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· · · A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING (SLIPPING) | STALKER!ASHVEIL X FEM!READER
Ashveil's curiosity about you tends to bring out the worst in him—enough for him to regularly trail you like a shadow while you remain blissfully unaware of his influence over your surroundings. But once mere whiffs of you are no longer enough, he finds himself inserting his way into your life instead, hoping to receive more of the goodness that is you. Now he's no longer sure if he can handle the consequences. His mouth opens far too easily, spilling compromising words before he can stop them, which raises the question of how much time he has left before you finally figure him out. | word count: 17,7k.
⟢ CONTENTS: not suitable for minors, yandere themes, plot & some smut, spoilers for ashveil’s lore and the quests up till version 4.1, sex that turns dub-con, stalking & breaking in, a bit of dark comedy, reader has a dog named princess, heavily focused on ashveil's perspective, angst (mostly regarding ashveil who struggles with self-worth and dehumanizes himself), suicidal thoughts, masochism, manipulation, slapping, threatening, intrusion of privacy, masturbation, unprotected & rough sex, come eating.
⟢ A/N: This story is loosely inspired by the TV show "You" (or at least what I remember of it from watching it years ago); though here, Ashveil is far different from Joe Goldberg. This is my first time writing for Ash, so I hope you enjoy the results. I also made a playlist that reminds me of Ashveil that might fit the story as well ♡(ᵔᴥᵔ). Divider source.
There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.
Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.
The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.
What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.
Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.
The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.
People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.
Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.
He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.
Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.
The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.
Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.
“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”
Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.
Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.
“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.
But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.
Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.
“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”
She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.
Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.
He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.
What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.
This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.
Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.
He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.
At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.
Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.
After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.
His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.
Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.
He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.
By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.
Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.
Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?
Other fantasies creep in afterward.
You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.
He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.
As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.
His mouth goes dry.
Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.
It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.
Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.
He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’
Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.
All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.
Where to bite.
And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.
The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.
Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.
Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.
Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.
On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”
The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.
“Good girl.”
Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”
For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.
He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.
Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.
There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.
The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.
Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.
But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.
If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.
Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.
A friend in need is a friend indeed.
So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.
Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.
At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.
Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.
If only you knew.
“Good morning.”
Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.
“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”
The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.
Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.
“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.
Yes. Absolutely yes.
He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.
“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.
My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.
My.
Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.
No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.
Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.
His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.
“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”
“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”
Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.
You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.
However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.
He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”
That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…
You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.
“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”
Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.
“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”
Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.
Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.
“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”
Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.
“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.
Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.
Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”
“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.
Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.
“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”
You let out a nervous chuckle.
“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”
You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.
Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.
You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”
“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”
Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.
“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”
The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.
If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.
Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.
Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.
You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—
“Ashveil?”
Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.
He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.
“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”
“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.
“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.
“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.
“What was?”
“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.
And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.
At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.
Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.
“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.
“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.
“No! Of course not.”
“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”
“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”
The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.
“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”
“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.
As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.
“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”
The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.
Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.
Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?
Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.
The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.
Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:
That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.
So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.
The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.
Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.
“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”
The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.
“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”
It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.
You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.
He at least tries to constrain the beast.
“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”
Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.
“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”
“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”
Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.
From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.
Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.
Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.
He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…
Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.
Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.
The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.
Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.
As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.
The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.
“Hey—”
“Give me the phone.”
The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”
Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”
Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.
The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”
“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”
The man stares at him, dumbfounded.
And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.
Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.
Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.
Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.
Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.
“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.
“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”
Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.
For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.
Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”
He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”
He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.
Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.
Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.
“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.
You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine—”
“No, no, quickly, let me see.”
Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.
You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?
Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.
Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.
It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?
Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.
He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.
“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”
“No need.”
“But—”
Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”
You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.
“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.
“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”
Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.
You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”
Ashveil stills.
“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”
That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.
It’s dangerous, this type of care.
“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”
“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”
“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.
You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.
Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.
It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.
“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”
You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.
“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”
“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”
Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.
You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.
A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.
Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.
They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.
“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”
You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.
When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.
“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”
He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”
For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.
“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”
“Totally.”
“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”
“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.
The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.
Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.
“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.
“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”
“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”
“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”
Ashveil suppresses a laugh.
If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.
As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.
“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.
Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.
“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.
His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—
“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”
He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.
“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.
“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”
He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.
“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”
Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.
“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”
He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…
The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.
He naturally takes notes of what you get.
At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.
“You remembered.”
“Well, you liked it last time.”
Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.
As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.
By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.
“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”
“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”
“No, there’s really no need.”
He looks at you with confusion.
“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.
“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”
“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.
It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.
His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—
“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”
“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”
You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.
“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.
“I will.”
You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.
Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.
He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.
No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?
Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.
Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.
Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.
For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.
But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.
That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.
“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”
“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”
Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?
