pantalone as he indicates that the rivalry between them has not dimmed in intensity.
"He'll be terribly jealous to see you on my arm looking so delectable," Pantalone says, his eyes flashing behind his glasses as he takes you in. "Ah. It fits you like a glove, my dear. You'll be the belle of the ball; not a single person could outshine you."
You flush.
"I'm sure you're just being kind," you whisper, and Pantalone takes his time reaching over to tilt your face towards his, the smile on his lips playing at being generous.
"I don't waste my time with flattery for flattery's sake, darling," he says. "Other people do that to me. When I give a compliment . . . I mean it. You're a vision. From the moment I saw you, I knew we could mould you into something special - and as in so many things, I've been proven correct. Won't you give me a kiss in thanks for your dress?"
You cannot very well refuse, when you wear expensive silk and lace draped over the curves of your body - so you lean into him, and his cool lips brush against yours. It's not the most intimate the two of you have ever been (you think of fingers inside of you, of your mouth wide around his length) - but still, kissing him feels . . . different. Like giving up a different part of yourself.
It is a far cry from the demanding way he had taken your first kiss from you what seems like years ago but has only been weeks.
Pantalone pulls back with a smirk on his face. He uses his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth of a stray smudge of lipstick.
"You taste just as divine as you look," he says to you. "Though I know Dottore may have rather more to say on that than I do. Not for long, I hope."
Your cheeks are hot, and you keep your hands folded as demurely as you can manage in your lap. You know Dottore will be there, of course - but the last time you'd seen him was, indeed, the time he had chosen to become acquainted with the taste of your most intimate parts. You have not seen the two of them together since you knelt in the carriage for them.
Since then, the atmosphere between them has seemed frosty. They have made promises to you that go directly against one another; implied a rivalry that makes you feel dizzy with fright at the implications. They've argued with one another on perfectly calligraphied notecards accompanying presents that have been both gift and barbed dares to one another to try and outdo the luxuries.
You do not know what will happen when they are faced with one another in the ballroom. It's one of Pantalone's properties, you know that - but Dottore seems to put far less stock in wealth and assets than Pantalone. You doubt the fact that he's in one of the other man's homes (and how luxurious it seems to you, to have more than one home!) will stop Dottore if he wishes to cause a scene.
Perhaps they will be civil; perhaps they'll only speak in sharp, tight sentences and send glares across the chandelier-lit dancefloor. But you know Dottore's reputation too well to imagine he will be satisfied with such a thing. You know that he has never been regarded as a polite party guest, that he sees society as a whole as rather beneath him--
And it makes you bite your lip and hesitate when Pantalone dismounts the carriage and holds out a hand to escort you down in turn.
"I just need a moment," you whisper - and though Pantalone's eyes flash, he gives you a patient smile and watches you as you try to pull yourself together.
"I could wait all evening for you," he says. "Every head will turn when they realise I have the most beautiful girl in the world on my arm, after all - it's only when we enter the night will truly begin."
They're pretty words. They do not do much to soothe your fear, but you tremble as you give him a smile nonetheless. What could Dottore truly do, with you on Pantalone's arm? What would Pantalone do to Dottore, when he is the one with whom you have come?
It is those thoughts that eventually make you pull yourself together, and you step out of the carriage and into the jaws of the wolf as the two of you pass through the beautiful entrance of tonight's glittering society party.
They do not say anything to one another, but you can feel the tension as Pantalone leads you over to Dottore. You see the way that the latter's eyes scan hungrily down your body, drinking in the way the new dress highlights the curves beneath - and he does, at least, give you a hungry smile.
"It suits you," he says. "It cost half of Snezhnaya, but at least you're worth the dressing."
Pantalone stiffens, and then gives Dottore a tight, barely perceptible nod.
"Certainly it's of more use than some dusty old book or other," he says - and Dottore looks as though he will rise to the bait for a moment, before he turns his back on you both. Pantalone takes your hand and leads you onto the ballroom floor, his gaze returning to you with obvious satisfaction.
You dance, though you're sure that your movements must be clumsy and Pantalone is almost certainly used to more graceful partners; still, if he has any complaints, he does not voice them. Instead, his arm goes about your waist and he pulls you in tight, your body pressing against his in a display that other people might say was inappropriate - but Pantalone is the Regrator, and nobody would dare raise their dissent. Not when he could so easily bring an end to any business proposal or place in society with nothing more than a slight incline of his head.
The moment Pantalone stops and tells you he will fetch you both a drink, though, Dottore sees his chance. The Doctor swoops in to you like a great raven, and he has replaced the other Harbinger without so much as a backward glance. This dance feels even closer, the music slower - the air around you feels hot and sticky with the promise of something reaching boiling point tonight.
You try your best to answer his questions, to be lovely and polite and not to give anybody around you fuel for the gossip machine - but your entire head feels fuzzy and full of static. Your breath feels short. Your heart is pounding so quickly it feels a wonder that the other guests do not see it even through your gown. You wonder, briefly, if the maid has once again laced your corset far too tightly.
Dottore repeats a question, and you look up at him with your mouth pressed into a moue of confusion, your eyes wide. He has asked you something, you know - but there is so much sound and colour and the mere existence of your body in this space is making you feel light-headed.
"For Archon's sake, she'll faint," Pantalone is there, suddenly, at Dottore's side. He sneers at the other Harbinger; "For a doctor, you seem to be failing in the one duty your name most implies." Pantalone's hands on your shoulders. Dottore, though, has not let go of your waist.
"Or are you merely trying to get me off her?" He asks, his voice as dangerous as a snake ready to rear up. "Are you simply trying to monopolise her time?"
"I brought her here, didn't I? Dressed her? Ensured she was prepared? Your mind is too wrapped up in your books and your experiments to do anything so practical, you just expect things as you always do--"
"Perhaps I don't need something to be trussed up like a pig to market when it's already beautiful on its own?" Dottore fires back, and your cheeks burn hot as you realise he's talking about you. It all just serves to emphasise that you're dizzy enough that the room around you is spinning.
You've tried so hard to forget the war being waged over you by the two Harbingers. You've tried so hard to balance what the two of them want from you, to understand why it is you've been thrust into a limelight you never asked for - but the two of them there, in public, with their hands on you . . .
Your eyes fill with tears.
"Please," you whisper, helplessly - but somehow, Dottore hears you, and his gaze (his crow-like mask has been swapped out for something smaller, a fine dark metal filigree) shifts to you. "Please, don't fight over me . . . I'll do anything you want--"
Pantalone's head snaps to the side, too. The hand on your shoulder moves to cup your cheek. His hands are blessedly cool through the silk gloves he is wearing.
"Oh, darling," he murmurs. There's a smile on his face. You look through tear-blurred eyes to see that there's one on Dottore's face too, a sharp uptick of one side of his mouth. You don't understand why the two of them are smiling.
You're getting the strangest feeling you don't understand anything at all.
"Why didn't you say so before?" Dottore asks, and there's an echo of a laugh in the back of his voice. "Regrator? I think we ought to go somewhere more private, don't you?"
You've somehow walked yourself directly into a trap; a fly caught in the web of two spiders who you thought were sizing one another up. Who have somehow used their honeyed words to move you directly into the centre of their playing field.
And you have absolutely no idea how.
Pantalone smiles at you, a cat who has gotten the cream - and it suddenly occurs to you that in order for the two of them to have been able to fight so neatly on the cards attached to your gifts, they have to have known what was being sent. They have to have been aware of one another's moves.
And the ways they both spoke to you, so perfectly attuned to the fears that one another stoked in your heart, and the way they somehow managed to time their visits so perfectly around one another--
"I've had a bedroom prepared," Pantalone says, and arms are locking about your waist and your feet are moving despite themselves. "Oh, darling. We've been waiting for this."
Anything they want.
You've made a promise you're going to have to keep.
"You were playing with me the whole time, weren't you?" You ask them, your eyes wide, when Pantalone has drawn you into the well-appointed bedroom that he was obviously speaking of earlier. The room is beautiful, decorated tastefully and expensively - but the thing you cannot help but notice the most is the large bed in the centre of the room, with the sheets freshly laundered.
You know what that bed will be used for.
"Perhaps," Pantalone says, with a small smile, as he perches himself on the edge of the bed. "But you've been such fun to play with. Even kept Dottore's amusement. That's no small feat, my dear."
Dottore takes a seat beside him, so you are standing before them as if you are being put on trial. You feel exposed, like this; their eyes taking you in, the dress that they've chosen to put you in, the position that they've somehow managed to gently manipulate you into.
"You've taken it all admirably," Dottore agrees, his gaze not leaving yours. "We both felt it was time to make it official."
"Official?" You say, voice trembling - but you do not need to ask. Not really. You know exactly what the two Fatui Harbingers are implying.
And it terrifies you, of course. You're a proper young lady who has been taught to be sweet and modest and biddable; who has learnt that her innocence is an asset that should be protected until marriage.
But you have also been taught to respect your betters. To play your cards right to ensure protection; and you know exactly what the Harbingers before you are capable of doing. Your nice things and your aunt's delight with you and the precious jewels and presents can all be taken away from you in one fell swoop, as could your life if the two of them willed it so.
And . . . would it be so bad? When you have already given up so much for them? When they have both endeavoured to ensure you feel pleasure in your meetings with them, too? When what they've done to you has made your breath catch and your head swim and introduced you to a kind of physical pleasure that you didn't know your body was capable of?
Pantalone gives you that patient smile again, and stands. He approaches you slowly and pulls you into a kiss that is slower than before; heart-stoppingly intense, mouthing at you and slipping his tongue between your lips to tease yours in return. He still tastes like fine wine. Your eyes fluttered closed as he kissed you, and they only open as he pulls back and you find that Dottore is behind you, his fingers on your bare back as he slowly unbuttons the bodice of your dress.
You can't help but gasp as the cool air hits your heated skin, but Dottore bends his head and presses a kiss against your neck. His teeth graze across the sensitive skin there, and you find yourself unconsciously shivering and leaning into the touch. Pantalone's hands help, tugging at the expensive fabric as if it's nothing more than an old apron and not the most luxurious thing you've ever owned--
And then, your dress has been pulled off you, skirts pooling around your feet, and you stand bare in front of them in your chemise and corset and stockings, your cheeks gone warm, your eyes blown wide, your lips swollen from Pantalone's kiss.
"Well," Dottore purrs, pulling back from you. "Aren't you something to look at, little mouse?"
Pantalone's hands find the curve of your waist, where your corset pulls you in; his palms trace the swell of your hips and then back up to the way your bosom curves out the upper portion, his touch upon your body hungry.
"You'll be all the lovelier without anything on at all," Pantalone says, and Dottore understands and the practised, clever fingers of a doctor begin to unlace your corset. You feel the loosening of the laces, and you make only the softest noise of surprise as it, too, falls to the floor. Your chemise is next, and then your underwear--
And as Dottore slowly rolls your silk stockings down your plump, full thighs, you are left entirely naked before the two of them and shivering at how exposed you feel.
Neither of them have removed so much as a glove, but you stand there without a scrap of lace to protect your modesty.
"Oh," Pantalone breathes. "Look at you."
Both of them are touching the new, bared skin. You cannot quite keep hold of whose hands and fingers are where; is that Dottore, pinching at the soft flesh of your thighs? Is that Pantalone, testing the heavy weight of your breasts in one hand? Which one of them is it who runs his thumb over your nipples and wins a whimper from you as the buds tighten and harden under the pressure? Who dares to slip a silken-gloved finger between your legs first and chuckles like velvet when it comes back slick with your arousal?
It doesn't much matter, in the end.
