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[ewnamored]

PLEONEXIA / PANTALONE X FEMALE!READER

What does it mean to be a good wife? To be a good wife is to offer yourself completely, down to every last mora of your worth, body and mind, so that your husband can decide your future and fix your value. Yet when you quietly despise the man who controls your life, you are brimming with loathing on the verge of spilling over… Until that feeling finally brings you closer to Pantalone — not to give affection, but to thaw out and release what festers inside you. WORD COUNT: 11.2k

CW: not suitable for minors, dubcon smut with (some) plot, coerced marriage, power imbalance, controlling relationship, objectification, angst, possessiveness and obsession, reader has some social standing but became indebted after her parents’ death, oral fem receiving, rough/hate sex, gagging on fingers, yearning and masochistic pantalone if you squint, breathplay, orgasm denial, slapping, unprotected sex.

A/N: Dividers are from @/strangergraphics. This is a reupload of my first Pantalone fic for those who missed it ♡ It was written before Pantalone even appeared in the game, but I think that the plot is vague enough not to interfere with the in-game characterization/lore. I will definitely write more for him in the near future anyway.

Your routine as Pantalone’s wife is pretty simple and runs like clockwork.

In the morning, you rise when he does, regardless of how early it may be.

“Good morning, my dear. Let us catch another productive day,” he says from above your face, voice smooth and content. Leaning down for a deserved kiss, his loose hair tickles your face and hides you from the world for him for at least another minute.

Your lips always move drowsily at this hour, so he guides you, rather eager to be that help. With the sleepiness still in control of you, you’re not coherent enough to register the way the kiss increasingly becomes selfish.

Then you watch him dress, each layer donned meticulously — a slovenly appearance is another weakness to admit to your opponents, a sign of brewing chaos in your life. There’s never time for breakfast at home, save for the special occasions, so you linger in bed, trying not to sink back into sleep before you can tell him goodbye.

“They say a happy spouse makes life more prosperous. Therefore, I hope you can wish me a safe journey.”

After you fulfill his wish, you finally watch him go, then close your eyes the second you hear the door close. The lavish room feels empty without him; it is peaceful, free of his presence demanding your attention.

While he’s away, you have time to focus on yourself. The only time you do. Although, you’re still expected to oversee the staff in his absence.

They themselves like it that way, finding you quite patient in comparison to your husband. You try to form them an opinion dissent from what they think of him — that he’s just a man keen on perfection, with a lot to lose — and apologize in his name, promising loyalty to be rewarding in the longer run. You’re his addendum, translating his actions for them. Still, you try to not become too comfortable with the servants— you doubt your husband would like that much.

When dinner time comes around the corner, Pantalone usually is not home yet. Which doesn't entail you get to eat alone — there’s already been an agent sent after you. Thankfully, it’s not cold within the capital itself — thanks to the heating system Kresnik’s Torch provides for Snezhnograd. You arrive at one of the Northland Banks he stations in during specific days easily, while something good is already wafting through the door of his office.

You're typically all dolled up by this hour. Choices such as a navy dress made out of thick velvet enveloping you tight at the chest but swirling at the bottom, black heeled boots with silver embellishments similar to his, heavy blue rocks for jewelry. Your husband greatly appreciates the sight upon your arrival, inspecting you from head to toe.

“You look endearingly beautiful, my dear,” he praises right before he leans to kiss your cheek. “I hope you will enjoy this meal with me. Have you tried Fontainian cuisine before?”

Your husband has you trying all kinds of food. It’s in opposition to the way that Snezhnayans pride themselves in their native cuisine. Your late mother told you to eat only the local dishes as long as you live here, unless you are traveling abroad, and he has you breaking that standard.

“I believe I have not,” you reply honestly, not even because you want to preserve his well-hidden excitement.

“Excellent.” He claps his hands together and ushers you to the table set in the corner of his gold-decorated office, pulling out the chair for you.

He even ties your hair for you so it doesn’t fall into a soup you’re about to eat. Something to be grateful about. The hair, you see, he also invests into, accruing from it when he notices its condition elevate itself over the time maids spend on caring for it.

Sitting down across from you, his hand occasionally grabs yours, playing with the wedding band, and fat diamond of the engagement ring you still wear months after the ceremony. They weigh heavy on your fingers, speaking of both their value and your belonging to him.

You hear his dissolute hums, but you suspect your presence here is more satisfying than the dish.

Done with the meal, he encourages you to stay for dessert too — even if nothing could be as sweet as his wife is. You laugh at that remark, a bit too loudly.

Pantalone lives up to his moniker Regrator. When you leave, he invites a client in, apologizing for the delay as he must have seen his precious wife — she gets so lonely on her own… Transactions run pretty smoothly, as the client signs a contract he doesn’t comprehend well, any profoundness overshadowed by the excitement. The prospect of gaining attention of such an influential man is a great honor.

He likes to work with clients with nascent businesses. Dimming their light until a power vacuum exists works out well in the end — and they shall not worry, they still earned their money. The only people he doesn’t go after are those who already have nothing, as they can’t commit to the art of trade; maybe there’s some reminiscences of pity involved too.

Eat, or be eaten is what he likes to tell you, unequivocally. He’s not doing more than his colleagues are, and you nod at that, thinking everyone fights for their survival in the capital of Snezhnaya.

On rarer occasions, your husband makes some extra time for you, ensuring he returns home early — just for you.

You walk across the shopping street when it’s not him monopolizing your presence for only himself. It’s a more exorbitant type of area, no window shopping allowed. Only people capable of profligacy are allowed into this place: roofed with glass, laid out with light-painted buildings more expensive than the average house and checkered tiles. With beguiling smiles of sellers and wealthy laughs of families everywhere, it’s as though you step into another world.

Your hand rests in the gloved one, as ostentatious Pantalone parades you around proudly. Your rings shine under the light of lanterns — your own signage among other advertisements. You occasionally step on the tattered mora coin someone dropped and didn't bother to lift up because it's dirty money anyway.

Unfortunately, nothing offered here picks up your interest most of the time. And it’s not parsimony.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, his hand now travelling onto your back. “Does nothing to be sold here appeal to you?”

You frown, wondering if he’d consider you spoiled should you come out clean about your dissatisfaction. The problem is — you could obtain many of luxurious items here, but they are useless to you, only adding up the pile of such similarities back home.

Unless you were ever have to run away and need money. Just a funny thought to entertain.

“These are trinkets to me-” you finally admit. Yes, all of the items around are very lovely to look at. Bags. Jewelry. Figures. Clothes. Imported goods Snezhnaya can’t harvest. Pets even. Majority of them are something many would love to receive and most could only dream of. But in your stage of life, their value lies in their looks only… and when you’re on your own all day, you need something to keep you busy, not something to put on a shelf and stare at as it gathers dust. “-I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I would like to be gifted something practical… Since you’re willing to spend your money on me anyway.”

“Something practical…” he muses, and for a second you worry he’ll say no. “Wise choice. I’ll approve, especially that I can’t have you trying to bite my head off from boredom,” he chuckles even if you don’t find his words funny. “Painting, reading, creating of any kind?”

After he takes care of you, he orders himself an extra suit — the one you help him envision — and then you go back to that lavish mansion of upper echelon.

In the evening, unless you’re dragged to another banquet with him, where you flash a smile for the pictures, and his hand rested at your waist serves as a reminder that you ought to conduct yourself well, you have to listen to his rants. You suppose that’s better than being sycophantic and dancing with others of Fatui.

You hear all about how inundated he is. Failed projects, failures of subordinates. Or his gloating.

Lending an ear is something a good wife does, regardless of how mundane it becomes. But, he’s still quite a verbose man, with an inability to refrain from forming endless monologues. That ineptitude easily gives you headache you do well to hide.

You even picked up some of his banker jargon, enough to could run a business yourself. If anything, you suspects he’s ready to empower you with some position at his bank, as nepotistic as it sounds — he certainly doesn’t want a housewife or trophy wife (not entirely, at least), if someone to represent him as his partner in crime. The extention of his power, perhaps.

It’s not as if you find staring at the wall or shopping all day much fulfilling either, cabin-fevered. There’s other activities to participate in, but even those become boring when there’s an excess repetition of them, or people accompanying you lick your boots far too easily-little challenge given to you.

Sometimes, he squeezes you too hard when the memory of the day becomes too vivid. “So many fools in my arsenal… how difficult it is to follow a simple order?”

“That screeching Rooster…”

“I really hope that Dottore’s plan is worth my investment. I worry even my friend isn't immune to making mistakes.”

“Should you really be telling me those things?” you butt in during one of the confessions, not sure if you exactly want to hear everything Pantalone has to say. Some things sound… savage, and it’s harder to bolster his confidence about those. You even hear something as insane as curating his own currency one day. Is he trying to earn your approval, or is he bad at keeping secrets when he gets passionate?

“Well, are you thinking of letting the cat out of the bag?” he jests, yet digs his nails into your waist at the thought.

“Of course not,” you say immediately, full of innocence. As if to console him, you brush his hair aside, noticing how he leans into your touch.

There's a pleased sigh too. “Enough about them,” he quickly decides, coming to conclusion that your givings are much more interesting.

“Alright.”

Pantalone draws you even closer on the bed. “Many thanks. You’re such a good listener… I couldn’t have asked for a better wife…” he smiles in that roguish way of his. He then kisses you, fondling your hips until your heart races in something different than excitement.

This is what dreams are made of.

This is not a dream you once had.

You were never meant to be his wife.

You have always despised him, the Lord Harbinger, since the day you met through your father — many months ago. At the time, your papa was indulging himself in risky investments, unable to cope after an illness that took your mother's life.

Pantalone wouldn't have entertained him so much if it wasn't for you he was interested in, using the man as an extension to reach you. While you were mourning too, you still had no choice but to go where your father does, desperate to make sure he doesn’t compromise your family name entirely.