No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.
“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”
“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.
“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”
There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.
“O-okay. Come quick, please.”
The call ends.
Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.
“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”
“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”
By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.
You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.
And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.
His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”
“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”
You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.
He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.
Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.
“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”
“I see.”
Ashveil scans it quickly.
The receipt goes:
a loaf of bread
instant coffee
instant noodles
10 x bunches of bananas
.
.
.
Fuck.
All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.
The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.
Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.
With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?
By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.
“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”
“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”
Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”
Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”
“Exactly.”
You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”
Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.
But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”
“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.
“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”
Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.
He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.
Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.
Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.
Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.
And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.
He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.
You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.
He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.
The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.
You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.
All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.
Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.
It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.
He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.
The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.
And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.
He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.
Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.
“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.
“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.
“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—
A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.
“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.
Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.
That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.
As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.
“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.
Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.
“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”
“That’s not how this works—”
He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.
Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.
Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.
“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.
You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.
He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”
You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”
Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.
“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.
“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.
As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.
His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.
Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.
Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.
“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.
“I thought you could take that?”
“Just you wait,” he says roughly.
He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.
Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.
“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.
You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”
What didn’t you do?
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”
But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.
Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.
By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.
His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.
You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.
Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.
He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.
One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.
“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”
His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.
“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.
Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.
You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.
“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.
“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.
“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”
He knows that well.
“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.
“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”
He’s even more dizzy after you say that.
Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”
He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.
His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.
So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.
Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.
He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.
One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.
“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.
His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.
You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…
You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.
Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.
“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.
And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—
“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”
The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.
“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.
“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.
He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.
He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.
“W-wait…” you say eventually.
“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”
“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.
He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”
“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”
Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.
“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”
Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.
“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.
The room goes still.
Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.
“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.
“How did you know it was moved?”
“What?”
“You said I moved it.”
He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.
“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”
“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”
“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”
“But I didn’t—”
Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.
“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.
More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.
Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.
He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.
“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”
The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.
You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.
Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.
The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.
For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.
Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.
Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.
“No. Not yet,” he growls.
He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.
“Ashveil—”
He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.
It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.
By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.
All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.
The drawer thing.
Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.
You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.
“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.
“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.
He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”
“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”
Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.
You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.
“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”
But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.
He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.
Oh no.
He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.
With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.
“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”
“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”
Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.
Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.
Please. Don’t ruin this for him.
“That’s not it—”
“Then what is it?”
“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”
“You said you were going to the bathroom.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”
“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”
“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”
The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.
Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.
“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”
Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.
“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”
“It all makes sense now though!”
“What.”
“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—”
“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.
“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”
Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!
Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”
The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.
“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”
He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.
You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.
All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.
You finally go for the door.
The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.
“Come back here!”
You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.
You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.
“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”
He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.
“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”
You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.
Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.
The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.
“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.
The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.
Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely.
Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.
She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.
“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”
She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.
Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”
It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.
He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.
“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”
You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.
“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”
The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.
“Please,” you beg her.
Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.
Ashveil exhales in relief.
“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”
You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”
But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.
Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.
He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.
“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”
Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.
This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary.
Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.
“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”
“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.
“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”
Well, he would, but…
And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”
“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”
It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.
As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.
Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.
At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.
However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.
“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”
Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.
You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.
“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”
“It’s… different.”
“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”
Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.
“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”
“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.
“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”
“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.
“Define stalking.”
You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!”
No denial makes it clear to you.
He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”
The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”
He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.
“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”
And so you do.
It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.
“How could you do something like this?!”
“I know
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.
However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.
“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”
You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.
“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”
You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.
You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.
That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.
“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”
There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…
“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”
“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”
The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.
“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”
You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.
But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.
Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.
Ashveil smiles.
Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.
If you’re still here, thank you for reading! <3 Comments and reblogs are appreciated.
Me: Wow, I finally have some free time on my hands! I should sit down and try to work on one of these WIPs.
Everything around me, for some reason: breaks, burns, falls apart, the car needs to be repaired, work is busier than ever, the animals need something, anything, everything, weekend puppy classes, the social expectation to attend book club brunch, trying to find a new house, trying to get the current one ready to sell, the state of the world at large, can’t even take a nice relaxing bath because the damn tub leaks badly, haven’t gotten dicked down in a lifetime, gacha addiction, unmedicated and slowly unraveling
🙄
All that aside, I’ve been bouncing around from one project to another the last few weeks whenever time permits so I MIGHT have something ready to post soon-ish. I have no idea when or which one, so it’ll be as much a surprise to me as it is for you guys. lol Sorry I don’t have more of an exciting update to share but just know that I haven’t given up or forgotten about this blog! I’m still here and still horny!!