"Let's get you on the bed, then," Pantalone murmurs against your ear, and you feel rather like a doll as you're pulled towards the centrepiece of the room. As you're laid out, naked, like a beautiful sacrifice to two hungry Archons. The fabric beneath you is expensive, too - Pantalone, it seems, does not miss a single detail.
"Mm," Dottore whispers. "I can barely wait--"
"But you will," Pantalone turns, a warning tone in his voice. "As you're in my home, and I took the brunt of the preparation . . . I daresay that you won't deny me the pleasure of using our lovely country mouse first?"
"Haven't you ever heard of deferring to the guest?" Dottore asks, but then a smirk quirks the corner of his lip again and he lets out a low chuckle. "Ah. I suppose you are rather gentler than I. You're probably a better choice."
You know what they're discussing. You think of the size of them, of how they felt in your mouth - and you, too, are grateful that it will be Pantalone who will be the one to take you first.
Pantalone works off his gloves before anything else - and, yes, it was him who slipped fingers between your thighs, for he takes a moment to savour the lingering taste of you on the fingertips of his gloves. Beneath them, his hands are slender and practised, and you are fascinated as you watch him remove his tie and his jacket and his shirt, as graceful as if he were dancing.
"Don't fret," he murmurs, as he gets onto the bed and you see his cock, standing to attention, flushed against his thigh. "I shan't hurt you, my dear. I'll go as gently as you need. You're giving me something precious, after all - it's only polite for me to treat it as it deserves."
He gently urges your thighs apart, and you hear Dottore let out a chest-deep groan as the sight of your sex is revealed, all folded petals dotted with beads of your own arousal. The idea that either of them could fit inside of you seems ludicrous, but you remember how it had felt when they'd had their fingers inside and you swallow back any protestations.
He's above you, knelt between your legs - and one hand goes about the back of your head, pulling you in for another kiss.
It is no less impassioned than the earlier one. His mouth seems even hungrier for you - his teeth tugging at your lower lip in a tease that makes you whimper. You know why he is kissing you - you can feel his cock dragging along your inner thigh, smearing his precome on the soft untouched flesh there . . . but you are grateful for it nonetheless. It is so much easier to have something to concentrate on.
The thick head of his cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper and find yourself suckling on Pantalone's lower lip to soothe yourself as slowly, slowly, he pushes you open. Pantalone merely lets out a huff of laughter and lets you - and nervously, your hands come up to cling to his shoulders, looking for purchase as your lower half is split open.
Several sensations at once. Pantalone's cock as his head pops inside of you; his mouth against yours, his body pressed up to you, his hands in your hair. Your heart, beating so quickly. It is no wonder that you do not notice what Dottore is doing until the other man lets out a polite cough and Pantalone pulls back from the kiss but not from slowly driving his hips towards you so his cock continues to sink into you inch by slow inch.
You turn your head, feeling dizzy with the excess of it all - and find that Dottore, too, has entirely disrobed. His cock is in his hand, the piercing glinting in the light of the room, the entire thing thick and pulsing with desire.
"I hope you don't mind," he says, and steps closer to the bed. "I was feeling a little neglected."
Pantalone lets out a huff of amusement.
"She needs something in her mouth to distract her," he says. "Lest she bite my lip to death. Yes, I think you ought to keep her occupied too. It will do her good to learn to multitask."
"And you?" Dottore says, his gaze turning upon you - free of his mask, his eyes are like pools of red wine. "Will you take care of me too?"
You could say no. But you are not so foolish - and . . . they had been so complimentary, the last time your mouth had been on them. Perhaps it would be a distraction from Pantalone as he finally bottoms out inside you with a groan of pleasure. Perhaps it would help to quell the buzzing inside of you.
In answer to his question, you open your mouth and win a sharp-toothed grin from the Doctor as he lays his cock upon your tongue.
He slides his cock deeper into your mouth at the same time as Pantalone pulls his cock partly out of you, and you're grateful to have his cock as a distraction at the strange feeling of knowing how completely you have been stretched out; how deeply inside of you the other man is reaching.
"That's right," Pantalone whispers, as his cock continues to slide in and out of you, as he searches for a rhythm. "You're being such a good girl for us."
He's let go of your hair so that Dottore can take his place, and the Doctor looks down at you with a smile on his face.
"Keep your attention on what you're doing," he murmurs. "Your tongue, please--"
You do as he says. You suck on the head of his cock and try to work your tongue along the slit of his cockhead, the tang of metal mixing with the salty musk of him. You let go of Pantalone's shoulders to try and keep yourself leveraged on the bed with the two different men and their different rhythms. Dottore is not so cruel as to begin thrusting his hips towards you with abandon, but even he cannot help the slight twitch of his body as your warm, wet tongue travels over his cock.
Inside of you, things are stirring that you haven't ever felt before. You have felt pleasure, of course - but the spots that Pantalone's cock is hitting feels like nothing else before. The pleasure feels bone-deep, like it sinks down to your spine.
Pantalone does not quite have the same worries about his rhythm as the Doctor. He, after all, needs to use more of his body. And the soft noises that his movements are pulling from your throat do not seem to frustrate Dottore at all - in fact, he makes a low, pleased hum as the vibrations travel up his cock and it twitches in your mouth.
He reaches the hand not in your hair towards one of your own, and guides it up to toy with his balls as you suck. Pantalone's head lifts, and he takes in the sight of you sucking Dottore's cock as he fucks you and take your virginity, and it seems as though the visual pushes him over the edge. His hips begin to raggedly thrust into you, and you sense that he is close to something.
"I'm going to come in you," Pantalone groans out, between thrusts. "I'm going to fill you up, my darling; I'm going to make sure you know that you belong to us, now. Oh, Dottore - if you could feel how tightly she squeezes me--"
"I have no complaints about her mouth," Dottore says, sounding amused. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't itching to take my turn too." Pantalone's hips are growing wilder now. It's the only time you've ever seen him come close to losing control. Dottore lets out a low laugh. "It seems as though I won't have to wait too long, at least."
A breathless laugh in response to Dottore's words.
"Mm, I wish I could take longer over it . . . but I've been rather pent up by everything since we met you, my dear."
His voice, too, comes out more strained than you have heard it before - and then he lets forth a chest deep groan, and a thrust that is just a bit rougher than the others, and you feel how he comes apart. The twitch of his cock inside you.
The way that his cock lets out thick, hot spurts of his spend inside of you, and the weak after-thrusts push it further and deeper into you at the same time as some of it oozes out of you. Dottore watches as it happens, his own rhythm slow and luxuriant. You get the impression he does not wish to spend himself so early - or, at least, not in your mouth.
Pantalone rides out the waves of his orgasm with slow, stuttering final thrusts, until he lets out a long, drawn-out groan and slides his cock out of you along with a little rush of his come.
You, on the other hand, feel rather unfulfilled as Dottore slides his cock out of your mouth in tandem. The feelings that Pantalone was beginning to stoke in you were so different from the others you'd felt, and you could tell - on the edge of the pleasant buzz - the peak that he would have brought you to would have been something far different. You're so busy thinking about that, in fact, that you don't realise what Pantalone has taken from you until Dottore gives a little laugh.
"What a cute face," he says, taking hold of your chin. "I think she's feeling rather put out that you didn't make her come, Regrator. No matter, little mouse. I promise I'll let you, now Pantalone has taken his spoils and it's my turn to be inside."
His spoils. You realise, with a start, he means your virginity.
"Now, now," Dottore chides. Pantalone has moved to sit on the edge of bed, obviously getting his breath back after his orgasm. "Don't go getting fixated just yet. Come now. Let's move you around for this. Regrator, you'll want--" The second man raises his head and gives a brief nod, and Dottore chuckles. "Yes, yes, I thought so. You'll get to be on top this time."
Dottore does not give you time to worry about what he's saying; you're being manoeuvred onto your feet, and the Doctor is taking his place on the bed, giving his cock a few slow pumps to spread your saliva all over the thick shaft of his cock.
You only have time to think about how you must look to Dottore, underneath, when he drags you above him and makes you spread your legs either side of his narrow hips. Then, you worry about the curve of your stomach and the heaviness of your breasts and the soft roundness of your face and chin - right up until Dottore's cock slides through your folds and you give a little shiver at the sensation of his piercing brushing over your swollen clit.
The head of his cock meets your entrance, and Dottore does not feel the need to give you a distraction as Pantalone did. Instead, he grabs hold of your hips and pulls you down onto him.
There is less friction this time, aided by your own excitement and Pantalone's lingering release still inside of you. Dottore is thicker, but he slides into you with an ease you were not expecting - though it still knocks the breath out of you, and wins a whine from your throat let out into the bedroom.
You feel the stretch; the way his cock presses against all of those same spots that Pantalone, earlier, awoke in you. Dottore growls in pleasure, his hands digging into your hips. He's stronger than you realised, as he makes you lift yourself a little, and then pulls you back down.
It feels like it all happens in moments, but surely it must have been longer than that - for Pantalone's mouth is against your ear, and it seems as though he has recovered some of his breath.
"Lean forward," Pantalone murmurs, and you do as he asks. Dottore clicks his tongue in impatience, but he says nothing else - and then Pantalone is using one hand to spread the cheeks of your ass.
"Don't be afraid," he says. "It might feel strange, but . . . I won't hurt you."
You start when you feel something blunt and cool and slightly wet press against the opening of your ass, biting back a surprised noise.
"Wh-what are you . . .?"
"Did you know you can fit two cocks at once?" Pantalone asks, his tone conversational. "If we're careful with you, of course. Stay still whilst I stretch you out, my dear--"
One finger slips inside of the channel of your ass.
It's an even tighter fit, if that's possible. Pantalone coos at you, gently pumping the finger in and out, and you squirm where you're speared on Dottore's cock. The latter laughs, not unkindly, and he takes your cheek in one hand and pulls your gaze down to him.
"Look at me," he says. "Keep your eyes on me. Let me help a little with the discomfort--"
The hand still on your hip moves, and slides between the two of you where you're leant over him until it's pressed against your clit. Slowly, as Pantalone pumps his finger in and out of, Dottore begins to draw gentle, distracting circles over the little bundle of nerves.
A soft moan drops from your mouth, and Pantalone uses this as an excuse to slide his finger out of your ass - and then back in, accompanied by another. You whimper again, squirming, as he scissors the fingers inside of you, stretching out your ass - but through it all, Dottore's finger is still playing with your clit. Still sending hot shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Still feeding the whisper low in your stomach that promises a payoff to all of this.
You give a little jerk against Dottore's fingers, trying to coax him into using more pressure - and Dottore laughs.
"I think she's ready, Regrator," Dottore says. "She's being greedy."
"Good," Pantalone says approvingly, and he slides his fingers out of you. "It's lovely when a girl knows what she wants . . . and thankfully, my dear, I'm feeling deeply inclined to give you exactly that."
Dottore's fingers move from your clit, and Pantalone uses his hands to spread the cheeks of your ass wider and places his cock against the rosebud opening of your anus. You give a little shiver of fear - but then Pantalone is easing himself into you, just as gentle as he was earlier--
And you have never felt so full.
Until Pantalone and Dottore were both inside you, filling you from either side, you had no idea what it even was to feel full. But now, both of them are inside - you can feel that they're both there, separated by only the thinnest layer, and your heart beats in your throat and in your ears and in your cunt all at once.
They give you some time to acclimatise to the sensation, but even they cannot resist for too long.
Before long, they are moving. Dottore's hips coming up in little thrusts - he seems to have realised that with Pantalone in your ass, you cannot be moved around so freely as before - and Pantalone slowly working himself in and out of you, mere inches at a time.