Your dislike for the banker wasn’t unfounded; it was getting acquainted with a harbinger, a man in power much bigger than your old money family ever was, a man seemingly deceiving. Yet while you were busy hating him, he indulged himself in the way you could come up with various schemes just to avoid crossing your paths with him, so unimpressed you appeared as if he’s yet another bigshot around you.

Until he decided that he wants you… and the opportunity soon bred itself.

When your father died, prematurely even for his older age, from a heart attack fastened by alcohol overtake and grief, you inherited his enormous debts. You had been unable to stop every bad decision in the past — so he took you down with him.

Debts that unfortunately rested in the hands of Fatui — The Northland Bank.

Therefore, Pantalone made a deal with you.

Marry him. You’ll be free of your debts and even lead a life much better than you did before, especially ameliorated after you nearly became a bankrupt — and your fall was bad enough to have very hard time forgiving your father. And when you have no one left, and soon nowhere else to go as well, what do you do?

He was quite exuberant at your lavish wedding. So were the people anticipating for someone like him to settle down.

But the marriage certificate is not enough on its own to solidify the exchange you had no choice but to agree to. You actually have to pull your weight and behave like a wife should — showing affection, attention, patience, and care towards your husband. Which means being an actress, giving your best performance in hiding your dislike towards your husband. Giving yourself wholly too; it is only a part of a fair trade. Money is power, and it’s a power enough to buy another person’s life; to elevate or crush it.

Forcing yourself, storing all these feelings until they gather a storm strong enough to erupt one day… knowing breaking his contract comes with consequences… you are just some weeks into the marriage and already at your last straw.

And your husband's greed for your so called love is unfathomable. He can be blatantly fussy too, if not emotional once he catches a sniff of anger in himself. You had to learn how to manage his volatile moods, even if at the cost of being overwhelmed by them daily.

What you had no time to learn is how to manage your own needs. Needs amplified by stress and the way you inadvertently always have to think about him.

Ever since you married him, you didn’t sleep with him — not even once.

You expected him to put his hands on you the very same night of your wedding, claiming what he's been watching with adoration for months. Surprisingly, he has shown leniency you that night — telling you all about how you need to acclimate first, especially after he noticed your tension.

Till this day, you doubt it’s kindness; getting to know him, you can imagine he’d find it much more satisfying if you come to him and beg for his touch. And you thought you can last, playing the game of chastity, for stretching ages even — letting your husband touch you in a session bigger than marriage-representative kissing sounds revolting.

But life (and so does Pantalone) have funny ways of proving you wrong; or rather, taunting you on purpose. Hate and love are both sides of the same mora coin; all these “accidental” touches Pantalone has been giving you during your spent time together still can goad desire. So can affection and attention, as long they’re played out well — especially when there’s not that many people around you to fill the role of being caring majority of the time.

Today is yet another difficult in those terms day for you. Your body is uncontrollably warm, devoted to the way you feel pent up.

Just a moment ago, you were indulging yourself in a novel, but the way things progressed in it somewhat reminded you of your own unfortunate and sultrysituation. A loving wife whose husband works too much, and she who finds herself a younger lover who satisfies her desire in his place — a bit tawdry read, nonetheless intriguing. In result, you became lost in thought.

You watch the black marble fireplace smolder, too comfortable in the nook of your purple seat to call the butler to reignite it, even if the aquamarine of the floral wallpapers add little warmth to the spacious common room. You redirect your gaze at the high, white ceiling, carved into all kinds of intricate figures, heavy under the golden chandelier that some days feel as though it might fall on you. Your tea on the coffee table has gone as cold as the snow outside is. The lilac tea set is a gift from your husband, so you use it a lot, appealing to him with gratitude.

“My wife favors reflection over proper welcome, it would seem again. I was expecting you running to the door as usual.”

The familiar deep voice, spoken with an equilibrium of irony and eloquence, shakes you awake from your thoughts. Pantalone’s lacquered shoes against the varnished oak floor indeed were in your earshot, yet you must have been that lost in your head. In result, you failed to intercept him at the main door.

“My husband,” you greet curtly as you put your book aside, standing up to welcome him. It comes naturally to you these days; mere muscle memory. “Welcome home.”

His smile widens in a way that gives you chills. Him simply standing there already feels as if he’s conquering and oppressing the space, opulent with quiet demand.

You are ready to kiss his cheek, but today, he makes things a bit more difficult for you — cupping your face and making you look at him.

“It’s been a rather stressful day for me. I would like to receive a proper kiss to sweeten it,” he still poses his wish with courtesy.

Of course. All days of his work are hard, and you can easily pay the price for that aspect.

Sighing, you close your eyes — at least he’s not scolding you for your slip. Awaiting the kiss, there’s stalling for a few seconds, that you wonder if he’s okay — he must be staring at you… or the conundrum written all over your body language.

At last, he kisses you, rather intensely. His glasses’ chain tickles your face, giving you shivers from how icy it is. You lean into his lips with an odd feeling in your stomach, realizing that it’s been quite many hours between this and the morning kiss.

“Much better. I hope you’ve been faring well during my absence… or not?” he inquires with a subtle tilt of his head, noticing unusual fluster about you — your hands trembling on his shoulders, your gaze intriguing as it carries a mix of emotions.

Every kiss of his is capable of stealing your breath, yet it’s not so often that a more pleasant chemistry twirls between you two (for you, at least), therefore you behaving like a shy maiden is unheard of.

He notices the title on the coffee table, rising his eyebrow at your choice — you must have been truly bored.

“Everything is alright,” you reply as coherently as you can, blinking off your stupor.

He only hums at that, no indignation yet. Odd.

He sits you down to be on the fancy sofa again, not joining you as he would have gladly done so already — he walks to stand behind you instead.

“What are you doing…?” you ask hesitantly, not a fan of him towering over you.

“Just trust me.”

His hands go onto your shoulders, soon massaging the tension and knots — there is so much buildup you weren’t aware of. It’s a rather frustrating realization — body aches are easy to take care with a right professional, and if you didn’t forget to take a better care of yourself, you wouldn’t be here with him, made vulnerable.

“I… I should be the one doing it for you…” you protest quietly.

“Nonsense. I can take a bit of exhaustion. Moreover, I’m used to it. You, on the other hand, seem to be awfully tense these days,” he points out with an exaggerated sigh. “What’s gotten you on tenterhooks?”

As he works on unwinding you, you hate to admit his hands are doing wonders on all the wound up fibers. Staying steady, pushing through your aches that has you grind your teeth until you feel relief in the tender spot, humorously chiding you whenever you try to act humble.

For once, you don’t ask him how was his work, not wanting to burst the bubble of comfort you find nonetheless — yet hoping it’s not some calm before the storm, for him to be so kind.

To your relief, Pantalone doesn’t initiate anything squawking himself, enjoying the way your body accepts what it’s being given. Your groans of pain, with something discordant that managed to expose you by slipping into them, they slowly turn into those of gratification.

The pleasure starts fizzing out when you arch your body towards him too willingly. Deciding it’s a moment enough about you, he brings you down onto his lap as he takes a seat on a velvet upholstery in your place. You wrap your arms around him — an automatic motion — like a clingy wife would.

So all that incessant chatter begins again.

Listening to him vent about his day, you accidentally zone out. It’s not a difficult feat when his soliloquy generally is daunting; however, it’s those weird aches that mostly get in your mind’s way again, coming and leaving in waves. They get particularly bad when you're near him and your pores are allowed to soak up his warmth.

“Wife.”

You blink rapidly, gawking at him as you come back to him. “I’m sorry. I wasn't listening…” you reply apologetically.

Instead of anger, there’s curiosity brewing in his narrowed eyes.

“What’s been on your mind lately, hm? Head up in the clouds. I would have thought you would be a bit more elated, seeing me home.” Pantalone runs his hands at your dress’s sides, and you squirm.

It's a demand from his side. A proper wife shouldn’t hide her feelings from her husband. You tell him what’s gnawing at you or he’ll be really disappointed, accusing you of a case of cold shoulder.

And you’ve been doing your best, forcing yourself to be integrated with him and this marriage by speaking your truths, every nagging thought, small or big. This ongoing dilemma, however… you refuse to reveal openly.

“I’m… still adjusting,” you arrange your answer carefully, while you play with the rings on his fingers in an attempt to not appear distant. Your words, while not a lie, they’re not the entire truth either. “We got married rather quickly after my father’s passing…”

“I know that you are, yet, you also have been making a progress, not regressing. So why would there be a sudden fluctuation in your mood, hm?” Pantalone asks intently, brushing your hair to the side, exposing one of the necklaces he’s gotten you for your birthday. “It’s been many weeks since our engagement came into fruition.”

That darn banker. Nothing gets past the shrewd him. You detest being cross-examined by him.

You try to not be impudent and scowl, bothered by the invasion of privacy. Putting your misery into some equation feels pretty disrespectful on its own. “I… I was merely overconfident. Pushing myself. No process is so linear,” you reply almost evenly, even looking back at him with something braver, on the edge of being scolding.

That interests him all the more. “No. Nothing is ever that simple. However, I think I’ve had enough time to learn what makes you tick. Thereby hangs a tale…” he muses, tightening his grip on your waist.

“If it was that important, I would have told you—”

He grabs your face and points your eyes at himself. Somehow, that motion gets your body to confuse anxiety with excitement, as your pulse races in a way different to what you usually experience around him.

“Don't you lie to me. Not when I'm still feeling patient with you,” he says sternly.

Your heart goes for your throat — even if you are yet to see real anger on Pantalone. Your husband can be a short fuse, snap at his subordinates, and you are not willing to become the next subject to his displeasure, even if he’s been remaining mostly patient for your sake.

But how do you admit something so intimate, different from what you’ve ever discussed with him? Perhaps you’d prefer punishment over forced candor, but Pantalone would most likely dig for the truth afterward — just with an obstacle called stubbornness to bypass first.