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?"
thinking about dottore controlling your meds and using your health issues against you to keep you pliant and reliant on him and to make sure you remain appropriately grateful for his attentions . . . just the idea that you could feel as though somebody else could take care of you makes him feel so jealous he can hardly stand it (not that he’d admit it to you). only he should get to do that. you’re his.
pantalone likes to take pictures of you with his kamera. he says that they’re to keep him warm on the nights he spends away from snezhnaya and the beautiful cage he keeps you in that pretends to be a home, but you know what they are: collateral, in the future, if you dare to think you can leave him—
and you’re right, in a sense. but he’s right, too - because no other delicacy any other nation could offer him in ribbon and satin and lace could live up to the memory of you wide-eyed and willing with your mouth open and your cheeks soft and pinched and your tongue against his cock . . . so they do keep him warm at night.
Along the lines of that other ask I gotta say thank youuuu for writing anal!!!! I know it’s such a divisive kink but there’s so little of it in xreader and it’s my absolute fave ever
Omg you guys, thank you!! 🙏🥹 I’m honestly so honored to hear things like this, especially considering I haven’t posted anything in a hot minute. lol Ugh, there’s just so many different things you can do with a butt … hopefully I’ll get my brain into gear soon and start finishing up some of these WIPs. Rest assured, there are plenty sitting on the back burner for both anal and spanking!!
Thought I'd drop in and say I'm genuinely obsessed with the way you write spank fics. They are always rotating in the back of my minddddddd like please. Pay rent already how do you have so many bangers 🫠 I ammmm greedily awaiting whenever you decide to crack out another spank fic. The random spanking addition to the al haitham pet one????? Pure genius no notes slay
Omg, I actually cannot stress how happy this message made me! 🤭 I loooove writing spank fics, if that wasn’t already abundantly clear lmao Like, between that and anal I really think I could write nothing else for the rest of my life and I’d be a-okay 😂
Thank you for dropping by, lovely! I appreciate you! 🫶🥹
I just need to say that this week has been the wildest rollercoaster of emotions. I’ve been;
>terrified of what the nut-job with America’s nuclear codes is going to do
>potentially getting somewhere on the house hunting front, which is exciting but also scary too
>experiencing the joys of a new puppy (that I did not plan to get, mind you!)
>eagerly slurping up every single leak about Dottore and 6.6, wildly swinging from ‘we’re so back, it’s happening!’ To ‘oh no, it’s happening, it’s so over’
>absolutely losing my mind over leakers saying Pantalone will make his first in-game appearance in 6.6, like I genuinely have not stopped vibrating at a hitherto unknown frequency since the news came out
>confused and yet delighted beyond reason to find out that he allegedly has the same tall male model as Varka like lol, lmao even
>waking up today to a surprise announcement of the HSR anime project with MAPPA, and watching the trailer in utter disbelief
>the shocking, unexpected reveal of Elio apparently looking like Shigaraki instead of a pretty pink haired twink lmao
And I’m still utterly horrified by what’s happening in the White House and the Middle East right now, and I really just do not even know what emotion to settle on at this point. I’m glad there are good things to distract and insulate myself with but, fucking hell man. It feels like I’m being pulled in different directions by two extremes and idk how much more of this my nervous system can take 🤣
I binged watched The Pitt and caught up to it so I’ve just had so many medical fears on my mind lately (i.e worrying about insurance, getting anxious when setting up appointments, dreading a bad diagnosis) I feel that Dottore would be the perfect doctor for a particular soggy, anxious reader who is so jumpy and fearful during any medical exams. At first you do not want him as your primary care manager bc he has a reputation for being stern and cold (though brilliant), but you have no choice bc alas…the real horror here is the health care system.
Upon your first introduction with him he instantly pins you as someone who freezes and cowers on the spot and finds that sooooooo enticing. He’s normally brisk and detached during examinations, but he takes it upon himself to assuage your anxiety with coos and soft touches. He’s delighted when he feels you start to melt into his hands :3c
Soon the examination is over and you are surprisingly…disappointed. That was the most calm you’ve ever felt at the doctor’s! But Dottore assures you that you will be back bc it turns out you have something wrong with you here, and here, and there, so just to be safe come back for another check up! In future exams his gentle cooing turns into words one might say to a lover, and his touches start to turn more intimate…It comes to a point where you are very pent up and anxious one day, so he suggests an…unorthodox way of getting you to relax. He just needs you to take off your pants and undies, lie back, and let him take care of everything
Anyways, sleazy doctor Dottore who takes advantage of your medical anxiety and also unintentionally cures it bc everything just feels right when you’re with him
ah, a doctor abusing their position of authority with dottore absolutely reading every one of reader’s fears . . . one of my favourite flavours. delicious. dottore changing his whole usual way of dealing with patients because reader is simply too cute; how could he treat them like everyone else when it’s clear they need special handling?