Both of them seem, rather than chasing their own release, to be taking their pleasure from the way you shiver and shake on their cocks, at the very sensations of being filled like this. Dottore's fingers even return to your clit, back to drawing his slow, inexorable circles to see you squirm and hear the way your soft squeals fill the air with every slight change in pressure and speed.
You must look a mess for them. You must be ruined--
But oh, for the way it feels inside . . . It's almost worth it.
For it is pleasurable, in its way. You can hear how Dottore's cock slides in and out of you with wet, sticky clicks. Pantalone leaves kisses along your shoulderblades, digging his teeth in to surprise you and leaving lovebites blooming like marks of ownership.
And through it all, their cocks pulse inside of you and send little thrills ricocheting through your body. The pit inside of you yawns, an aching chasm of want, as what feels like some strange invisible string grows tighter and tighter and tighter with each swirl of Dottore's fingers and breath you take.
Dottore's hips rock up into yours and he groans.
"Bear down," he says, with a low growl. "Tighten yourself around us, little mouse. I'm going to come in you, too. Paint you just as prettily as Regrator has . . . I've been denying myself for far too long. But I just want you to give me a little more--"
You try and do as he says, but as he gives the order he changes what he's doing with his fingers, and you realise that he's hit a spot inside of you that feels different from the rest, and everything seems to go all hot and white and desperate at the same time--
You come for them. With Dottore inside of your cunt and Pantalone in your ass, with fingers on your clit, with your virginity in ruins around you - that string inside of you snaps, and your orgasm washes over you with a fierceness that is almost painful.
Stars exploding behind your eyes, whiting out your vision like the coldest Snezhnayan winter. A final cry escaping from your lips, as Dottore groans and his cock twitches inside of you too, hitting that spot over and over again as his come shoots up to fill you and mix with his coworker's.
And you. Coming so intensely that it feels as though you know what it is, for a moment, to be an Archon. Being filled all over again, with Dottore's come too. With their cocks.
A tear rolls down your cheek as the inexorable waves of pleasure rock your body, your shoulders tensing, the muscles in your thighs jumping - your entire body marching to a rhythm that you've only right this moment heard for the very first time.
Your shivering, whimpering orgasm pushes Pantalone over the edge for the second time, though he pulls out of your ass just in time for his come to spatter against your bare back instead of inside you. You do not know how you would have taken that.
Your sex pulses weakly, the aftershocks of your pleasure washing over you. You feel adrift; left alone on the bed as both men pull out of you and survey you like you're a masterpiece the two of them have been working on. Your heartbeat finally begins to quieten in your ears. Dottore gently pushes you onto your back, removing himself from underneath you.
And now you are on the bed, alone, and everything floods you at once.
You are ruined.
"W-will one of you . . ." You swallow back the fear from asking. A girl is worth only her reputation, and yours is smeared forever now. Your voice is very small. "Will one of you marry me, now?"
The two Harbingers are stood, now. They exchange a look over the ruin of your body. The sheets beneath you, saturated with slick and come and sweat, lovebites bitten into your throat and your shoulders, your hips aching from the places they grabbed you.
At the same time, they lean over you. Dottore smiles. Pantalone reaches out, giving your cheek a gentle pinch.
"Why would we go and ruin our fun doing a thing like that?" Pantalone asks, his voice soft and wheedling. "Besides . . . darling. Doesn't 'Mistress to the Fatui Harbingers' have a far better ring to it?"
For years you’ve envied Gojo’s strength. After a body swap curse strikes during a mission, you no longer have to.
CONTENT: 18+ body swap kink. afab jujutsu sorcerer reader, soft dom reader, canon universe, arguing as foreplay, one suicide joke in the second scene, frenemies, mutual masturbation, fingering and oral (gojo receiving in female body), riding, p in v sex, manhandling, unsafe sex, creampie, brief breeding kink mention, reader has very cheesy dirty talk. 13.3k wc.
MEL'S NOTE: criminally late but the final instalment of my kinktober is finally here! very proud to have finished it against all odds. this spiralled away from me bc who doesn't want the chance to dick this man down lmfao. req from the gorgeous @hisokamywaifu, i hope you enjoy lovely <3
‹‹ KINKTOBER 2025 | GENERAL M.LIST | READ ON AO3
How unfair it is, the strength written into each limb you now command. Jealousy bubbles in the back of your throat until you’re choking on it, and you twist your fist in the front of your uniform to snarl down at Gojo.
“This your fuckin’ fault,” you spit, hating the smug look he’s plastered on your face. You bare your teeth to communicate as much. “Always gotta taunt the fuckin’ curses, huh, tough guy? Well look at where it’s landed us now!”
Shoving Gojo away, you barely suppress the urge to scream. Instead you gesture down at his body which, by some sardonic twist of fate, you possess to emphasise the predicament the two of you are trapped in. Gojo, in your fucking body, stumbles back a few gratifying steps before finding his balance among the wreckage of a conflict, heated until mere moments ago. Right before the curse you were fighting decided to vanish in a plume of smoky rubble. Closing the distance, you stalk forward.
Rage is all you can taste.
“You gotta get us out of this mess, Gojo,” you say dangerously low, jabbing your finger into Gojo’s—your—soft chest. Fuck, you’re one moment away from snapping like a rubber band cooled too quickly. And you really don’t know what the consequences will be when you can feel Gojo's power hiding from you—Six Eyes tucked deep in the recesses of his body. You’re not keen to find out the damage a person can do when they wield the Gojo Clan power with all the training of a newborn baby. “What if the curse comes back, you imbecile?”
Gojo laughs, and the condescending peals of it ring high and shrill in the air.
Is that really what you sound like to other people?
“It won’t come back,” Gojo states with an air of finality which would have you strangling the man if he weren’t trapped inside your body.
“Oh yeah? Care to enlighten me? Your partner on this mission who could just, I don’t know… maybe, benefit from knowing such information,” you remind viciously, running anxiety-filled fingers through your hair—Gojo’s hair—fuck this is really messing with your head, and why is it so soft? You half-pictured him to use some 19-in-1 crap which surely wouldn’t achieve this silkiness. The attempt to ground yourself begins spiralling into panic. “I swear you fuckin' get off on being better than me or something, Gojo. Well, news flash! You are. Yet look where that genius brain of yours got us now. Nurture versus nature strikes again.”
Gojo narrows his eyes at you, lips thinning at your attitude. This argument is going to be ugly. You can already tell—feel the familiar stirring of it in your bones. Compelled by fury and determined to meet the nasty retort you know is coming head-on, you yank down the blindfold over your eyes without sparing a thought to the consequence.
A split second later you're on your knees. Accosted by walls of spasming lights and strange shapes, distorting and jumping through colours you don’t recognise, and screeching rivers of particles persist in all directions and you can see sound, how can you fucking see sound? The air waves curl in front of Gojo’s mouth but you can’t hear them, your brain existing somewhere beyond typical overstimulation as it’s confronted with information you simply cannot comprehend.
You curl up on the ground like a child and squeeze your eyes shut, no more than a decorated corpse. You are unaccompanied by even the presence of mind to pray your suffering will end soon. Only able to endure the atoms vibrating in your eyelids and the lights rotating past them, backlighting the infinite particles like a phantasmagoria designed for war torture.
Without warning, it dims considerably.
You inhale a rattling breath you weren't aware you’d been holding.
“—alright, it’s— Look at— Hey—”
Gojo’s voice reaches you in fragmented slices. It takes a lifetime for your heart to calm the war drum beat its imitating, and longer still for you to peel open your eyes. Gojo hovers on his haunches an arm's length from your trembling form, and stares down at you with your face. There’s a pinch in his eyebrows but that is the only, and likely unintentional, indicator to suggest he may be perturbed.
“Look at me,” Gojo says, uncharacteristically soft.
You wonder if the natural tone of your voice is deceiving you. There's no way he's actually worried. His ego has cursed you to this body, and while you always knew it would get him in deep shit one day, you simply weren't prepared to be dragged down with him.
You exhale, still curled up pathetically on the ground. “I am.”
It’s the truth. At some point during your panic, Gojo must have slipped the blindfold back over your eyes, rendering him unable to follow your gaze. His own tracks your expression. For a moment he's silent. Then, he's fishing your phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with your face identification, and tapping on it impatiently.
The rings of a call pierce the air and you vaguely recognise Ijichi's voice lilting across the line in your exhaustion. You can do no more than lay there and watch Gojo's lips move.
At the beep of a call hung up, Gojo turns to you resolutely. "I'll sort this out."
—
In the staff common room, you're currently hovering in an armchair and debating the likelihood of you reaching it before the year is out.
You see, Gojo's Limitless technique decided to activate as soon as you lugged your ass out of the transport vehicle when it dropped you back on campus. Now you're finding out you took sitting for granted as you float approximately a couple of inches atop the actual chair cushion. Sceptically, you eye the sight. Doubt about your ability to control the Six Eyes only increasing each second you remain suspended in the air.
“This fuckin’ sucks,” you complain, tipping your head back into, surprise, the air above the chair’s backrest. “Can’t sit down, can’t drink a fuckin’ coffee—which I’m desperate for by the way, can’t go for a—”
“Please shut up,” Yaga monotones, cutting you off and taking a pointed sip of what you know to be coffee in his mug. Bastard. “Complaining will not help your situation.”
“Oh and silence will?” you bite, glaring at the best principal decal printed on the ceramic instead of Yaga himself.
You may be mad but you're not suicidal.
“Maybe then I'll be able to have a productive thought about how to get us out of this mess,” Gojo pipes up in your light voice. Slouched on a wooden chair nearby, he’s mindlessly watching one of his manicured fingers trace shapes on the table. Like a baby captivated by a cheap, plastic galaxy spinning above its head. “A foreign concept for you, I’m aware.”
You scoff, flipping his back your middle finger. Childish? Sure. But it’s not like you can actually hit him in your current predicament so you have to settle for the small win.
“How long are we gonna be stuck like this?” you press, ignoring both their requests for silence. “I keep tripping over your lanky fuckin’ legs, Gojo, stumbling like a new born deer or some shit, and this blindfold is makin’ me feel claustrophobic, and I kind of have to pee but I also really do not want to face that right now,” you ramble, leg bouncing with anxiety. “And if I have to touch your dick I might just kill myself to save everyone the trouble.”
You blow out a breath when the words stop their mad dash from your mouth. Noticing the barely-there smile Yaga is hiding behind his mug, and the way Gojo is snickering into the palm of his hand, a frustrated sound rips itself from your throat. Soon you’re going to blow a fuse and then they’ll really be sorry.
“I’m serious!” you yell. “I do not want to touch your dick, Gojo!”
“Alright, alright,” Gojo laughs, palms lifted in surrender. “I get it… though I would love to be a fly on the wall. Watch you figure out how to piss with a cock.”
“Satoru,” Yaga warns, shooting Gojo a reproachful look.
“Stop acting like it’s some revered skill,” you snap, curling your lip up at the crudeness of his statement. “It’s a fuckin’ dick, Gojo, not rocket science.” You run a hand back through your short hair, tugging slightly at the strands in frustration. “God, you are genuinely insufferable. Yaga, please, let me go home! If I spend anymore time with this moron I’m going to lose braincells and it won’t be me who suffers the consequences considering who’s fuckin’ body I’m trapped in!”
“You know I can’t do that,” Yaga counters mildly, fingers flexing around his mug.
“I am going to kill him,” you emphasise, waving a frantic hand through the air in the vague direction of Gojo. “And he’s in my body!”
Yaga opens his mouth to reply but Gojo stands and cuts him off with an infurating whistled tune, as though he's jumped straight from a fourties cartoon. You mime a gag and Gojo's sharp eyes slide to you scornfully.
It's all you can do to not appear too pleased by the reaction.