Seeing your eyes gather some fear, suddenly, he lowers his voice and speaks to you calmly, as if you didn't see anything, confusing you this way. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can tackle this problem together,” he probs gently.

You have a premonition he knows what’s your issue already, and that he certainly plans to do something about it. He’s entitled to even those parts of you, and always seeking solutions.

“I… I’ve been stressed out lately,” you say quietly. It’s not a lie; again, it’s not the whole truth.

“That much, I know myself,” he sighs as if you’re being purposely difficult, contemplating your stiffness. “But what exactly is the cause of your restlessness?”

You feel your cheeks heat up. The idea of confession feels as if handing him an ace to play against you. Still, you say it now, or you say it later in circumstances much less pleasant.

It’s hard to brace yourself. You take a deep inhale.

“It’s… a matter of a… carnal nature,” you stammer over your words, squirming on his legs.

“Oh,” he acknowledges, although there is no surprise — more so satisfaction at his success. It makes you narrow your eyes in question. “What about it?” He lets go of your face and starts playing with your hair, instilling shivers when his fingers touch your nape.

You think apprehensively, in a way that doesn’t imply an invitation of any kind. “I feel frustrated. Pent up. That’s all. I'm sure it’ll pass soon. You know, female cycle — sometimes it causes unpleasant symptoms,” you speak as clinically as you can.

“Hmm… it’s rather normal. All kinds of emotions brewing in you… or hormones for that matter,” he’s clearly amused by your reasoning.

You nod rapidly, happy he understands, ready to change the topic. “Yes, so don’t fret over me—”

“…But I wouldn't dare to leave my wife struggling and in discomfort,” he adds with a sly smirk. “Unsatisfied, thinking I lack something. We’ve had enough time to become accustomed to each other, no?”

Your stomach drops.

He can’t. He has no right to.

Not to mention, this proposal would be like a poisoned chalice — what happens to you once you give him an access to your body? Nothing ever is altruistic with him; everything is an (un)fair trade.

“You don't have to,” you say breathlessly, as if you don't know he’d love to. You even plea with your eyes for him to not to make more offers. You suppose sex is only a normal part of marriage, something you thought is inescapable eventually; but you wish to bide your time in your immunity.

Nonetheless, your harbinger husband is relentless. “You ought to learn how to be more selfish with me,” he chides playfully, stroking your face, “Or others too, in fact. Don’t allow any piranhas to eat you alive.”

But you think you don’t want him to touch you that way, the most invasive and intimate. No matter what your body might try to tell you, desperate for some stress plunging and the relief to the tension he forced to build up between you.

Sadly, he’s the only person you have left. Your friends grew sparse when they heard who you’re marrying, and those who are not scared of him are not the best companion material. It’d only human should you seek out your husband eventually.

“That’s not necessary. I like things as they are,” you protest more intensely, daring to glare at him with something nearly condemning.

He grabs your face again, holding it tighter this time, as he speaks with a taunt, “Now, now… Do you assume I don't notice the way you gaze at me sometimes?”

Your mouth pops open, both affronted and ashamed. “I have no idea what you’re referencing here,” you say defensively.

“Oh, you don’t? Do you believe I cannot feel the pattern of your heart against mine, so erratic? Or when you lean into the kiss you’ve told yourself is only obligatory?”

“I rebuke such possibility when my husband is a man like you,” the words leave your mouth on their own.

He meets your defiant gaze with a steel on his own, jaw set tight, making you gulp; still, you hold yourself steadily, unwilling to relent.

“I treat you well. You lack nothing,” he snarls, “I repaid your debts and now your only role is to be spoiled and by my side — that’s hardly any sacrifice. Just how much more ignorant can you get?”

His words burn.

You don’t know why he cares so much. He has you in his grasp, so why would it matter if you are happy about your marriage or not? He annoys you greatly this way. Especially if his words are to be taken with a grain of salt as well — he is not someone you should trust.

Because if you were to ignore the part where your marital union is characterized by him taking advantage of your difficult situation, he’s right you have nothing to complain about. You could even simplify things and say you agreed to this sort of deal, using your own pen.

It's just Pantalone’s ways that are reprehensible. Him being impious is the least of your concerns; there is even something impressive about a mortal treading his own path, even if at the end of day, the need for some kind of revenge slowly drips poison through him.

There is nothing for you to worry about — that’s how it seems at the first glance. But then there’s his subtle control in your relationship with him. Possessiveness. Greed. Everything proposed to you like it’s your choice, when in reality, all of your options lead to him anyway, and you’ve been standing in the middle of breaking ice field on your own.

If you told him you have no friends left, he’d probably congratulate you on getting rid of a dead weight. You suspect he increased the interest rates right before your father died too, so your debt would only be manageable by him, no matter what heirloom you could sell. A sum of your inherited debt was hard to quantify, even without the manipulation with it.

Or there were all these men suddenly withdrawing their marriage proposals — you were ready to marry someone else after your father died, holding onto any opportunity. Now you share his last name instead, and barely managed to keep your own next to his.

Your old staff manages your inherent homeplace, but each day is stressful with the thought of your husband owning that for himself too.

With Pantalone in your life, things never go the way you deem fit.

“That’s not fair,” you say in opposition, but your voice crumbles, accentuated by the tears appearing in your eyes. “You know well.” You dig your fingers into his back.

“I’m afraid nothing is in this world,” your husband croons, suddenly softer, as he strokes your cheek. “That is why you have me. To ensure no harm befalls you.”

You know he likes when you depend on him. When you ask for something instead of stubbornly chasing independence every waking moment.

“…” you sniffle and he likes your fragility, catching one drop of it with his thumb.

“Aren’t you tired of fighting me? Don’t you wish for at least one night where we can set aside our differences?”

Of course such proposal is enticing. There’s only little you can take in this one-sided war with him. However? Overlooking your pride is difficult. Even if you’re dragging the inevitable.

“I can make it worth your while. I can care for you,” he whispers into your ear until you’re more animated in your limbs, shameful feeling endorsed between your thigh. Before you could push yourself off his lap, he rivets you to his legs with his hand. “Like a good husband should…

and you can honor it, like a good wife should.”

Him letting you postpone intimacy for so long should be called mercy.

“So?” draping his head over the back of the sofa, he eyes you with challenge.

The worst thing is that you’re actually considering it. Showing him what you’re made of, fucking him before he could claim he has fucked you. You’re spiteful like that, the same way he’s spiteful towards Celestia.

“Don’t think this makes us even. I’m only after your body,” you say harshly, poking his chest with a judging finger.

He laughs, unruffled by your sudden unkindness, much inclined to enjoy this side of you — he’ll love to see you try.

“Perfect. Wear something nice. Or wear nothing at all. It’s your choice.”

Going through your wardrobe came with an unpleasant discovery that it was already filled with all kinds of lingerie. Pantalone is a man who’s prepared for every possibility that he can, yet being circumspect in that sense left a bitter taste in your mouth. Still, you decided on something that’ll cover your body enough, but won’t allow him to drag on your moments together with many layers to remove off your body. Blow off some steam and forget you did is how you wish for things to go.

You currently wear a see-through and loose mesh dress, ruffled and hanging on thin straps; with matching lacy panties underneath. Your makeup from the day still stays on, the only barrier to keep him away.

Who are you kidding. Even that feels incredibly revealing. You try to tell yourself you’re making a statement — be too demure and your husband might believe you’re too much of a coward to show your figure.

With you sprawled on the navy sheets of your shared black-wood bed, you observe the painting hanging on the blue paneling with distaste. It’s a portrait of you, with Pantalone standing behind you, a constant reminder of your marriage that’s lingering there when you open your eyes in the morning. A similar one is hanging in the corridor for everyone to see, but the one in your bedroom is a bit different — nestled in the silver frame are the jewels from the jewelry you wore for your wedding. A memento.

As he finally enters the room, you avert your gaze from the scrutiny that immediately falls onto your chest — a bit hungry. Suddenly, the moon outside the big window is much more inspiring.

“Don’t you look just beautiful. Unparalleled to anything else I've seen,” Pantalone gives this compliment as if it’s innate to him.

He locks the door. He always does; now the feeling of being trapped with him is far more prominent. Your eyes flick towards him with uncertainty.

With how much time he’s given you, you thought he’d have gotten himself ready meanwhile. Instead, he’s still dressed in his black pants and turtleneck. You can’t tell if this is an attempt at power or if he was busy with something else around the mansion — maybe both.

“It’s a shame you couldn't afford the same courtesy for me,” you can't resist making a biting remark.

“I was busy ensuring no one thinks of attempting to bother us,” his unflappable voice tells you he might be lying. Putting on a mask is natural to him, yet there is a certain line to be crossed that makes the act a try-hard. Negligible details you, his wife would notice.

There’s an odd flush on his cheeks and he flexes his hand back and forth. You’ve had enough time to learn more about him; not to mention, he’s never hidden the fact that he wants you… or to own you… since, in his eyes, it’s all the exchange he paid.

“You’re so tense as if you believe I’ll eat you alive,” he deflects, seating himself on the bed you share. It’s enormous, yet you often manage to feel claustrophobic in it.

As for his words, you think he just might. His open lust is a dissonance to his usual cunning expression.

“That’s just your supposition,” you say bitterly.

He frowns a bit, then regains his composure, still remembering what’s being offered to him. He’s the winner, in the end. “You should smile instead of being so pedestrian. It’s a very special moment for us…” Pantalone teases, leaning over you to “adjust” your short dress. The fabric of his gloves gives you shivers on your thigh.

He’s not letting you lie down fully yet. He’s not pouncing himself on you like you imagined either. No, Pantalone plans to dismantle you, step by step, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed.

“Come here.”