assuring reader that they must come to him whenever they have any medical troubles (seeing someone else would be tantamount to cheating!). slightly uncomfortably intimate health checks and examinations . . . ough. delicious!
that last ask is crazy??? its almost like people do stuff out of love and not to get recognition and views 😭
imagine posting on tumblr dot com simply because you like writing and want to share your writing. not because you want 5,000 notes on a vague post that appeals to 73 different fandoms and has no characterisation. this is a world that anon cannot possibly fathom
hey i just want to say-- i reread never fallen from quite so high again and man. it's just a CLASSIC to me. i love that the reader's older and inexperienced, and i love the disconnect where childe thinks they're going to tell him he's too young for them. plus, of course, the sex. i also LOVEDDD stay, don't go-- i'm just such a SUCKER for a well-written chubby reader, and a character who's crazy about them (2x because it's a little to a discomforting degree, in this case). i also appreciated how you never wavered from how uncomfortable that was (for them and conceptually), i loved the slow almost self-convincing that built up right to the end
can i ask (not to put you under any pressure): do you think you might open commissions again soon (or, not soon, but some in the future)? i'd love to commission you but i'm not really On Tumblr so I tend to miss comms posts these days
Oh wow, that is so incredibly sweet of you, anon! 🙏🥺 I’m so, so flattered and ofc happy that you liked both of those fics that much and even reread them from time to time, it really validates the effort I try to put into my works! Especially since both of those featured chubby readers which I do love writing for tbh.
I’m sure at some point I will open comms again, and thank you for being interested enough to inquire about it, but I just don’t know when. Luckily the last official comm I have on hand is for a good friend and they’re being very patient with me, as is the person who has the special project I happily agreed to take on. Unfortunately I’ve been in such a funk lately that I can’t say when either will be finished. 😔
So with that in mind you’re welcome to shoot me a dm if you’d like and then I can message you directly when I’m ready for comms again?
Actually I’ve been asked about this enough that I almost wonder if I should put together a mailing list of sorts with the people who’d like to be reached out to directly for potential comms? Would that be something everyone would be interested in? If so, I can definitely put that together for us.
But either way, the offer stands! I definitely get not being on tumblr much because I’m not either. lol I know I miss a lot of stuff for the simple fact that I typically only pop in to post a fic or answer an ask, and then bounce haha
I read one of your posts abt engagement being low and lemme just say I LOVE all of your work. Seriously its like an absolute delicacy every time you post. I eat it up like a peasant with no manners 😭🤣 my preferred reading source is ao3 and it's where I go to first bc i have email notifs pop up when you post there. So when I also see it here I normally heart but like and comment on ao3.
I know it can be disheartening to see such little engagement and lwk its bc of the algorithm and not getting your content out. I also tend to bulk read fics when Im feeling it so sometimes I wont read fics immediately and will go on a reading spree later on. Also I'm delirious and lacking sleep so sorry for rambling I just dont want you to feel unappreciated. ILY and I hope u have a great day !!! ^O^
xmxozksksjx thank you, Rei! It was very sweet of you to send this message in! 🙏😭
I haven’t been as active as I’d like to be recently, in part because I’m continuously being crushed by real world news which seems almost impossible to completely disconnect from but I’m also in the early stages of putting together a move atm so I’ve been both busy and feeling the melancholy. lol But that’s why I’m so very appreciative of you guys and nice sentiments like this! I’m always glad to know that my older works are being read and enjoyed, and hopefully I’ll get to finish up some more WIPs in the near future to post!
Ofc there’s no pressure or obligation on you or any other reader though, so please don’t feel like you need to explain anything to me! I’m just happy you’re here and still like my silly little fics enough to stick around. 🫶🥹 Thank you for that, and I hope you have a wonderful day too! ILY BACK!!
What happened to your old account? Because I remember that I followed your old account but then you disappeared after some time, and now here you are again. I only know it's you because of your stories. And also because you have a similar username from last time too.
Hi, I’m the problem it’s me 👋
My previous account is still up last I checked but after my depression hiatus I decided I just wanted to start over fresh with a new blog. The move made sense to me particularly because I was moving away from anime and manga — my bread and butter up until that point! — and shifting more towards video games as my preferred writing topic. 🤷♀️
That might be a disappointing answer, it’s nothing exciting or scandalous. lol I simply felt a rebrand of sorts was in order, that’s all.
Hi, anon! Idk if I’d say I ship it, but I do think the concept of Dottore’s relationship with Columbina is very cute. Even if he was being facetious about it, I thought him saying he saw her as a little sister was quite intriguing. Gave me plenty of ideas tbh. 👀