And as it turns out, Gojo has that covered for you also; next to Yaga, your body looks much shorter than it feels when you’re in it. The height difference only highlighted from your foreign perspective.
Bristling at the wound to your ego, you sniff and turn away from the sight. You never noticed the corner of the staffroom has cobwebs.
“Why don’t I go back with her?” Gojo asks Yaga. When you flash them a brief glance, inevitably unable to keep your gaze from the bane of your existence for long, Gojo is looking up at the principal, yet somehow still managing to carry a general air of superiority that defies your stature. You fight back the urge to jam your fingers into your eyesockets. “I can keep an eye on her until Shoko gets back from Okinawa tomorrow, and then I can bring her in and we’ll reevaluate if long-term adjustments need to be made.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ dog, you prick,” you mutter, jaw tense. “‘Bring her in,’ who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Language,” Yaga chides, though you know by now it's more habit than formality. He ponders the idea for a moment and you shoot Gojo a nasty look while Yaga is distracted. Gojo sticks his tongue out at you back. Child, you think spitefully. “That could work,” Yaga agrees eventually. “There’s nothing more we can do without Shoko, unfortunately, but we also can’t afford to split the two of you at the moment with the danger of Six Eyes on a slack leash.”
“Perfect! So it’s settled then,” Gojo chirps, an awful grin on his face. Time slows to a stop as he claps his hands and beckons you forward in one sharp motion. “Heel.”
Your jaw drops.
“But,” Yaga interrupts pointedly, waving a placating hand in your direction and now you really do feel like a dog. Gojo’s glee may as well be written on his face with black permanent marker for how obvious it is. “You must teach her to control it, Satoru, as best she can,” Yaga continues, voice grave. You both stiffen and turn to listen to him carefully. “Worst case scenario, you’re both trapped for an undetermined length of time. We cannot risk anything.”
Nodding absently, you’re already distracted by the concept of being stuck in Gojo’s body indefinitely. It’s nasty talons latch onto your brain and hold tight. Bile rises into your throat. And you're pretty sure your racing heart may be an early sign of cardiac arrest.
Probably nothing to worry about right now.
Yet if you die in this body, what happens to you? Does your consciousness zip back into your own body like rebooting a troublesome computer? Or would it only trap Gojo in your body for the rest of its lifespan and you'd be left to face whatever the afterlife entails for people with morally grey compasses and high curse body counts, leaving Gojo to run wild while most everyone will believe it to be you?
God, what a horrible thought.
“Make sure the blindfold stays on at all times,” Yaga utters, and you can sense the dismissal.
Rising to your feet, you make sure to stare down the slope of your nose at Gojo disdainfully before snapping your head forward and striding out of the room. Like hell you’re going to let him lead. His quiet footfalls echo behind you, but mercifully he is silent—perhaps plagued by the same fear.
How long could you be trapped in this body?
—
“I wasn’t joking about havin’ to pee,” you grumble as you step through the threshold to your flat with Gojo in tow.
“I know you weren’t,” Gojo replies blandly, gaze sweeping the organised chaos you live in. You hear him kick the door closed behind you. “I needed a piss at the start of the mission. Real unfortunate timing, all things considered.”
Against the entrance walls, books are piled up haphazardly thanks to your bad habit of buying more novels than you’ll be able to read in ten lifetimes. You toe Gojo’s shoes off to join the stacks carelessly, not bothering to prompt Gojo to do the same before you round the corner into your kitchen.
Let him figure out the tiny buckles of your shoes by himself, you think sadistically. Serves him right.
But then you have to duck to get through the doorway and it's as though Gojo's miraculously cashed in his karma paycheck early. You kiss your teeth in irritation, feeling oversized in your cramped flat for the first time in all the years you've lived here.
Your annoyance only worsens when Gojo's Limitless doesn't allow you to grab the fridge handle. You freeze. Try to control your breathing. And ultimately fail when your stomach pangs with hunger.
“How the fuck did your parents manage?” you call out to Gojo, frustration melding into bafflement at the reality of your situation. “Surely they couldn’t touch you?”
A crash instantly followed by a yelp of pain rings out from the hallway, and you get your answer as Gojo pads around the corner in pantyhose-clad feet.
“My parents told me it used to activate randomly when I was a baby.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, breezing past to tug open the fridge like he hadn't just let out the most pathetic squeal you've ever heard. You can’t find the energy to stop him. “But most often when I was upset, or scared—when I was crying mainly, I guess. Must've been difficult for a baby to comprehend the entire universe and all. You know. You saw it. And they used to have servants check constantly if I’d released the technique so that they could feed me or hold me.”
You stew on the information, watching Gojo select a Yakult, peel off the foil lid, and drop it on your countertop like he owns the place.
On paper, he does anyway. And isn’t that a strange thought.
“Apparently I learnt to control it by 10 months. And by the time I was almost 2, I was consciously turning it on and off so that my parents couldn’t stop me from climbing on the furniture or put me to bed if I wanted to stay awake.” Gojo laughs, as though recalling memories he can’t possibly remember.
“So you were a nightmare child,” you surmise, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d argue I was pretty cute,” Gojo offers, tipping his head back to swallow the last drops. You eye the motion, still finding it jarring to be seeing your own mouth move every time Gojo’s words grate in the air. “And either way, you’re being shown up by that little 2 year old me, so you should probably be feeling more worried about that than what my parents had to deal with.”
Scowling, you swipe a hand through the air to dismiss the half-baked insult. In the safety of your home, you find yourself slightly lost as to what to do, standing uselessly in the middle of the kitchen as a result. You’re unable to touch anything and that means you can’t drink or eat or sit down. Where does that leave you? Cursed to isolation until this is fixed?
“C’mon,” Gojo murmurs, “a little curse and you lose all your fire? Lame.”
“‘A little curse?’” you repeat incredulously.
A grin splits Gojo's lips as though he was waiting for the precise reaction you just provided. Not for the first time, you wish you had the forethought to not retaliate to his provocations. But it's like he has an instruction manual detailing precisely how to push your buttons. There's no other rational explanation.
Gojo's head tilts. “Yep. And honestly… I don’t even think you could win a fight right now.”
You lean against the countertop behind you and drag your gaze down Gojo’s form. The familiar curves under your uniform, your tits, pressed together where Gojo is crossing his arms, and your face, grinning at you like a Cheshire cat. Gojo mimics you, leaning on the fridge and raking his eyes down your form in kind. You fight not to fidget under his gaze, though you don’t know why. It’s not like you feel self conscious or anything—this isn’t your body.
You hum, non-committal. “Probably not. Though you’re forgetting that you can’t use my technique either.”
“Ah, but I am quite positive yours will be easy to wrangle,” he replies, turning his hand to inspect your nails.
Something ugly unfurls in your chest at the jab. Everyone feels inadequate when confronted with the power Gojo holds—it’s a fact of life. But the notion still stings, wedged under your skin deep enough you cannot remove it, deep enough it bleeds into your words.
“Perhaps,” you concede, loathing coating the back of your teeth. “But what if we didn’t use our techniques?”
Gojo’s eyebrows furrow.
“I’m saying, what if it was a battle of pure strength?” you explain with a careless shrug.
On your best and your worst days, you despise acknowledging that Gojo can beat you in hand-to-hand combat. Now is no different, and you tuck your hands behind your back casually so you can dig your nails into your palms to ground yourself. You can feel the strong muscles lining your arms shift with the movement.
“I would win.”
“You’re in my body, though,” Gojo questions, looking at you like you’re stupid.
Anger simmers deep and low in your gut.
“So now semantics matter to you?” you ask, pushing yourself away from the countertop. “I thought you just claimed you’d beat me using my technique, Gojo.”
“And I would.”
“But you wouldn’t without,” you press, walking closer. Gojo watches you curiously until you stop a pace away from him. You could reach your arm out and touch him if his own Limitless wouldn’t stop you from doing so. “Admit it.”
Gojo frowns, staring up at you.
“Admit you couldn’t beat me,” you breathe, taking another step closer. You can see the specks dotting your eyes now. Gojo's blindfold and bright hair reflecting back at you like a funhouse mirror. The air thickens between you both, and you shove your hands in your pockets, feigning nonchalance. You feel wrong—out of place in his hulking body as you stare down at your own—but Gojo has no way of knowing this if you don't clue him into it. “Admit that I could have you how I wanted in a heartbeat.”
“Awfully presumptuous of you,” Gojo murmurs, eyes flicking between your own. Recognition sparks in his gaze and he seems to be debating whether to play along.
“Not really.” You itch to reach out. Knowing you physically can’t only makes the urge more irritating. “Haven’t you ever been curious, Gojo? About what it’s like to be a woman?”
“Hasn’t every man?” he retorts. Gojo tips his head back against the fridge and his eyes turn lidded, glued to yours. As though he knows where they are even through your blindfold. Perhaps he does. It’s his own eyes he’s seeking out, after all.
“Mhm. Not every man gets the opportunity to actually find out, though.”
The corner of Gojo’s mouth quirks up. “Lucky me.”
The reality of your situation falls back atop your shoulders. Sudden as a strike of lightning. When the thunder claps, you knock your forehead onto the fridge above him, or try to, at least. Instead, your face stops an inch away from the metal, close enough that you wonder if you might be making subconscious progress adapting to Gojo’s powers.
“I gotta pee.”
Gojo laughs.
—
This might be the pinnacle of humiliation you’ve experienced to date. Knowing that Gojo is just outside the bathroom and listening only makes it that much more excrutiating.
“Let me come in and help!” Gojo calls through the door.
“No! Just—” you growl, frustrated. “Give me a damn minute I can’t focus knowing you’re right outside.”
“You don’t want me to talk you through it?”
“Hell no!” you shout, pinching your nose bridge.
You exhale once, taking a moment to bolster your courage, before you tug Gojo’s zipper down in one smooth movement. You can see the light grey boxers he has on, and the vague outline of his soft cock underneath and you pull your hand away like you’ve been burnt.
“Be nice to him!” Gojo says, followed by a thunk that tells you he just put his forehead on the bathroom door.
“Freak,” you mutter under your breath, still staring down at your open fly.
“I heard that.”
“Stop listening!” you snap. “What the fuck, man!”
“I’m dying out here, pleaseeee can I come in?” he moans through the wood.
“No!”
“Pretty please.”
“Gojo…” you sigh.
“I can hold it for you.”
For a moment, you consider it. You could close your eyes, take the quickest piss of your life, and come out of the experience unscathed considering you won’t have touched Gojo’s dick. Then reality strikes.
“Limitless, dumbass,” you say.
“Oh shit.” Gojo’s muffled voice sounds surprised. “I forgot about that for a sec, wow! Very unlike me.”
“Close your ears.”
That’s all the warning both of you get before you grit your teeth, pull the waistband from your hips, and lift Gojo’s cock out with a limp, reluctant hand.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
And then you realise, how the fuck are you going to piss without looking?
You worry your lip as your eyes study the ceiling.
Maybe there’s muscle memory to this kind of thing? You really don’t want Gojo's piss all over your bathroom floor though…
“You’re awfully silent in there for someone who claimed that pissing with a dick wouldn’t be rocket science.”
“Fuck off, I’m gettin’ there!” you bite. “God, this is the worst.”
“You’re telling me. You’ve got a whole different view down here. I feel like I’m in Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.”
“Prick. I’m not that short!" You sigh before admitting, "I do love that movie though."
“It's a classic," Gojo offers. "And no you're not. I'm just stupidly tall."
That, at least, you can agree with. Stupidly arrogant, too.
Gojo continues. “You still haven’t pissed.”
“I don’t think I can,” you mumble pathetically, feeling the heavy weight of his soft dick in your hand and wanting to crawl out of your skin. “I might just wait until I piss myself. Is it too late to get a catheter?”