He pulls you onto his lap — he likes to flaunt you a lot — and you are unfortunately facing him when seated like that, your thighs overlapping at his and your clutch flush with his. He cups your chin, turning your head from side to side as if to asses his goods. Then his hand moves down, cupping your throat gently.

“You’re being excessive,” you mutter. He ignores that.

As his finger wipes across your pulse, it speeds up. He’s holding your entire essence in his palm, he clothed and you bare for him, all the more when you squirm on his lap. He even holds many words you’ve been wishing to say but restrained yourself from.

“Have I been on your mind more often lately?” he asks as if the answer wasn’t announced that evening already.

You’re a bit smarter than that. Words with equivocation do you much more justice. “Nothing more than what a wife would devote herself to,” you say dryly, basking in the way his grip tightens on your neck.

Your brusque answer, he acknowledges with an irritated smirk. “Hm, I’m not interested in allusive talk…”

Therefore, maybe your body will be more alluding.

His lips go to your neck, kissing it softly at first.

You gulp, unused to this sort of touch from his side, and grab onto his biceps for some stability. His lips are warm and insistent, pushing your nerve endings to work, covering you in goosebumps. Even his pepper perfume pervades your nose until you’re dizzy.

“So sensitive… It really makes me wonder, how did I go without your body for so long…” he purrs into your skin.

You can feel his hardness spring to life, not helping your own arousal you can’t deny. So once again, it’s easy to think how much he doesn’t deserve you.

“Is that what you were pondering over while I was getting ready? Jerking your cock at the thought of me?”

You both realize what you just said — he blinking twice in surprise, freezing at your collarbone, you having your breath instantly hitch with almostregret. The silence is imbued with your panic.

Pantalone is well aware you’ve been harboring ill-mannered feelings towards him, yet you know he didn’t anticipate you to be this bold.

Maybe it's for the better.

You’re finally being honest with him. No act of a loving wife in sight.

Still, he must find it shameful at the way your words stir his hardness the way they do.

When you look at him with something mortified, he laughs it off. “I see your imagination can run quite wild, but I appreciate the fact that our desire is mutual.”

His words turn your cheeks into furnace, “That’s not what I meant—”

Alas, he moves on.

He slides off his rings and leans over to place them on his nightstand. You fight the urge to bite when he puts his fingers at your lips, giving him a questioning look. “Remove the gloves for me, would you, my dear?”

“Are you that incompetent? Must everyone do everything for you?” you mock again, unable to deny yourself that pleasure once you started your disrespect. To insinuate he’s spoiled is quite liberating, especially after all the expectations he’s been placing on your shoulders.

His eyelid twitches, and yet, he meets you with that smile of prevarication and condescending cadence, “No. But it is a nice gesture, my wife assisting me when I'm oh so tired and yet I still remember to indulge her.” It’s him telling you to better get moving if you want anything at all.

It’s not most optimal for you, the fact he's making a big show out of this entire situation, but you have to count your blessings — it’s one time where you’re properly allowed to express yourself… since he finds delightful enough.

Grasping the loose tip of the glove with your teeth, you move your jaw down to slide it off his pale hand. Your own hand pulls on his shirt, stretching the fabric with venom.

“That’s better, and it wasn’t so hard to listen, was it?” he says teasingly, “Now, suck on them a little. Let me see how much you have missed me, since you clearly forgot to do so upon my return home.”

Your husband sighs when your lips wrap around his long fingers, feeling his cock pulse at the sight of the defiance building up in your eyes. Will you glare at him the same when he’s inside of you, if not more, pretending this is nothing but an ordeal to settle a score?

As much as you hate to admit, you feel yourself getting aroused too. The subtle grinding as the consequence of your agitated body unable to keep still, his boner digging right into your panties, all the touch he eventually sneaks around your body… the effect is beyond your control.

You continue soaking his digits while staring at him, until you’re suddenly provoked by the lodging of his fingertips into your throat, forcing you to gag. He's surely getting back at you for your prior foul commentary.

“Oh, my apologies. My impression of you was more than this delicate,” he jibes and withdraws his hand.

With tears that formed in the corner of your eyes, you grab onto his hair resting on his left shoulder, tugging his face closer to yours until he can feel your breath. “Do that again and I’ll choke you too.”

He knows you mean your threat, raising his brow with interest. Your aggression sends horses running into his chest, to his dismay — you keep surprising him in a rather appealing way. “If you can get through me first… I would perhaps even encourage you to.”

He then removes his other glove. As his fingers omit the edge of your panties, they slip underneath, feeling the wetness that has gathered here. He quickly finds out you’re honest down there too.

You bite on your lips, eradicating the moan you were about to leave. You look down where his touch goes between your two bodies, and you imagine how happy he must be to finally lay his hand on you — much to your displeasure.

“Did you touch yourself here when you were so heated?” he inquires with curiosity, quietly sighing at the thought.

You could say no to preserve your privacy. But you like the idea of driving him mad, utilizing the fact you chose to keep your desire to yourself over asking him for help. That’s one thing he couldn’t have contributed to, busy with work while you were busy with fingering yourself.

“I did,” you confirm with a straight face, “Many times.”

He digs harder into your clit, scoffing as his tone sharpens. “I suppose your pride is bigger than the respect for your husband.”

“Is touching myself a sin now?” you say through your teeth, trying to push his hand away. He doesn't let you and you whine when his finger sets pleasure aflame.

“No. But hiding your problems from me is,” he says, matching your rudeness, and pushes his finger inside your tight hole. The same finger that signed the contract with you is now ruling you from inside as well.

Your grip on his hair falters, you struggling as the touch around your entrance renders you even more sensitive.

“I still would like to maintain some privacy. I’m sure there’s many things you yourself don’t tell anyone,” you hiss out, decided to be selfish and grind yourself onto his palm. You just detest his hypocrisy.

“If there are any, they are kept unspoken for your safety.”

As if you’d ever trust him based on his ambiguous words alone.

“Right. I almost forgot that you love to blabber,” you say, all zealous about criticizing that part of him.

“That’s enough of your redundant input.”

Tugging on your hair from behind and burning your scalp with sting, Regrator pushes his lips on yours. He has no decorum in the way he kisses you, for once uncaring about propriety.

Neither do you, nearly hitting your forehead against his as you try to take control. You dig your nails into his arms, enough to chip away their colored polish.

The pain you give his lips with a bite is as exquisite. Real. Raw. Honest. No games, just you two showing what you truly feel for each other. He returns the gesture, biting you until he can push his tongue inside. Then you grind on him, driving yourself and him mad with heat, groaning into each other’s mouths. His grubby hands slip underneath your gown, squeezing your breasts with no mercy, memorizing their shape.

Your husband pulls away your head when he finally decides he can’t wait any longer.

“I’ll change each of your convictions about me,” he says confidently. Letting you move for you both, he throws his turtleneck over his head. His body, while not overly muscular, is still toned enough to draw your attention — his waist especially.

“As if you are capable,” you mock.

“You always disagree with me on something, only to change your mind last minute — or have it changed,” as you’re about to tell him what a lie it is, since it’s typically he who changes your plans, he adds, “Make of that what you will.”

He finally pushes you onto the mattress, parting your legs with his knee. For a mere moment, you consider pushing him away, feeling more like a prey than a wife underneath him.

“Look at you. Biting more than you can chew. I hope you’re not giving up on me yet,” he smiles knowingly.

“Of course not,” you reply decisively.

“That’s what I like to hear.” As if to measure the value of your conviction, he grabs the hem of your panties to slowly push them down your legs.

Your chest breaths with irregular uplift, but you don’t stop him, meeting his lustful expression with your own.

He lowers himself until he’s there between your thighs, trailing up them with kisses while looking upwards at you. All the tiny tremors in your muscles no massage other than his touch could fix. “So delicate…

Can you really take it?” he says softly into your skin.

“I’m not a weakling—”

Capillaries burst when he sucks on your thigh hard — they might as well write his name, knowing well who’s touching you. It’s a sensation almost painful, especially when you’re so sensitive, but it goes straight to your wet pussy and he has to keep your legs pried with his hands.

“Maybe not a weakling; but you certainly are impressionable,” he laughs wryly.

You look at him with disgust.

Then, as he tries to place his mouth way too high for what you know, you tug on his hair. “W-what are you doing?” You’re not clueless; you deny the possibility of him unraveling you in such way.

And he, naturally, doesn’t care, taking what he wants. “Taking care of you, am I not?” he says innocently.

You’re soon in for a surprise; how insistent and debauched he is, his mouth all over your aching slit. Unable to keep yourself in tact, you moan for him, throwing your head back.

“You taste delicious…” he nearly growls, twirling his tongue around your clit before pressing down on it.

Any proper words have been knocked out of your mouth. It’s been so long since you had any fun… and he is jarringly meticulous. “H-husband…” you cry out when he sucks on your bud.

The heavy chain of his glasses teases your skin as he also decides to plunge his tongue into your hole, watching you in your vulnerable glory with hooded eyes.

You tug on his hair and selfishly move your hips, offering more of your pussy to his mouth. You find yourself surprised he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he groans, burying his nose closer to your clit, and bruises your thighs with his crazed grip.

“F-fuck…” you curse shakily when he spits on you and thrusts in a finger next to his rolled tongue. The pleasure is building up too quickly for your liking, yet you still can’t get enough.

“You’re quite selfish, to have denied me of this for so long…” he utters his words between the wet obscene smacks of his lips, deprecatingly.

Another repulsive for you insinuation, and yet, all you can do is let him taste you all he wants. “Shut up…” you grumble, waving your hips with velocity similar to his.

“Make me.”

You feel that inward rage again.

The hair in your hand is a mess by this point, and you keep using it as a handle, ensuring he doesn’t pull away too far away from your cunt. He speeds up his movements in return.

The bliss hits you hard and it’s almost enough to forget what sort of man he is when he’s implementing everything to make you feel good… or have you hooked on him further.

It’s only when you start to notice a certain degradation in the vigor behind his thrusts that you look down on him. He’s getting red and it’s not only his blood rushing from the excitement.

“H-hey…” it’s not that you’re concerned for him — you think — but you don’t want to deal with him passing out in the middle of the act. “Go easy on yourself…”

“I’m not weak,” he barks with all his pride, giving you an inkling he might be enjoying his struggle.

Fine. If he wants to play this way… you don’t care about being gentle anymore — mercy is not what he deserves. Resting your legs over his shoulder, you smother his face with your pussy, until his breathing is coming out in exacerbated huffs.

The world’s existence becomes secondary to you, and you smile with oblivion, pushing your hips at his head with closed eyes. You’re right there—

And of course he rips it from you. Of course he does, resurfacing with heaving but a happy look. Your devastation could be edible.

“Why, why did you—” you foam at your mouth.

“The only way you’ll finish is with me inside. This was nothing but a warmup,” he coos, brushing away your tears as he sits up. “Don’t cry now, I’ll give you what you urgently need…”

You watch your husband unbuckling his belt and the sound of it has you moving, hastily throwing your gown over your head. The room’s thankfully heated thanks to the fireplace, though it’s not as though your body is not as hot.

You can see the outline of his boner poking through his pants he starts removing, gulping nervously. In return, Pantalone eyes your naked body with great appetite.

“You’re shaking,” he observes, pushing his bottoms down, throwing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the expensive carpet behind your bed. You finally see his length — thicker, though without a threat looming over it, curved nicely enough to reach your best spots. “Be that as it may, I’m sure none of us wants to wait much longer…”

Adjusting his glasses’ position, you see the way his own hands tremble a bit.

You count your breaths until he'll take you for himself, your heart pounding and you feverish.

“That’s one thing I can agree with you on.”

He simpers at your sarcastic words, placing himself above you right after. Too close is what would bother you if you weren’t so high.

“Open your legs for me, my dear,” Pantalone orders.

You do as he says; not without pushing your hands at his back too.

Your husband rubs himself across your slit, gathering the wetness onto his tip, and hisses at the sensitivity it brings. You’re not any better. “You need to stop pretending, considering how wet you are. Your own body is betraying you.”

“You—”

When his cockhead slips inside and you gasp, he grabs you underneath your knees.

“No running from now on.”

His grip on your limbs tightens as he thrusts into you fully, not having much patience left.

You cry out, the stretch stinging at your walls. “You bastard…!” You glare at him, scratching his back already. The motion was so sudden you can’t breathe, your walls struggling with accommodating his girth despite your wetness.

He’s feeling too good to care — and didn’t you say you’re not weak a few moments ago? “Finally inside…” he mutters, appraising your struggle visible in your legs, “As things always should have been.”

Your husband wastes no time with something as insignificant as giving you time to adjust. He starts fucking you into the mattress slowly, but deeply already, making sure your juices coat him entirely. You need it yourself and he can tell.

You scowl at him even as he fucks you so good, filling you fully. Your mouth opens and closes, unsure whether to protest or ask for more, and you tremble.

“What is it again?” he acknowledges your gall, although more in a way that suggest he’s endeared by your attitude than offended.

“You are enjoying yourself too much,” you almost whine out these uneven words. You hate that he makes you feel good. You hate that you’re letting him touch you. You hate that the osmosis process has begun for you some time ago.

He laughs, earnestly and richly. “My wife’s cunt is just that good,” he blows air at the strand of the hair sticking to his forehead, groaning as you tighten around him from the pleasure building up for you.

It’s always “my wife”. It’s nothing abnormal to say about your wife on its own, that’s how spouses refer to each other all the time, but it’s as if Pantalone takes “my” part to another level on purpose. Akin to hoarding his resources in a bank deposit. Even your hole is his to claim. Which is not to say he’d take with nothing in return— he certainly plans to spoil you with pleasure and anything else you might desire… as long as you remember your own share of duty.

At this moment, your only duty is to keep these legs and mouth open.

“And judging by your noise, it’s as if you’re trying to ingrate me yourself.”

Your breath hitches at his words, you full of shame, then irritation. You weren’t aware of how vocal you are until he pointed it out.

Not that he’s any better, sighing and gasping whenever you tighten too much.

“At least it’s one thing you're good at?”

Your disobedient words are punished with a slap to your clit. Your calves wriggle pathetically in the air, and you stab his back with your nails, overwhelmed by the sudden pain.

He pushes his knees closer to your chest, using leg strength to drive into you with more rage. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, between a husband and wife,” with that irony said, he picks up the pace.

It’s only when you turn overwhelmed by the pleasure enough that he lets go of your legs you wrap around him anyway. He places his hands under your shoulder blades, drawing you closer for a tasteless kiss.

He’s sublime, no matter how much you despise him; especially with his velveteen hair like a waterfall around his face after his hair tie eluded itself somewhere through the process. Bright eyes he likes to narrow condescendingly or open wider for you. Fucking you hard in all his splendor and materialism, his glasses’ chain rattling a symphony similar to the one of mora pouch.

You dig the heels of your feet into his ass, forcing him to keep thrusting into you so deep, feeling something worth your time and attention for once. His skin on yours is disgusting, yet so full of life.

He’s unfaltering in his fervor, grabbing your body all over, especially places he’s neglected before, while keeping his hips moving on their own. You thought your husband is little brawn but what would you know now — at least, you serve as an excellent catalyst. His fastness goes up and up and up, as he is getting close and has no plan to deny himself.

But no matter how good he may be making you feel, you hate the idea of him dominating you, especially when you’re near your orgasm worsened by him constantly grinding into your mound with his thrusts. Your abdomen tightens dangerously close to something real.

You push him onto his back, using all the strength you could muster, before straddling his lap.

“Oh?” he hums with approval, as if your value has appreciated.

“You’re becoming too cocky,” you clarify with anger, pushing your body down back onto his cock with a whine.

“Then you better me show all you have in you.”

He knows how to make your blood boil, even when he’s somewhat meeker tonight, gasping and making sounds for you as well.

“I really hate you,” you snarl, even if you raise your hips with all the impetus, desperate to chase what you missed for so long. You rake your nails against his chest, watching the red marks rise and encourage him to be even meaner with his hips from below you.

“And yet, you’re coming on my cock,” with these taunting words, he pushes you down by your hips even more.

“I-it’s not because of you. I’d enjoy any man’s co—”

He grabs you by your throat and yanks you down to impose yet another kiss, interrupting you in spilling any more blasphemy — and he’s not religious. Pantalone would have to kill that theoretical man and lock you up to fuck you for a whole week, until your body remembers only his carvings. He’s never been a gentle or lenient man, and you and his possessiveness make him indisputably worse.

You’re about to slap him when he finally retracts from your lips; instead, you find yourself on your back again, your wrists seized above your head in one hand.

“Affection can be fabricated. But not this,” he laughs through his moan. He pushes his length impossibly deeper into your pussy until you choke on your breath, stuffed full. The sound of his mad thrusts reverberates against the walls, “Never the way I make you feel.”

Your eyes widen.

“So go on. Try to reject this pleasure. Try to reject me.”

He knows you can't.

And you don’t, especially when he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb. You tighten and flutter around his cock, unable to stop the waves of pleasure suddenly rippling down your legs. You sing beautifully for him when you’re at your lowest.

“Fuck, stop, I—” you plead frantically as you hyperventilate, unable to move your hands to push him away. Your sweat sticks to the bedsheets below you, your body strained by how hard the peak is approaching you.

“Come on my cock,” he orders sternly, although it lands breathlessly.

He doesn’t stop, sending you over the edge. You cry out his name, his real name you saw when signing the papers, that you never used before until now, and that takes even him aback.

Your spasms sends shocks of pleasure down his cock too, and so he’s not far behind, fastening his movements with something jubilant etched on his face.

He fills your hole, the rightful place for his seed, grunting in a sequence that turns into a moan with the last splatter of his cum entering you. Pushing his hips close to yours so nothing dares to escape.

His body falls on top of yours, heaving. You stare at each other, his eyes already aching without his glasses, and you ready to say something uncouth from the sheer realization of what you’ve done.

Pantalone strokes your face, glorifying your rare post-sex softness and afterglow, stunning any pretense about you only resenting him. You must be that tired, for you to see something similar reflected on his own cheeks.

“Alright, that’s enough—” you feel some kind of embarrassment, becoming acutely aware of the fact he’s inside of you still, not growing soft. Everything is too intimate, too close, and too victorious.

“Not yet.”

“Huh?” your stomach drops.

“I said not yet.” Now that he has you, it’ll be hard to one up the feeling, therefore, he refuses to take it for granted.

You're about to push him off but he's actually not done. He flips you over on your stomach, sinking into you still so sensitive and full of his cum turning viscous with your arousal.

“Wait, I’m still—”

“You can take it,” he says harshly, gripping your hips and ass at their sides. It’s not as if he’d be able to stop now either. If you’re going to be difficult after this, he’ll take what he can for now.

You sob, your nerves constantly rubbed numb yet so sensitive, clutching the sheets of the bed he pushes you into with his weight. He never shied away from pushing you beyond your comfort zone, yet now it's not an unconventional quirk, but a simple madness to you.

He covers you with his entire body, his legs tangled with yours. Slamming his hips against your ass, his balls slapping against your clit from behind. It’s shameful how another orgasm is building up quickly for you, and this angle allows for him to graze your walls even better.

Pantalone sucks on your nape, pushing your face into the pillows and burdening you with his chain licking your skin.

“Ah… it’s too much…” But your body gives in easily, needing every nagging thought gone from your mind. Him fucking you is the only catharsis you’ve received ever since marrying him.