“You’re disgusting,” Gojo complains. You can practically hear the frown in his lips. “And you’re going to give me a UTI…”
“Wouldn’t be as bad as havin’ to touch your dick, I can tell you that much.”
“You wound me,” Gojo croons, and you can hear his back sliding down the door. Settling on the floor as though he knows you’ll both be here for a while. “Personally, I’m looking forward to going for a piss.”
Your face curls up in disgust and you whip your head to face the door as though Gojo will be able to feel you glaring through the wood.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you. That is so violating.”
“Sorry,” Gojo says, not sounding particularly sorry at all.
You huff, scrubbing an eye with the heel of your big hand.
You can do this.
—
Turns out, pissing with a dick was decidedly not rocket science once you got over the tiny, minor detail of who’s dick you were holding. Once you're finished, you don't stick around to offer moral support as Gojo shoulders past you into the bathroom. You try not to cringe when you think about him seeing the plain cotton panties you threw on this morning when you had to rush out of your flat, or the unruly bush you were due to trim this weekend.
It truly doesn’t matter. Not when you have bigger issues. Namely the whole stuck-possibly-for-the-rest-of-time-in-Gojo's-body situation.
You’re hovering on your couch again when Gojo returns a suspiciously long few minutes later. He has a small, pleased smile on his face and you scowl. Staring down at your knuckles rapping against your thigh, you urge yourself to not picture what he was doing in the bathroom to look so self-satisfied. Pervert.
“Right then,” Gojo sighs loudly, sinking into an armchair across from you. “I should probably teach you how to control Limitless now that you’ve mastered pissing. It’s the next logical step.”
You roll your eyes. “And Yaga’s order,” you tack on.
Gojo waves a hand through the air as though to dismiss the importance of your reminder.
“Six Eyes is innately active,” he starts immediately, not waiting for your attention. You wish you could ignore him, but the way you're still hovering in the air closes any well-worn paths to such petty vengeance. “Think of it like the sun. We can’t turn the sun off, can’t kill it, can’t cover it up. The best we can do is cover ourselves.” Gojo nods towards where it’s wrapped around your head. You hum your acknowledgement. “But Limitless is like a light bulb. I can turn it on and off whenever I want.”
Already bored, you kick your legs out in front of you and tap your foot on the air surrounding the corner of your low coffee table for something to do. Gojo ignores the soundless action, but you see the corner of his jaw twitch in annoyance.
“And Six Eyes is what enables Limitless. I can only manipulate what I can see.” He spreads his palms wide and swings them around the room. You squint at them, eyeing the veins pumping blood beneath your skin and the delicate woven fibres of your uniform cuff visible even through your blindfold. It's jarring, and invasive, and perhaps it's no wonder Gojo acts the way he does afterall. You might too if you could unveil a person's heart through no more than existing. “Do you see where I’m going with this?” Gojo questions expectantly.
You bite your lip in contemplation and drag time out while you pretend to think. Really, you’re just watching the tiny hairs on Gojo’s face sway in a breeze you can’t feel.
“Nope,” you reply after too long, popping the p sound carelessly.
“You have to look,” Gojo stresses, leaning forward in his chair towards you. “See the world around you, see the infinite space Limitless has created, and stitch the divide back together.”
“Well then, if it’s that easy,” you say sarcastically. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Halting the tapping of your foot, you cross your arms and stare down at your legs intently. You’re expecting the gap between your thighs and the sofa cushion to be highlighted or some bullshit, like an object in a video game the developers didn’t want you to miss. But there’s nothing. You can see what you think may be air particles, countless atoms continuously melding together, then you stare at them long enough that you start second guessing yourself.
“I see it!” you say instead, looking up at him excitedly.
Gojo’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and your mouth twists horribly as you try not to laugh. “Really?” he asks, equally thrilled.
“Obviously not, dumbass,” you scoff, resuming the tapping of your foot once more. Gojo’s face drops and then he scowls at you a beat later when you tack on, “You’re kind of a shitty teacher, just so you know.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a shitty student.”
“Ah,” you tut, shaking your head condescendingly at him. “A bad workman always blames his tools.”
“You’re definitely a tool, alright,” Gojo retorts, voice tight.
Despite yourself, you laugh. “This is a lost cause. Let’s just wait for Shoko’s opinion tomorrow, huh? Cut our losses while we still can.”
“As much as I would love to do that,” Gojo begins, tilting his head. You kiss your teeth at his lie, because Gojo would never abandon a chance to humiliate you. “I seem to recall someone saying ‘Yaga’s orders,’ earlier.”
Gojo’s expression is challenging, and every inch of his posture screams at you to bolt. You stay rooted to the air above your seat in defiance of your own instincts as you stare at the man currently captaining your body.
When you don’t reply, Gojo blows out a sharp, frustrated breath and crosses his legs. “Work with me here,” he pleads. “Just try. Properly. Don’t half-ass it.”
You open your mouth to retort, but the gentle shake of his foot stops you. It almost looks like a nervous tick, and as quickly as your eyes dart to it, does his foot still.
“Fine,” you concede. "Be quiet.”
Gojo merely purses his lips and gestures at you lazily as though to say go on, then.
Squinting as though it will help funnel Six Eyes, you focus all your attention on your foot still knocking into the air by the leg of your coffee table. It takes a few minutes to filter out Gojo’s disruptive presence. Even silent, he’s impossible to ignore. But, eventually, he begins drifting and you’re left with the shape of your foot, visible through the thousands of tiny cracks in Gojo’s leather shoes. You can see the air particles in your shoe—in between your toes, beneath the arch of Gojo’s foot.
The air undulates, disturbed in ripples where your foot shakes. Like a stone thrown into a pond. Your lips form a circle and you slowly breathe out, letting everything fall away from you. Only then, can you see it. It being the gap, for lack of a better word you can't currently find. The… space. Like a void, stretching almost imperceptibly between each atom, bonded or unbonded. And then infinity comes into view. Atoms around your foot warped in a way making it impossible for you to ever hit the table leg when you begin to near it.
The sound of your foot almost connecting with the coffee table is muffled, but you hear it still. Perhaps another feature of Gojo’s enhanced senses, or maybe a trick of the mind. It falls quiet again, and you sooth your heart and your mind and pinch the edges of infinity, drawing them together.
Then…
Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You glance up at Gojo in amazement, mouth spread into a wide smile. He returns one of his own, oddly sincere. You only consider how strange the feeling is, Gojo being almost… proud of you, for a fleeting moment before you release it and embrace the success.
“Holy shit,” you breathe quietly. “Holy shit.”
The rhythmic tapping echoes in your flat, sure and steady. You tip your head down and coax the infinity wrapped around you closed, sealing it like the folds of a letter. Your thighs touch the sofa. Then your back. You pat along the cushions disbelievingly and then laugh.
You did it. You fucking did it.
“Atta girl,” Gojo murmurs encouragingly. “I knew you had it in you.”
You truly have no idea how to unpack the tightness in your chest at his statement.
So you don't bother trying.
“Fuck yeah I do,” you grin instead. And if the tapping of your foot speeds up, well that’s no one's business bar your own. “Never doubted myself for a moment!”
Gojo scoffs, but it isn’t entirely mean. Not anymore. “History is rewriting itself right before my eyes. Is this how Winston Smith felt?”
You tilt your head back against the sofa, relaxing your body for the first time since you were both swapped. “Your Six Eyes has gotten way too much credit throughout history,” you say into the air.
“Yours,” Gojo replies lightly. “For the time being, at least.”
Totally not a daunting thought at all.
You swallow uneasily, the corners of your mouth curling at the reminder.
“Are you focusing on keeping it together?” Gojo asks.
You shake your head, still talking to the ceiling. “Nah. I don’t know how long it’ll last but I must’ve closed it enough for now.”
Gojo hums thoughtfully. “You might wanna close your legs while you’re at it too.”
“Huh?” You make a questioning noise in the back of your throat and tip your head back down. All at once, you can feel your face light on fire.
You’re hard.
Hard.
You’ve somehow made Gojo’s dick… hard.
Great. Perfect.
This is just what you wanted to immortalise this humiliating experience. And you don’t close your legs—can’t close your legs—as you stare despondently at the sight. Slowly piecing together the feeling of an erection to what you’re seeing.
“Uhhhh—”
“I’m afraid I can’t teach you how to control that,” Gojo states, voice overflowing with mirth. He’s staring too, gaze darting between the stunned look on your face and the tent in your slacks. “There is one way to deal with it though…” he teases.
Groaning, you bury your face in your hands and slump further down on the sofa. Now that you’re aware of it, you can feel your crotch throbbing. The warm but unfamiliar pressure of arousal tingling in your core. When you shift, the folds of your slacks brush over your erection and you hiss.
“How long?”
Gojo understands what you’re indirectly asking.
You can almost hear it in his voice when he shrugs. “Long enough. Quicker if you think about something gross.”
Something gross. Okay. You can do something gross. The smacking sound of people chewing with their mouths wide open. Bug carcasses squished into the pavement. Wet socks. Gojo. His gross personality. The stupid, condescending cadence of his voice. His cock, filling out between your thighs. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
You peek out from between your fingers. Gojo shifts in his seat as he stares at your crotch, legs crossed tightly. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was squirming.
Wait—
Narrowing your eyes, you can see his thighs tense and relax. Hips ever, ever so gently rocking back and forth. It’s so subtle you wouldn’t have spotted it if not for your Six Eyes. You can see the particles around him moving away in small ripples. You can see the blood thundering through his veins. And even without Six Eyes, you can see his dilated irises.
“You’re turned on,” you accuse, jailing your hands on your thighs so you won’t be tempted to touch. “Why are you turned on?”
“Wow,” you spit. “You are such a fuckin’ pervert, oh my god.”
“Wow… that’s rich coming from you!” Gojo protests indignantly. “You are literally hard right now.”
“This could be a fluke!” you insist. “I wasn’t even turned on,” you lie. “Maybe it’s just because I released Limitless.”
“That’s not how it works,” Gojo replies, but he doesn’t argue any further.
“You have no excuse though,” you push, voice pitching higher and higher. “You’re so conceited it’s insane. Who gets turned on by themselves?!”
“Me, clearly!” Gojo shouts, throwing his arms up in the air helplessly.
“Yeah, fuckin’ clearly!”
Silence.
You’re both glaring at one another, locked in a battle of wills. Refusing to back down. Refusing to give in. Apparently, though, your brain doesn’t get the same memo.
“What does it feel like?”
It takes you a few long seconds to realise it was you who’d spoken—you who'd asked such an uncomfortably intimate question. You cringe at the perplexed expression Gojo has plastered on your face.
“What?” Gojo snaps.
“Is it different…” you start uneasily, confused as to why you’re so fixated on knowing the answer to what is objectively a pointless question. You know what it feels like. You've felt it first hand. Nothing in your life is going to change if you hear Gojo's answer but still you desire to hear it. “From the feeling. In your own body?”
“Being turned on?” he asks slowly.
You nod, careful, afraid to speak up again.
“Yeah,” he breathes after a moment. His face is grim, as though accepting his fate. “It’s… everywhere. Not only where’d you’d expect it. I guess. It's in my, uh, my stomach. My toes, too. And it's warm. Kinda tingly. Hot. I feel… overheated.”
You recall the feeling all too well.
“You?”
And this time it’s your face that pinches. You sigh, knowing you’re now morally obligated to answer.
“I can feel the, uh, the blood. Pulsing almost. Like a wound.” You swallow nervously. “It’s kind of uncomfortable,” you say, parting with the words reluctantly. “Expectant almost. Like right before a sneeze. When all that tension builds up.”
When you fall silent again, Gojo nods.