“In spite of that, your body accepts me easily,” he taunts with this clincher, moving his hands under your body to play with your nipples. A good decision, as you thrash underneath him, and dig your feet into the mattress as if to escape, all ecstatic. Your mascara ruins spotless fabric and he barely stops himself from licking off your tears, watching your eyes turn hazy.

His hair falls over your shoulders, tangling with yours, like a bind you’ll never be able to untwist. You are forced to hear his signs of pleasure right next to your ear.

The coil in your belly untwists as well, and you feel him filling you enough to overflow what was here before. Everything is sticky, yet he forces you to ride out your bliss with rapid thrusts.

With another orgasm, you’re so spent, pleading with him to give you a break, for it’s been ages since you had a man. “P-please… I can’t… have mercy on me…” Craning your neck to look at him with smallness, as if it’s an offered exchange for his benevolence.

He watches you with unexplainable emotion, but you’d know it’s at least not selfless. “How precious you are like that,” he chuckles quietly, rather exhausted on his own.

He does waive, pulling out of your dug out hole, you shuddering as his seed spills over your thighs like thorns of vines. Drawing you so shaky and incoherent into his arms, he provides soothing words he often serves, as if he didn't steal you for himself again.

“You did well. Rest, for now. I’ll be there, watching over you as always.”

All the more, he expects this to become a routine from now on.

Your husband unfortunately has you taking a bath together, right after your spousal endeavor. Keeping you in his arms, as you’re warmed between his legs.

However, rather sore, especially after a long break in sex, hot water is quite a soothing balm — even if the suds are doing little to cover your body painted in the proof of his passion.

He’s oddly nice. He’s always “nice”, yet this time, it’s as though he allows himself to be vulnerable because you are too, no better than him.

“Are you satisfied?” your words come out as bitter anyway, although with not enough veneer. “You had what you wanted.”

“I would have thought of this as building a middle ground. Extending an olive branch. Not about vainglory,” he chuckles with exasperation, brushing his hand over your stomach from behind. “You paint intimacy between a wife and husband as some sort of misdemeanor.”

Except you're not a normal married couple.

And it scares you, how his influence twines around you. He never bulldozed himself into your life. He built his position here with his own hands, the same way he built his own life from scratch.

The tempest of your heart and mind. Not beloved. Be-loathed. And yet, it’s hard to stay immune to him, not immersed in the way he acts like your husband so well. You’re afraid that one day your heart will open to him entirely. You suspect he craves your affection in a way different from simple possession.

“It’s you who often complicates things…” you say with a sigh, staring at the steamed tiles of the bathroom.

“Complicate…” he mutters, massaging your hand that you placed on the golden edge of the bathtub — as gilded as your cage is. “I only worry for you. You must still feel lonely after losing your parents, even if you have me now.”

That’s a dirty trick, bringing up your woes, and for a moment, you want to cry. Both of your parents gave up their ghosts and where did it lead you?

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. You wish you could live that way like you once used to. You're tired in those trying times, needing someone.

Discussing anything with him is beating a dead horse anyway. But how do you stop treating him like he’s the bad apple? Collective opinion would agree he’s not a good influence — his peers, clients, allies, enemies, subordinates, and you at the top are wary of the man who doesn't need violence to succeed.

So you decide to do what you do best: you adapt until you think you have found your way out.

You swivel your head to look at him with weariness, needing your loving husband to make it better — back in your role of an innamorata, as if today has never happened.

“Yes. I do…” you sigh, placing your head on his wet chest. “I hope I’m not being overbearing with my sentiments.”

He smiles, content with your cooperation.

“Of course not. After all…” Pantalone grabs your cheek, softly, and eyes you greedily, “… what’s mine is yours, and vice versa.”

[poyon092]

Have you ever heard the story of the little match girl?

[crowttore]

In which Zandik makes a bit of a discovery and you make one about him.

Notes: *shaky thumbs up* the only reason he can get away with sexual harassment is because we're crushing on him. Also, the 'd' key on my laptop is acting up, so if any d's are missing... please pretend they aren't. This isn't about reader's pleasure. Tags: Akademiya!Zandik x fem reader, both are students, bad flirting, titty touching, brief m masturbation, pain, marking 1k words Reblogs and comments appreciated Minors DNI

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy these quiet afternoons with Zandik, you absolutely did, each of you usually absorbed in your own books and assignments for the coming week's classes.

Despite his reputation, you quite enjoyed his company, blunt to a fault and surprisingly thoughtful once he'd realised you weren't about to leave him alone.

Today, however, he'd been leering at you for about forty minutes now. Fingers steepled, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed, frown unmistakable. He hadn't even tossed his head in an attempt to get the light blue strans out of his eyes during all that time.

You snapped your book shut with more force than necessary. Not even that drew a reaction from him.

"Zandik." It was always like this whenever something irked him, either he couldn't shut up about it or, typically when the matter was of a more personal nature, he didn't say anything. "You're staring. What's wrong?"

A noncommittal grunt was the extent of his response.

You groaned. "Spit it out, I can't focus when you're like that. You look like some evil old-"

"Your breasts."

Silence filled the space between you. Your skin prickled, suddenly all too aware of exactly where he'd been staring all this time. Surely you'd heard wrong, Zandik had barely seemed interested in platonic relationships, and you'd certainly never caught any hint of physical desire behind those carmine eyes.

He straightened up in his chair, the movement breaking you out of your stupor. Were you supposed to have said something? Had it been a question? Maybe you were tired and that's how you'd mis-

"They look bigger," Zandik held up his hands and made a groping motion with his fingers, "more full."

Instinct finally caught up and you shifted uncomfortably, reaching up to tug at your uniform. It didn't even have a low cut.

He tilted his head curiously, the quick flicker of his eyes back down making your cheeks heat up faster than they already were.

"What? Not big on compliments?" Zandik crossed his arms in front of his chest, clicking his tongue while you floundered for a reply.

"You- that's not a compliment!" You hated how your voice cracked. The sound of blood rushing was all you could hear for a moment, thinking you might actually pass out from sheer embarrassment.

He merely scoffed, finally brushing those teal strands away from his face. "Of course it is."

"It's creepy! Don't comment on peoples bodies! Why are you even staring there in the first place?!" At least today you'd suggested studying at your dorm instead of the House of Daena or, archons forbid, at a café in town.

Zandik twirled a pen, not even bothering to listen to your reprimand. "Right right. I'm staring 'cuz I like them, dimwit."

Your heart skipped a beat, eyes going so wide it felt like they'd pop right out of your head. The next moment was like seeing an impossible transformation take place, like Zandik realised a stream of consciousness had been spoken out loud.

He looked off to the side, teeth bared in a sneer. "The curvature has a pleasant slope from a purely aesthetic perspective.."

"An aesthetic perspective.." Your arms were still tightly wrapped in front of your chest.

Zandik tried to clear his throat, eyes dropping down to the compendium that had sat untouched by him for nearly an hour by now. Not even after flipping through several pages did his ears show any sign of getting less red.

"Think of it as scientific inquiry," he began, voice significantly less sharp now, "I'm unfamiliar with the experience of having two large glands stuck to the front of my chest."

You scrunched your nose at his choice of words but didn't interrupt. It clearly irked him that you remained silent, taking a deep breath while running his fingers through his hair.

"I'm simply curious about the structure, the weight, the give, the uhm-..." he gestured once more, palms up as he first imitated the motion of lifting something gently before turning his hands, pinching his index finger and thumb together and tugging at air.

Something traitorous fluttered in your stomach.

It barely took any time at all from you'd sighed out a little 'go ahead' to Zandik had tossed you onto the bed and climbed on top, slender fingers clumsily tugging and pulling at any fabric until your chest was bare. You'd barely had time to gasp, everything a blur until his hands had trembled just above your naked breasts.

His palms were warm, the touch exploratory and gentle at first. Little squeezes, moving the soft flesh beneath his hand, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

When the first soft breath left your lips, something in his eyes changed. Zandik looked almost feral when he repeated the movement, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you were squirming beneath him and grasping at his robes.

"So fucking soft.." He squeezed hard, pain shooting through your nerves and making your back arch.

"C-careful.."

You weren't sure if he even heard you, continuing to bury his fingers into the pliant flesh hard enough that you found yourself wondering how badly you'd bruise.

Zandik leaned down, and your pulse picked up immediately, eyes fluttering in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, overwhelming heat washed through you as Zandik's lips closed around one sensitive peak, tongue messily lapping at everything he could reach.

The suction felt like too much paired with sharp teeth scratching at your skin. Zandik moaned against your skin, one hand still squeezing and tugging at your other breast.

Small thanks left his lips between little groans and nips at your flesh. You didn't even realise that his free hand had slipped beneath his clothes before he came, biting down hard on your breast while his hips jerked with enough force to rattle the bed.

Zandik looked utterly spent as he collapsed on top of you, tongue peeking out and continuing to lap at your skin. A quiet chuckle left him when you grunted in protest, unwilling to push him off entirely because of how unreasonably sweet he looked.

"Next time," he panted, "I want to see how they feel against my cock."