“I can teach you,” he says suddenly.
“You can… teach me?” you echo dumbly. Then, when he merely hums you repeat his words again in shock, "You can teach me."
Why are you considering it? Why are you considering it?
A small smirk crosses Gojo's face, a blink-and-you-miss it expression you unfortunately didn't miss.
This is wrong. Unethical, surely. It must cross countless lines that HR have carefully laid out for colleagues in Jujutsu Tech. Breach so many contracts it’s laughable. There’s truly no reason you should be giving his offer the time of day.
But then again the Jujutsu Tech contract only stipulates interwork relationships. Ones where, presumably and logically, each party occupies their own body. While it has been a hot minute since you read through it, you don't recall anything discouraging such relations for colleagues who've had their bodies swapped.
Someone has to set the precedent.
“Okay,” you agree.
Gojo’s lips quirk up, as though he’s privy to the internal battle you just lost. “Okay,” he repeats.
Neither of you move.
Your foot speeds up. A rapid, thumping, tap tap tap tap tap filling the space between you.
“You first,” you nod at him.
Gojo’s expression morphs into confusion. “Me first?”
“I’ll…” Your sentence trails off before it’s even properly begun. You swallow and try again. “I’ll teach you. Too.”
“Will you now?” he asks coyly.
You huff, the familiarity of such teasing relaxing you, even though you’re near positive that wasn’t his intention. “I will,” you affirm, calmer now.
“Well then, Sensei. Take it away.”
Biting your lip, you gesture at his legs—your legs—before speaking. “Pantyhose off.”
Gojo doesn’t hesitate, but his actions are clumsy and unpractised. He tucks his fingers under the waist band of your skirt and tries to awkwardly roll the pantyhose down under the fabric until he can’t wedge his forearm any further. Huffing, he yanks his arm back and shoves it under your skirt, grabbing the bunched up material and pulling it down to his knees. You hear the painful sound of your tights ripping and wince.
“Those were new, asshole…” you grumble, already mourning your recent purchase and the future one you now have to make.
“Don’t care,” Gojo replies, clearly distracted as he tries to free one foot from the material, then the other, before throwing them straight at you. They land on your face and drop into your lap. You brush them aside. “They should invent pantyhose that aren’t impossible to get off.”
You hum dismissively, focused on your bare legs and the cotton panties you can see peaking out from beneath your skirt, slightly rucked up from his efforts. It’s beyond bizarre to see yourself from this angle. To see what previous hook-ups have seen.
No wonder you can’t seem to shake them off afterwards.
You look good.
“You need patience to… get off, as a woman.” Adjusting yourself awkwardly, you try to ignore the throbbing in your crotch. Gojo’s fingers twitch impatiently where they’re resting on the arms of his chair. “Not everything feels good. It’s… experimental, I guess? It can take a long time to learn what your body likes.”
“It’s a good job that I have an experienced teacher, then,” Gojo murmurs.
You tilt your head once in agreement. “I suppose it is.”
This is so weird. So fucking weird. But you can’t seem to tame the part of you that is deathly curious to see how far you both will take it.
“You can start by. Uh, touching. Yourself. Over the fabric.”
Gojo’s smaller fingers come to rest over the skirt and press the fabric down, until folds of it are gathered in his crotch. He rubs them experimentally, before shooting you a mild glare. “I can’t feel anything.”
Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to muffle a laugh into your shoulder. “No—” You fail, a chuckle falling into the air. Gojo bristles, though you can tell the action isn’t wholly serious. You try again. “You— over your underwear.”
Your underwear.
Even when the words leave your mouth—as though your panties are truly Gojo’s, and your body is truly his—they don’t feel wrong. Not like they did earlier. When every action Gojo had taken in your body, inconsequential or not, felt like a premeditated, personal attack.
A look of understanding dawns on Gojo’s face. “Right!”
Yanking the hem of your skirt up until it bunches around his waist, he slumps further down in the chair. You’re only allowed a second to gawk at his lack of embarrassment before he’s lifting a foot up onto the sofa beneath his ass, dropping his other knee further to the side, and cautiously running his middle finger up your panties.
“Uhh—” you start unthinkingly, before snapping your mouth shut when you realise you can’t remember what you wanted to say.
Gojo only spares you a glance at the sound and then he’s looking back down at his fingers, drawing a strange path down to your perineum and circling there. You watch his nostrils flare and his eyebrows scrunch in concentration. Then, his thumb brushes up and you can almost feel the phantom sensation when it catches on his clit. He exhales sharply, and immediately zeroes in on it, dragging his thumb back and forth in short, quick swipes.
“This is so weird,” Gojo breathes.
“Yeah.” You can’t look away. “Yeah, it is.”
As though his strings have been cut, Gojo falls limp against the back of the armchair and slings his propped up foot over the armrest, clearly trying to get a better angle.
“Little circles feel good,” you offer quietly.
You watch as he obediently brings his pointer and middle finger up to start rolling them in small circles around his clit, and you definitely watch as he gasps at the feeling, jaw clenching.
“Your turn now,” Gojo says, pleasure twisting your voice into a strange, wobbly thing. Like mist drifting by on an early morning.
In all honesty, you forgot this was the deal. You really didn't expect Gojo getting off in your own body to be so captivating, but here you are. Drinking in every little minute reaction your body has like you’ve never seen them before.
The way your toes twitch.
The slight tremble in your bottom lip.
The stuttered rise and fall of your chest.
You can’t tell what is thanks to Gojo and what can be attributed to your own body, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Not when you can feel yourself achingly hard at each sight all the same.
Wordlessly, you unbutton Gojo’s pants and yank the zipper down, unwillingly to let your gaze leave the man in front of you. Your big, warm palm lands on your crotch and you grasp the length of him. Feeling along it curiously. Only then do you look down, confirming what you were too afraid to do in the bathroom earlier.
He’s big.
Gojo laughs breathlessly across from you. Your neck snaps up to shoot him a glare and you find him already staring at you.
“Stroke the tip.”
Spreading your legs further, you dip your fingers down to fondle his balls curiously, feeling the dull sparks of pleasure. You drag your touch up his cock. Mapping out the path before gently bringing down your thumb to brush over the head of his cock as instructed.
“Oh—” You repeat the motion, breath catching in your chest.
“What did you tell me?” Gojo asks, and when you look at him dumbly in question, he doesn’t bother waiting before answering himself. “Little circles.”
You press harder at the confirmation your touch feels good, and start rubbing your thumb over the head repetitively. It’s only a matter of seconds before your shoulders tense and your mouth drops open. It feels good. Really good, in fact. And you can see arousal slowly darkening the light grey of his underwear in response. You can feel yourself leaking. So different from the sensation you are used to. You gasp.
It’s hard to remember why you were so disgusted earlier. Not when you can feel his dick twitching under your touch, nor when you’re reaping the benefits—swimming in hot pleasure.
“This is so much— easier— what the fuck—”
Gojo merely hums, and then you hear a rustle. He lifts both legs up into the air and drags your panties off in one smooth motion. He brings the material up to his nose and breathes in deeply. You wrinkle your own nose.
“Gross.”
“I'm so wet,” he says in wonder.
Gojo drops the panties on his chest and splays his legs back out, fingers quickly dipping into your arousal as though to emphasise his words.
“Surprised?” you ask. “Don’t tell me this is your first time getting a girl wet, Gojo.”
“Shut up,” he snarks, but the hitch in his breath as his fingers come back up to circle your clit, wet with arousal, betrays him. “God.”
You roll your eyes, and tug his boxers down to release his cock uncaringly. It bounces on your stomach and leaves a sticky mark on his uniform. You give yourself a few dry tugs before Gojo is speaking up again.
“Spit in your hand.”
You do, and the slide is so smooth you grunt in surprise. Pleasure zapping up your spine.
Gojo hardly hesitates as he sinks two fingers inside him, and you can tell from the twinge in his jaw it must sting.
“Let yourself adjust first," you offer, "Then try scissoring them."
Gojo waits a few beats, and the slick sound of your hand jerking Gojo's cock fills the space. It feels too good to muster up any embarassment you should realistically be feeling.
Before long, Gojo bites his lip impatiently and decides he's had enough time to adjust. While you can’t see what he’s doing inside himself, his wrist and forearm flex rhythmically and you gather Gojo must be following your instructions.
You stare, transfixed, at your smaller fingers hidden inside your body. The best you’ve done is get off in front of a mirror, and that experience pales in comparison to the real thing before you.
“Ow,” Gojo grunts, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure. “What the fuck?”
“Usually I start with one,” you say, unsympathetic. “You gotta relax, Gojo.”
“I’m trying, but it’s kinda difficult with something shoved inside me. I thought this was supposed to feel good. You guys sure make it look like it does anyway.”
You scoff, slick hand working over your cock. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“You’re supposed to be teaching me! If I’m doing it wrong, it’s your fault.”
“And I’m telling you, you gotta relax more. Nothing feels good when you’re tensed up like that,” you say, nodding to the taut line of his body. “That's why foreplay exists, dumbass.”
“What are you, a fucking sex guru?” Gojo asks incredulously.
“If you’re that blown away by the necessity of foreplay, I feel very sorry for your previous escapades,” you answer primly.
Instead of snapping back at you, Gojo falls silent, his face twisted into what looks like self-consciousness. Maybe chagrin. You can’t quite place it. And all of a sudden, your stomach swoops as you start piecing the puzzle of this evening together.
“Don’t tell me…” you whisper.
Gojo’s eyes scrunch closed, and the still fingers inside himself get pulled out unceremoniously. “You sure know how to kill the mood,” he attempts to joke, but it falls flat when you don’t drop your suspicions.
“You’re kidding, right?” you ask quietly, the hand on your dick stilling in shock. “Like you’re actually joking. You cannot be serious.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he declares, opening his eyes to meet your baffled gaze.
“I think you do,” you reply.
Gojo claimed you killed the mood, but when your eyes flick to his wet fingers, and the arousal still slowly dripping from him like honey, it’s difficult to believe.
“Please don’t tell me you’re a virgin,” you say carefully, scared to hear the truth.
“Surprise,” he says lightly, attempting an awkward smile.
You lean back, gaze trained on him. “Wow.”
“Happy now?”
“Oh, quite.” You glance back down to his wet cunt and think for a moment, but that’s truly all it takes for an idea to take root. You never stood a chance. Not with Gojo like this before you. “If you want, I can show you a good time."
“You can—” he starts, disbelievingly. “—show me a… good… time? What are you, a fucking uni student still? Who says that kinda shit anymore.”
But you can see his cunt clench in the cool air, and Gojo clearly doesn’t realise as such. You stand abruptly and walk over to where he’s splayed out in the chair. His head tips back as you approach and he watches you cautiously, tracking your movements.
You dip down into a kneel. “Trust me.”
Forcing yourself between his thighs, you grab one of Gojo's legs with a big, warm hand before slinging it over your shoulder. Gojo makes a startled sound. He tries to dislodge your hold. You stop the motion—tightening your grip and using your free hand to pin his other leg against the chair's armrest.
Like this, Gojo's wide open for you, one knee by his ear, the other knee shucked over your shoulder.
“What the fuck—” he gasps, scrabbling in an attempt to sit up and close his legs. He stares up at you with wide eyes.
“Stop,” you murmur, flexing your fingers on the soft flesh of his thighs where you pin them in place. “Relax…”
Glancing down, you study how his cunt flutters each time you dig your fingers into him. Interesting. As though testing a theory, you turn your head to the leg over your shoulder, breath ghosting over his knee. Then, keeping an eye on his cunt, you lean forward. Coercing his leg back against his body, opening him up to you even more.