Masterlist

[ogttore]

being og zandik's assistant

no matter how hard time wears on him, zandik won't allow himself a moment's rest. as long as his mind was clear, he would not abandon his work. but his old body did not support his stubborn wishes. so he came to a conclusion. he'll let some lackey handle the equipment, while he told them precisely what to do.

zandik was told by 8 that omega and 45 took care of it, and that his 'assistant' was already waiting for him in the laboratory. what he didn't expect was to find a young pretty thing standing next to his table, all nervous and doe eyed. did they pick up the first semi-intelligent stray they found??? perhaps this was another one of omega's ploys...

but the thought quickly left his mind as he saw how skittish you were, drinking up his every word like your life depended on it. and it did, if you did not prove yourself to be useful, you could only imagine what the second harbinger would do to you.

ordering you around the lab proved itself to be quite fun. you had bruises on the back of your legs from how often he struck you with his cane when you made even the simplest of mistakes. those mocking chuckles of his played in your head on repeat.

he started paying more attention to how you yelped or winced, the way goosebumps would rise on your skin when he stood in your personal space, how you bit your lip when his weathered hand wrapped itself around your wrist to stop you from mixing the wrong substances.

zandik berated himself for how much he enjoyed tormenting you. he was far too old to indulge in these pointless games, and yet he could not stop. he knew you would not dare to complain even when his fingers brushed against your bottom, or when he took too long fixing your collar. you wanted this job so badly, even if it meant putting up with this old pervert of a scientist.

he pushed and teased, little by little, wanting you to be the first to admit your desires to him, lay your soul and body bare for him to take and ravage. as much as he was able to in this sorry state...

once you realized that there was no getting away from his advances, you decided to slowly play into his hands, unable to resist the thrill of having zandik's undivided attention. acting clumsy was half the fun, accidentally knocking over pens or vials, just to take your time bending over, lips curling at the exasperated breath that left his mouth every time.

zandik's restraint was pushed to it's limit when you accidentally spilled coffee over your shirt, unbuttoning it right in font of him, all the while whining about how hot it was. he had to excuse himself after that, both frustrated and in disbelief at the fact his old cock managed to harden this much by the sight of you alone.

the first time you gave him a blowjob under his desk, he was so loud that he had to order a segment of his to dispatch of the few subordinates that most likely heard his pathetic groaning. if you dared to mock him for it, he had no qualms about shutting you up with his fingers, pressing down on your tongue until you gagged, eager to remind you of your place.

his favorite invention of the year was the small mechanical device he installed in your underwear. he could control it remotely, observing as you tried not to squirm while you spoke to your colleagues about the latest gossip.

zandik did not care about your discomfort, but if you came to him, crying and begging, he would allow you a moment's rest. as cold as he wanted to be, seeing you so desperate always tugged at his fragile heart.

he was often snappy and dismissive, but rarely truly angry, unless the segments were involved. he knew it was irrational, but he could feel bile rising in his throat every single time you smiled at one of them, especially omega. they could give the pleasure and entertainment he couldn't, and he hated it.

he made sure to discipline you properly each time, bent over his lap as he pumped his fingers into your mercilessly. when his hand refused to cooperate, he simply used the small device instead, forcing your body to endure orgasm after orgasm, until you passed out from exertion.

but when you woke up after his less than proper handling of you, zandik was unusually quiet, holding you close to his chest, the sound of his heartbeat giving you a false sense of security, even if it was short lived. for now, you let yourself fall back asleep in his arms, hoping that his care for you would not disappear once the sun rose again.

[poyon092]

[boundinparchment]

Idk why, but I looooove the idea of riding old man zandik’s face - maybe he’s gotten to a point in his life where he surrenders out of pure trust, and knows that reader won’t care how vulnerable he is when he’s underneath them…… throwing in a bit of angst about regretting being so demanding in his younger years and feeling guilty about it, so he makes it up to reader now 🥹

His fingers dug into your thighs as he pulled you closer. Your weight on him was a welcome relief when you finally relaxed.

If this was how he went, then so be it. At least he would die with you on his lips, your back arched as you quivered around his tongue, his name desperately muttered like a prayer. You deserved more than he could offer at this stage of life and his younger self had been more opportunistic with you than perhaps was warranted. Only he would look at the potential of a romantic relationship as an experiment and fail to consider what would happen to you when his conclusions were drawn.

Zandik lapped at you, burying his nose into your clitoral hood to send jolt through you. You bucked, and he relented as you set the pace, giving him the freedom to enjoy you. He angled his face just so, giving you additional stimulation with every roll of your hips. You chased your end with a desperate keening cry and when your walls finally shuddered around his tongue, your hands gripped his hair to keep him in place. One orgasm led into the next and he drank every wave.

Face flush and chest heaving, he was thoroughly proud of his work. Your post-orgasm glow was intense, a by-product of the vitality you still held and would retain for another few decades.

You were clearly happy with your own handiwork when you wriggled down, admiring the sheen of your slick across his face. Too happy.

Zandik reached for you as he realized you weren’t climbing off of him and instead—

His mouth dropped open as you slid yourself onto his cock, half-hard.

This wasn’t about him, he wanted to say, but the look in your eyes said everything. It wasn’t about him. The ravenous hunger dancing in your eyes was exactly what he’d wanted to satisfy. Whatever it took, whatever you wanted.

He shot into you after only a few quick thrusts, your walls squeezing him as you rode out another orgasm.

You finally rolled off of him, his body sticky with both of you.

He slept with you in his arms, face buried into the crook of your neck.

[sharathos]

a mimir.

let the old man rest after he nutted once.

[azraellu]

Original Zandik × Immortal Reader HCs

• You and Zandik were inseparable since Akademiya. When you were kids, you constantly clung to his sleeve to get his attention. He would pretend to get mad but deep inside he never wanted you to leave.

• It was only the matter of time when two of you started dating. He wasn't the most sweetest or the most attentive boyfriend. He was annoying, sometimes rude and snarky but everytime you needed a hug he was willing to give you one. Even if he was going to complain about it for the rest of the day.

• After his expulsion, you followed Zandik. He didn't understand why. He didn't understand why would you waste your life on someone like him. Not that he had any troubles with his self-esteem, he just knew he already was far before gone.

• He joined the Fatui later and you were still there. You watched Zandik's path full of different obstacles and couldn't help but feel proud and slightly sad. You'd get married in rainy day of November. Zandik was going to be pissed beyond measure because he spent hours trying to predict the weather with meteorology to make sure this day was perfect. You didn't care. Both of you got wet in the rain and you held him close to feel his warmth as local priest of Snezhnaya was reading prayers.

• You started to realize how much Zandik had aged and how much you did not. He noticed it too. Both of you were confused but came to the conclusion that, apparently, you were immortal and was destined to stay eternal youth.

• Firstly, Zandik was jealous of you. Then this jealousy turned into grief. When he dies, he was going to leave you alone. You, who constantly followed him around. You, who managed to keep his sanity. You, who didn't let him forget he was still a human. It was such a strange feeling to care about someone that wasn't him.

• Instead of focusing on the elixir, Zandik focused on you. He started to take your blood samples, saliva samples. Firstly you thought, maybe he was going to use you for reaching immortality. But instead, he wanted to study your immortality to be sure it's not a curse. He didn't want you to suffer without him.

•He'd never dissect you. You were probably the only good thing that ever happened to him. His sacred exception.

• Zandik grew softer with age. He became more affectionate though he would never admit it. His joints buckled, his hips hurt with deep, boring pain, his head was dizzy almost half of the time. But he still made your favourite coffee every morning, waited for you to wake up at breakfast then complain the entire breakfast about your "inefficience". Until his hands simply couldn't even hold a cup without trembling like crazy.

• You took care of him. You always made sure he didn't overwork, stayed warm and comfortable. When he got lost in time at work, you would come into his lab to cover him with a blanket and bring him a cup of his favorite warm tea. Zandik had mixed feelings about it. He knew you would have to move on eventually after he dies. But he couldn't bear the thought of you ever choosing another and forgetting about him.

• You would still love to cuddle him. He didn't mind it too. He was always cold at day yet sweated through his sheets at 3 AM which frustrated him deeply. You always just laughed it off and called him "your old hag". He still didn't came up with a cool comeback at that.

• He'd joke about his decay too, expecting you to stay. "When I'm gone, you'll have to tell my Segments I always hated their stupid haircuts. Especially 35's." You absolutely hated that and always scolded him for it, told him not to jinx it. Zandik would find dark humor in being one that leaves for once.

• He'd ask you to promise you will never fall for another version of him. Seeing his younger Segments even just talking to you while he was already old and wrinkly was... disheartening. He even thought about getting rid of them but then let it go. "I should've spent less time creating copies, and more time just... being with you."

• Before bed you still shared, he could whisper things like: "Promise you'll forget me slowly. Not at once." Or he could rest his trembling hand on your shoulder and say: "You'll watch the sun rise without me. How cruel. How... beautiful."

•He hated his wrinkles, his stupid withered body that felt like a cage. You made sure he was as loved as when he was in his 20s. Intimacy was long beyond forgotten since his spine couldn't take it. That was something he was particularly sore about, feeling less of a man. Especially Zandik felt incredibly down when he noticed you staring at Segment 8 with with quiet longing. He clutched the handle of his cane until his hands turned white.

• He'd never create a Segment of you. Because your immortality is your soul, not your body. A copy would be an insult.

• After Zandik died, he left you all his legacy, his name, his research. You didn't care about all of it. You wanted your "old hag" back. Eventually, you would have to leave Zapolyarny palace because it became a cage that reminded you of your dead significant other you could never bring back.

• Other Segments would try to use you. They didn't love you like your Zandik did. They couldn't. They would study you as the source of immortality, of Original's research.

• You'd have to live with the memory of your only friend, your best friend, your husband for the rest of eternity.

[poyon092]

What are they drawing

[mykingdottore]

WAITWAITWAIT hmo original zandik x you who’s also now elderly but you’ve known each other for so long and are so close to each other 🥹🥹 like you two share the sweetest, most tender and intimate moments in your old age, but also argue like a typical old married couple 🥹🌹🌹

[boundinparchment]

Reverberations

Once a week for over a decade, Zandik left his laboratory, tuned his piano, and took up the mantle of music teacher at the request of the Tsaritsa’s daughter. His final year of tutelage went further than either of you expected. Rated Explicit. On AO3 here.

Every Wednesday, like clockwork, The Doctor left his study and headed into the music room off the foyer.  Having arrived early a few times prior, you knew his pattern by heart.

This time, though, was different.

You swept your hair covering off as you stepped inside, your riding boots dusted with snow.  The valet at the door took your mare without question, the black beast shaking her head as she was led away. There was no missing your departure from the Palace after morning tea.