Gojo keens, a strangled sound in the back of his throat telling of the strain, and his cunt clenches, arousal weeping at the motion. You barely fight back a groan.
Covering his face with both hands, Gojo’s breaths are short and sharp, embarrassment lining every muscle in his body. It’s gratifying. And you don’t really care if he wants to hide, especially with what you’re about to do.
Without warning, you dip your head forward to blow on his cunt.
“Oh my god— wait—” Gojo gasps, hips jumping.
You haven’t even touched him yet.
“Wait, wait, wait—”
You blow again and grin when his cunt clenches once more.
“Hold on—”
Experimentally, you dip your head to lick a broad stripe up his pussy. Gojo’s thighs tense under your hold. When he tries to speak, you repeat the action, before trailing your tongue down to the source of his arousal. Slurping it into your mouth and moaning as you can taste it on your tongue. The words die in his throat and Gojo whines instead, hips bucking up into your mouth.
“This is—”
Pleased with the control you have over him, you bully your tongue inside him.
“—so—”
Thrusting it in and out.
“—wrong.”
Scraping your teeth gently on his perineum.
“I know,” you reply into his cunt, voice muffled and wet.
You kiss your way up his pussy and trace his clit with your tongue before sucking on it. You pulse your mouth around it until Gojo starts spasming under you. A small hand comes to tangle in your hair and when he pulls in panic, you moan into him. Gojo keens at the vibration against his clit.
“Oh my god, please don’t stop,” Gojo chokes, his free hand coming to rest over yours, still pinning his leg against the chair's armrest.
You don’t reply, but you squeeze your hand and dip back down to lick into him, nose bumping his clit with every thrust of your tongue. It’s a challenge, to force your tongue inside so far, but you’re determined to taste yourself as you smush your face deep into his cunt, burying yourself there.
“Ah, fuck— just there— don’t move!”
You couldn’t even if you wanted to, Gojo’s grip is fast in your hair and it forces your face impossibly deeper into his cunt. Of course, if you really wanted to you could be out of his hold within a split second. It’s kind of nice though, to let him have his fun for once. Let him play house as the big, strong sorcerer he isn’t even the whisper of anymore.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes—”
You flick your tongue back up to his clit, and Gojo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care when you slip a finger inside him, immediately curling it. He does, however, notice the second, moaning aloud as you start pumping them in tandem, curling them on every thrust to try and find his g-spot.
He writhes on the armchair under your hulking body, undulating like a fish out of water. It’s a strange picture. The sorcerer who’s usually so restrained. Who’s only expressive when it suits him—when it’s a means to an end of manipulating someone into doing something for him.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon— please, just— nghh— right there—”
It hurts when he comes.
Not him of course, a high, sharp keen reverberating in the air as he trembles through his first orgasm as a woman. Wave after wave wracking through his body.
But you.
Gojo’s grip in your hair turns punishing, too much so to be enjoyable anymore. And his other hand scrabbles on your forearm, scraping harsh pink lines into the exposed skin where your jacket sleeve has ridden up, a painful sting emanating where skin breaks under his nails. You can’t help but wonder if this is a trait of Gojo, or a trait of Gojo in your body.
“Ahh… oh my— god,” the man in question finally gasps, twitching in overstimulation where you’re still lazily dragging your tongue through his cunt, fingers unmoving inside him. “Stop. Enough.”
You comply, mostly just to lessen his assault on the body you’re currently inhabiting. You remove your mouth and fingers. Settle back onto your haunches as Gojo pants like he’s just run a marathon.
Any lingering weirdness of your situation is well and truly lost on you in the face of Gojo's little body trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm.
Your thumbs subconsciously soothe over his skin but you don't release his legs.
Sticky and wet.
That’s how you feel. In more ways than one you suspect, if Gojo's widening eyes are anything to go by as he takes in the full mess he's made of his face.
Your face.
“You look…” Gojo begins, but you never get to find out. Instead, his gaze flicks between your eyes as he contemplates something, and then he’s blurting out one quick string of words, “Canyoufuckme?”
You raise a mocking eyebrow. “Come again?”
Gojo closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. “I said, can you fuck me?”
Fighting to control your expression, you don’t realise until a beat later how your fingers tighten around his legs painfully.
“Just— When’s the next chance we’ll get to do something like this?” Gojo reasons, trying to pull his legs closer to his body self-consciously. He can’t get far with them still trapped by you. “It’s not like I want you to fuck me, I just want to know what it’s like to get fucked by me.”
“Narcissistic much?” you scoff, peering down at him and feeling less and less enthusiastic about it as each long second ticks by. “And I think you’re lying.”
“No.”
You place one hand on his stomach and press it down slightly. “You don’t just wanna feel what it’s like to be full? To feel like someone’s dick is in your throat? To feel every thought melt out your ears with a good fuck?”
Gojo swallows uneasily before brandishing a shining smile. “Nope. Self-performance review purposes only.”
“Mhm,” you hum, unconvinced. “Well I suppose I can help. I won’t be able to emulate your technique without any prior knowledge though,” you sigh. “So I guess you’ll just have to review the product itself.”
“Gross. What the fuck are you on about?” Gojo asks, lips curling at your crude phrasing.
You don’t answer. Instead, you slide his leg from your shoulder, tuck it around your body, and heft him up with you by the waist as you stand. Gojo instinctively wraps his legs around you, afraid to fall.
“Hey! Stop fuckin’ manhandling me...” But he sounds breathless, and hardly annoyed about it in fact.
You don’t like that he’s so easy to carry—and you’re honestly not sure whether that’s thanks to his strength or your stature. You reach the sofa and sit down, tugging him onto your lap. Gojo doesn’t settle though, awkwardly hovering above your legs and staring down at you, once hand fisted in the sofa's backrest behind you.
“Take it away,” you murmur.
“The fuck do you mean, ‘take it away’?” he utters incredulously. “I asked you to fuck me.”
“I’ve already put in a good shift today. Can’t I cash in my payment? You’ve got my strong legs, Gojo." You pat his thigh with a firm palm. "It’ll be a breeze.”
The sorcerer looks at you strangely, as though scrutinising the truth of your statement. “You’ve done this before to know that?”
You scoff. “Obviously.”
“Okay. Well… Alright then. Put it in,” he finishes lamely.
“I’ll let you do the honours,” you reply, laughter melting your tone into something warmer than you were intending.
Gojo huffs as though greatly inconvenienced and rolls his eyes. He rises up onto his knees, takes a hold of your cock. You hiss and Gojo’s eyes flicker up to yours curiously.
“You won’t last long,” he states plainly, mirth dancing across his expression.
“Probably not,” you agree. “Longer than you will, though.”
“Infamously and statistically untrue.”
You strain upwards to speak into his ear, voice honey-smooth. “You’re in my body, Gojo. You don’t think I know what’s going to make you tick?”
He makes a dismissive sound, lowers himself slightly, and brushes the head of your cock through the arousal slicking his cunt. You exhale through your nose.
“Thought you said I gotta do the work?” he reminds you.
“I did." You sigh when the head of your cock slips inside him for a moment. “Maybe I’ll be nice if you behave though.”
Gojo remains suspiciously silent in response, and when you dare a look up at his face, his expression is twisted as though tasting something particularly sour. “Your dirty talk isn’t doing what you think it is,” he finally huffs.
Wrapping your hands around his waist, you test your grip and startle when your fingers brush each other on the small of his back. You blink and ask, “No?”
“Nope.” Gojo shakes his head, letting your cock catch on his rim once more.
Every cell in your body is screaming at you to tug the sorcerer down to the hilt of you.
You pitch your voice down teasingly, “You don’t want to be good for me?”
“Not particularly,” he replies distractedly, dipping down a scarce few centimeters and back up again with a wince.
You’re alert at once, perking up like a dog having a treat dangled in front of them. With the intent to soothe, you rub your thumbs across his stomach though it doesn’t seem to do anything but throw Gojo off his concentration, who makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.
“Relax dude,” you insist, using your hold to pull him down an inch.
“‘Dude’?” he asks disbelievingly, not appearing to notice how you’re sinking into him. “You’re kidding me. Such a fucking uni student I swear, you used to sleeping with younger people or what? Is that who you’re picking up your dirty talk from? A bunch of students who imitate bad porn?”
Fighting back a laugh, you kick up into his cunt and tug him down to meet your pelvis simultaneously. Gojo releases a high, breathy moan. His fingers clutch onto the meat of your shoulder and the short hair on your nape as he's knocked forward by the motion.
“What was that?” you ask, voice similarly windswept at the tight heat engulfing your cock. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing before. No wonder guys think with their dicks. Perhaps you would too if this is what it feels like.
“Oh my god—” Gojo breathes unsteadily, head hanging so that all you can see is the crown of his head. “That was… really underhanded.”
Encouragingly, you coax Gojo's waist towards you and smile when he gasps. “You gonna move, then?”
“Gimme a second,” Gojo snaps, sharp nails pressing into your nape in warning. “So impatient to get your dick wet.”
“Yeah.” You ignore his request though, still moving his waist back and forth, enough so that Gojo’s mouth drops open silently as he tries to adjust to both the intrusion and the new sensation of your dick brushing his walls. “Is it weird that this isn’t weird?”
“Kind of,” he chokes out, starting to move with your touch cautiously as though doesn't want you to realise that he’s ready yet. “I think we might’ve passed weird when you had your tongue in me, though.”
“Or earlier,” you add thoughtfully, and slide your palms down to his hips to tilt them forward so his clit catches on the thatch of hair at the base of your dick with each gentle rock. Gojo exhales a pitiful noise and chases the sensation, gliding back and forth with a new fervour. “When you offered to teach me how to jack off.”
“Maybe then,” he agrees mindlessly, clearly only half listening to you as he slides both hands to collar your trapezius muscles.
You can hardly be annoyed when the touch has you light headed, static creeping from the corners and lowering your inhibitions even further. He’s too warm inside, and while his movements feel good, you know they won’t be enough to get you off anytime soon.
You don’t think you can wait longer than soon, impatience buzzing under your skin.
“C’mon, Gojo,” you murmur, lifting your hips up to knock your cock into him. He whines. Whines. And you are possessed by the noise to repeat the action, kicking into him in short, aborted thrusts where he’s still heavy on your lap. “Thought you wanted to— ah— test me out?”
“Just keep doing that,” he demands instead, and you can see the side of his expression scrunching up every time you move. Gojo's face is still tucked between your bodies, reluctant to meet your eyes.
Wanting what you were promised, you fall still, lean back, remove your hands from his soft body and interlace your fingers behind your head in an action so irritatingly lofty that even you can admit the way Gojo immediately bristles is utterly warranted.
“Fine,” Gojo scoffs, lifting his head to glare at you. “I’ll get off how I was before then. Doesn’t bother me.”
As though to punctuate his claim, Gojo starts rolling his hips again.
“No you won’t.” You don’t move to stop him but he stills all the same as if you had. “Just try it properly.”
Gojo grumbles, seemingly debating something for a moment as the words he wants to speak sit on the tip of his tongue, but then he swallows them back and pivots his strategy. You furrow your eyebrows. “Whatever, if you’re that desperate for it…”
Gojo rises onto his knees and you can feel the cool air hit your dick, already too accustomed to the warmth of him.
At once, there’s an itch behind your teeth to seat yourself back inside Gojo, so strong you feel it could bowl you straight off your feet if you were stood up. Gojo's expression is wary, but then he slides back down your length and it melts away, replaced with surprise.
“That’s it,” you murmur. He rushes to lift himself back up, using the grip he has on the junction of your neck to aid himself before sinking back down. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Really good—” he grunts, dropping back to your lap.
You can feel pleasure licking up your body, warming your mind, but somehow the sight in front of you is even better. Gojo’s face—your face—slack as he finds his rhythm, bobbing on your cock eagerly; Gojo panting, each laboured breath hitting your forehead, your nose, your chin as he moves; Gojo all-but drooling, lips slick with it.
You glance down and you nearly come there and then at the sight of you two joined. There's a sticky rim of arousal and pre-come foaming around the base of your cock which you ache to drag your fingers through.
Then, you suddenly remember you have free will, and waste no time as you drop your hands from behind your head and finger the connection. Spreading the mess on Gojo's thighs, across his clit as he whines at the touch, through the thatch of pale hair above your dick. It should be gross really, but your head spins with arousal and you dip a thumb into the mixture before swiping it on his clit once again.
Gojo doesn’t disappoint. He keens, a sweet animalistic sound, and his thighs shake with no abandon.
“Do that– hah— do that again.”
Wordlessly, you repeat the action, clumsily following his clit as he bounces on your cock. You’re positive it's barely enough consistent pressure to get him off, but his moans crawl higher and higher each time you manage to catch his clit.
“Doing so well,” you pant. “Bouncing on my cock like you were made for it.”
Gojo moans, but when he responds he sounds mildly repulsed, as though his mind and body are at odds over how he's supposed to feel about your words. “I’m in your body!”
You shake your head, disagreeingly. “This is all you.”
“Idiot,” Gojo breathes, pace becoming sloppy, each rise becoming slower, each drop becoming harder.
“Have you ever felt like this though?”
“Stop talking, I can’t fucking think!” he snarls, shaking thighs lifting him up your cock once more.
“I bet you haven't,” you speak for him. “Besides, you don’t need to think. Just chase the feeling Gojo. Start thinking and you’ll be on my cock forever. I told you it’s more difficult for women.”
Gojo groans, half-frustrated half-aroused. “Don’t tell me— shit— not to think when you’re making me— do all the work.”
Suddenly realising his annoyance, a laugh bubbles out of you, drenched in glee. “Mr. Control Freak doesn’t like being in charge, huh? Need me to dick you down? Quiet that big smart brain of yours?”
“I swear to god,” he warns, eyes darting to yours dangerously. “Talk to me like that again…”
“Fine,” you acquiesce, pouting. But you can’t help but throw a bit of fuel on the fire when you murmur, “Baby.”
“I’m done,” he proclaims abruptly, lifting himself fully off your dick so quick he stumbles back from you when he stands. Your shock lasts for all of a few seconds before you’re distracted by the sight of his puffy cunt, glistening with arousal in the low light of your living room, his skirt in a pool around his ankles. “This isn’t worth it, you’re actually intolerable.” You force your gaze up to his eyes but they get stuck on the sight of his lips first, brain clouded with lust. “I’m just going to jack off, on your bed by the way,” he emphasises, as though that would bother you. As though Gojo’s pre-come isn’t dripping onto your sofa right now. “And we’re never going to speak of this again unless you want to die.”
When you don’t say anything, Gojo exhales an irritated breath and storms past the edge of the sofa in the direction of your bedroom. Before you can think about what you’re doing, you dart a hand out to grab his wrist and pull him awkwardly over the sofa's armrest before he can get any further.
For a brief moment you're surprised by your own strength. You’d only meant to stop him but now he’s bent over the arm of the sofa like he's on display.
“Get off me,” he snaps, an embarrassed flush tinting his features as he tries and fails to pry his wrist from your grip.
“Thought you wanted me to fuck you?” you ask sincerely.
Gojo drops his gaze to the sofa a few inches from his face. “A momentary lapse in judgement.”
“That's it, yeah?”
“Mhm, now lemme go raid your bedside table. I know you've got some freaky shit in there and I'm gonna take it for a spin.”
“Alright,” you pretend to agree. “Let me check something, first though.”
Gojo sighs, but doesn’t argue. You place a hand on his shoulder blades and press him down onto the sofa, feigning using him to stand. In two quick steps you circle the sofa and fit another hand to the base of his spine where you stop behind him. Gojo realises that he’s been tricked and quickly tries to shove himself upright. You hold him in place easily.
“No, no no no— this is so degrading, we’re not— we’re not doing this.”
“Degrading? Seriously? Way to be progressive Gojo, jeez. There’s nothing degrading about playing a part in the miracle of life.”
And that really seems to make him panic. Gojo starts to press his hands into the sofa beneath him before giving up and kicking a leg back at you blindly. You bully forward to stop his flailing, until your clothed thighs are touching his, your hard cock sat snug in atop his bare ass.
“I wanna eat you out again,” you murmur, eyeing the spread of his cunt where his hips are hooked over the armrest, his tiptoes barely touching the floor. “But another time. I wanna fuck you first. Properly fuck you. Make you nice and quiet like you were askin’ for. How ‘bout it, Gojo?”
Gojo covers his face with his hands and buries it into the sofa, soft trembles wracking his body. Whether from nerves or arousal or fear, you truly haven't a clue.
“C’mon.” Sensing that he’s not going to move, you lift the hand from his lower back to your cock and swipe it through his wet cunt, a silent promise. “I’ll make you feel good.”
Without waiting for his reply, you slip your cock into Gojo's cunt. Sliding back into his warmth so easily it's as if you've already carved out a home for yourself deep inside him.
Gojo keens into the sofa cushions, a foot lifting to wrap around the back of your calf subconsciously. You test your weight on his shoulder blades, letting him take it until he’s forced to turn his face to the side and heave in a stilted breath.
You cant your hips back before snapping them forward. Immediately you start up a harsh rhythm, following your instincts as you try to ignore the pleasure fizzling through your own body and instead focus on giving Gojo the best fuck of his stupid life.
Gojo curses, and it tangles in a moan until you can't even tell what he was trying to say.
You angle your hips differently each thrust, aiming for the spot inside your cunt that you know from personal experience causes your brain to leak from your ears. It takes you many clumsy thrusts—not that Gojo seems to think as much by the way his back arches, startled whines slipping out his mouth as though he can’t even try to contain them—until you finally find it.
Gojo cries like he’s been shot. Body locking up, drool leaking from his wide open mouth, toes curling against the floor and the back of your calf.
You grin.
Jack-rabbiting back into that spot over and over, until you can see his hands scrabbling on the sofa as he fights the last remaining dregs of his pride. A particularly hard press on his shoulder blades later and he’s thawing, going limp against the sofa like a puppet with their strings cut.
“No thinking now, huh?” you pant, leering over his back to get a better look at the fucked out expression he’s plastered on your face.
You expected to fixate on the sight of what you look like in this position, but you only find yourself wondering how the real Gojo would look.
How his pale skin would flush; how his white hair would be plastered to his sweaty skin; how his own deep voice would rise higher and higher as you fuck into him with the strap you keep tucked away under your bed for your particularly adventurous partners.
Gojo makes a noise, perhaps trying to oppose your meaningless statement. You laugh, slightly cruel. Still warm. And brace both hands along his spine, leaning the bulk of your weight on him like a blanket. He only melts further beneath you, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight. At the quiet behind his eyes.
Gojo’s high whines have tapered off into low, chopped keens at each sharp thrust, as though his brain has run out of capacity to react as it should. You can see his fingers weakly holding onto the sofa, his legs all but dangling from the edge of the armrest, his heaving chest.
And without warning, he comes. Body trembling like a leaf in the wind, voice lodged in this throat as his mouth opens on a soundless moan. His eyes squeeze closed and his back arches impossibly further. The sight of the curve so alluring you can’t help but lick along the sweaty skin, mouthing at him like an animal.
“There you go,” you speak against him, voice rough and jagged. “You're so good, Gojo. Knew you were made for this.”
He doesn’t even complain when you continue thrusting into him, though you are at least kind enough to stop targeting his g-spot, chasing your own ignored high.
So much for you coming first.
Far away, you can hear your own gravelled moans as you fuck into him like a dog in heat, laving your tongue along the ridges in his spine, listening to his quiet keens of overstimulated pleasure. And all it takes is a blissed out brush of his foot on your ankle for you to come too, the pressure exploding as you shoot thick ropes of come inside his cunt, shallowly rocking into him until the pleasure fizzles out into a mild pain. Not enough to stop you, but you still anyway, thinking about how different that was from your usual orgasms.
A very good different.
“Shit,” you breathe, slowly coming back to yourself. “That was crazy.”
You tilt your head on Gojo’s back to peer down at him.
He’s gone.
Floating.
Drifting somewhere that isn’t this room you’re both in. The realisation that you’ve done this to him has pride simmering in your gut, arousal coating the edges of it. Slowly, you peel yourself from his back and pull out cautiously, conscious of how unpleasant the sensation can be. Gojo barely reacts bar a barely there scrunch of his nose.
“You okay, Gojo?” you ask quietly, brushing some of your hair away from his sweaty face.
He hums tiredly, expression content, and his eyes lazily flicker to yours for a second before flickering away again like there’s something more important to look at in the silence of his mind.
“I really did a number on you, wow…” you murmur, rising to your full height to take in all of him.
Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.
But he does whine when you drag your fingers through the come dripping out of his cunt, scooping it up and fucking it back into him gently. There’s a hitch in his breath that rings out in the quiet of the living room. You curl your fingers, searching for that spot once more.
“You can come one more time, right?”
—
In the afterglow, clean and satiated, you share an order of chinese food on the floor of your living room. A film plays in the background. It’s not one you know—an older film, one Gojo had picked out when flipping through the channels on your TV while you called the restaurant. You’re barely watching it, only flicking your eyes to the flash of a new scene before your gaze inevitably lands on the sorcerer beside you once more. But the noise is kind of nice; comforting, if you were to put a word to it.
“If you tell anyone about this,” Gojo begins around a mouthful of noodles, oddly relaxed for the threat he goes on to say, “I will air out all of the blackmail I’ve been collecting these past few years.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning your back against the seat of the sofa. “Like what?”
“Like how you when you use other people’s mugs in the staffroom you only rinse them before putting them back in the cupboard.”
You shrug, unphased.
“And, how you gave Ijichi the wrong number two months ago so now Ino keeps getting sent on what are supposed to be your errands.”
At that you laugh, surprised Gojo even knew about that little stunt you’ve managed to pull off. It won’t be long before another sorcerer, probably Nanami knowing your luck, clocks on and actually does something about it. But you’ve been enjoying the reprieve from doing grunt work in the meantime.
“And, how you are really, really bad at dirty talk.”
You smile, aimlessly stirring your boxed chicken around with your chopsticks. “You goin’ to tell everyone that?”
“I might,” Gojo replies haughtily, giving you a meaningful look. “But only if you tell first.”
“Well then,” you start, voice laced with amusement. “Guess I better keep my mouth shut.”
Gojo nods, before he mimes zipping his mouth closed and flicking the key towards your TV. You mimic the action, lean over to steal a bite of noodles from the container he’s holding, and chuckle when he squawks indignantly.
—
A week later, you’re back in your own body.
It’s strange to find yourself disappointed by what should be a cause for great celebration.
But then Gojo is following you home to pick his belongings up and his mouth is on yours the minute you both pass through your front door and you find it remarkably hard to care at all. Not when he’s bending you over the armrest of your traumatised sofa in revenge. Not when he’s sliding into you like he’s coming home. And definitely not when he’s promising in that stupidly titillating voice of his how there won’t be space for a thought left in your head once he’s finished with you.
As such, you ought to remove your rose tinted glasses soon. It isn’t healthy to live in the past after all, but your memories in Gojo’s body are too sweet to resist, even with his warm hulking body plastered to your back.
Sue you.
Reminiscing never killed anybody.
‹‹ KINKTOBER 2025 | GENERAL M.LIST | READ ON AO3
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