The question you were certain was on your fiance's lips popped into your head as you pulled off your gloves and tucked them into your cloak pocket.  

Why were you in such a hurry for piano lessons when your wedding was in just over a week?

Stepping into the lounge off the foyer, you propped open the top of the grand piano and took a look inside.  All strings and hammers intact.  A few were replaced in the last week, actually.  Usually the Doctor handled this but being early, you thought you’d spare his hands for once.

Not that he would ever share the sentiment.  And your purposes were wholly selfish.

You didn’t hear him approach, ever so much a snow leopard in the snow-caked mountains.  

“Tsarevna,” came the icy voice.  “You’re early.”

It wasn’t the words but the weight on your shoulder, cold and hard, that made you jump, hands slamming on keys in a cacophony.  You were thankful the key cover locked in place.

There was no explanation.  Not really.  Other than avoidance of your fiance.

You looked at the Doctor over your shoulder, pale hair falling from the careful arrangement of braids your lady’s maid spent an hour on.  Garnet eyes bore holes into you as you locked your gaze on his.  Much like Pierro and the Captain, he was a mainstay in your life, charged with your mother’s burdens while she buried herself in frozen grief.  Words were unnecessary.

Turning back to the piano, you heard him huff through his nose and shift his weight, cane thumping on the carpet.  He settled into the armchair nearby where he had a perfect view of the keys, pedals, and your posture.

“I have a new composition that could use your particular emotional touch,” the Doctor said.  “You haven’t done sight reading in months.”

“This one?” 

You glanced in his direction while gesturing to the folio on the stand in front of you.  He nodded once and you smoothed your skirts as you sat before arranging the sheet music.  Stretching your fingers and hands,  you were surprised to see neat notes and lines free of splatters.  Purposefully created, a final draft.

The piece started with both hands, left maintaining a rhythm while the right worked a melody, fingers never moving all that far.  You fell into the flow easily, fingers moving like water over the keys.  Occasional reaching with your right pinky.  Compared to other compositions the Doctor wrote over the years, this one was rather mild in its structure.

Yet it tugged at you.  Demanded not your skill, but your heart.  Notes became gentle snowflakes, tinkering on a window pane, the aching melancholy of an end.  It was punctuated with a legato flourish.

When you finished, you paused, staring at the sheets.  “It’s rather…tame,” you broached.  “I imagine an accompaniment would make it more robust.”

“Undoubtedly,” the Doctor replied, almost mockingly.  “There’s more on your mind, Tsarevna.  You never ignore a chance to hone in on emotional tones.”

It wasn’t a secret, your path in life.  Serve your mother.  Make connections.  Be humble and soft as fallen snow but keep your heart walled off, a treasure in an iceberg.  An illusion of freedom to all who looked in while being surrounded by few you could trust.

This version, the true version, of the Doctor was the one your mother allowed refuge.  A man far beyond his years in knowledge but shunned at every turn for it.  Who aged despite every effort to buy himself more time.  You hated the fragments of him, bitter and selfish and unnecessarily cruel to themselves and others.  Only the boy was kind.

And you ran into him just outside the sitting room, staring at you with red eyes.  Not a word was said but you felt them.  Raw and true, as only a child would see the world.

Leaving me like everyone else.

“Lamentation.  An end.  Satisfaction, perhaps, but gentle melancholia remains.  The last notes provide hope, as all humans long for.”

The silence was heavier than the gifted kokoshnik you’d tried on with a feigned smile.

“No one else is here, Tsarevna,” he said.

Even your own teacher wasn’t to be trusted but you could think of no one else.  Your mother?  Impossible.  Pierro reported to your mother.  Rosalyne may have understood, once, and would only be helpful after.  Regrator smelled of smoke too often for your liking and he was too familiar with your fiance, floating around the same social circles.  As the daughter of an Archon and a Fae, you were destined for a slow, long life, and few knew you as long as they.

But out of everyone, only the Doctor was open-minded enough to not shame you.  Ideally.

“I don’t want to give myself to him,” you said at last, looking out the window and then back to the sheet music, fixing their order.  “He looks at me like an object.  A thing to dress and entertain.  He behaves humbly in front of Mother but I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hand holds mine.  I have one value for him and he doesn’t deserve it.”

His other selves loved to talk.  The origin point was quieter, a listener if you ever knew one.  A double-edged sword, for he knew how to use the information given.

“He never had to keep himself for marriage.  His maid actually cornered me on my way here and offered to visit me to teach me how to pleasure him,” you scoffed, fury bubbling deep in your gut.  “Yes, she’d love teach me and then continue to fuck my husband behind my back, I’m sure.”

You tied the folio closed, protecting the composition from your ire.  

“You wish to enter your marriage as equals, then,” the Doctor stated.  “So what is your solution?”

The words you rehearsed on the way here refused to spill forth.  You’d thought about long fingers, worn by time, whenever he would correct your positioning; leg touching yours when showing you foot placement; small praises when you played just right.  None of the younger versions ever played a role in your mind.  It was always the nose clearly broken one too many times brushing against your ear, feeling the leather of the armchair against your legs, the gravely tone vibrating against your breast.

“Tsarvena.”

You swallowed.  Chastising you only made it worse, solidified that if you had to choose someone you knew, it would be him.

Rising from the bench, you began pacing the room, skirts brushing along the ornate Sumerian carpet.  You followed the worn path, one carved by other shoes, mindful of the rest of the handiwork.

“I already leave without supervision to come here,” you began, turning your gaze back to him.  “And if I were to choose, they should know me.  Very few have ever conversed with me as a person.”

“Regrator would be the more romantic choice.”

“We both know his habit makes his entire being acrid.  Hardly a subtle choice if I return smelling like cigarettes.”

The Doctor watched you carefully, thumb running along the beak of his cane, aquamarine stone glinting.  He lost this battle ten years ago when you’d insisted that the Second Harbinger himself teach you how to play the instrument your father, the Tsar, loved so much.  This time, he had the stubborn tenacity of a man who insisted upon himself because time was not his friend.  They made for terrible negotiators.

“Why present this to me and not my younger self?” he asked at last, twisting his cane idly.

“Because while they are you, they are wholly separate from you.”

He couldn’t be serious.  The segment you saw the most, aged thirty-five, was too arrogant for such a task.  If he was your only other option, you’d just save yourself for your wedding night.

The expression on his face was unreadable but you’d struck a cord all the same.  His hand on his cane was tight, jaw set.

“Am I meant to be flattered by that?”

You stopped in your tracks in front of him and threw your hands out to the side, skirts spinning around your ankles.

“Take it however you wish.  I’d rather perform such an act with someone who at least was present for my first century than another who believes they’re entitled to it by law,” you snapped.  “Is it astounding that someone might actually want you, Doctor?”

“Astounding isn’t the word I would use, Tsarvena.” He stared at you a moment longer than felt natural before he turned his attention to the piano  behind you and the window beyond.  “I will give you my answer next week.”

Dismissed.  There was no mistaking his tone and you dared not push it.

“Be well, Doctor.”

You gathered your things from the foyer and left, not bothering with your cloak until you were halfway to the stables.  It helped clear your head, shake the thoughts of going back inside and climbing into his lap and grinding your wet heat on his leg, leaving a wet patch behind.

After all, if  he’d taught you anything over the years, it was patience.  

A package arrived for you on Saturday while you were out.  It was accompanied by a single flower, one you only saw  in a small greenhouse toured in the early days of your weekly lessons.  The name stuck with you because it was so unfamiliar: padisarah.  A flower from the era of the Goddess of Flowers.

It was fresh, petals soft and center fragrant.

An unusual calling card, you mused.

Ensuring your doors were locked, you settled onto your bed and gently pulled at the box’s lid.  Amid tissue paper, you found an envelope and soft pale blue lace.  Your heart skipped at the material as you ran it through your fingers and your face grew hot when you pulled it up, realizing the garments.

The lace panties in one trembling hand, you reached for the envelope and found a familiar script.

Wear these.

There were stockings and a sheer lace corset, structured only with the necessary underwire.

And you knew just the dress to wear, too.  Easy to undo in the front, no need for your maid that morning.

Perfect.

Your stomach twisted into knots as you arrived on Wednesday to a prepared instrument, score chosen and waiting for you.

This time, you’d taken your carriage, claiming to want to enjoy your last day in peace.  Planning was being handled by others (not that your choice mattered much anyway) and this was the better alternative to seeing you mope around, you mused.  A few hours of freedom before the rehearsal dinner was a small pittance you could be allowed.

Approaching the bench, your icy eyes scanned the sheet music.  New.  Messier.  That tempo was bordering on frantic.  Was he punishing you?

You heard the thump of his cane and turned as the Doctor rounded the corner.  In his free hand, two small objects, one with a thin wire dangling.  He looked a tad refreshed more than usual, monocle shining, but he’d always moved with a particular certainty despite the walking stick.  His back was straight; his tailored shirt did no favors in hiding the brace.  

“Do you still wish to proceed, Tsarvena?”  You nodded and he gestured with the top of his cane.  “Then sit facing me.”

Skirts rustling, you did as he asked and settled onto the smooth, polished bench.  The Doctor rested his cane nearby and held out a flat hand.  “Your foot.”

Brow furled, you raised your leg and rested your ankle into his awaiting hand.  He stepped closer, bending your leg and pushing your skirts up, revealing the stockings.  You felt his cold fingers against your thigh as he traced the material from your ankle to your thigh, a jolt running through you at his touch as he reached the soft flesh near your bottom.

“Good girl.”

You stared at him, watching his face as you felt a strap fastened around your leg, a small device pressed into your thigh.  The Doctor’s fingers didn’t stop and climbed higher, tracing the hem near the apex of your legs.  You caught the softest hum of approval as he dipped beneath the fabric and brushed against your hair, the worn pad of his finger meeting wet lips as he slid a small, round device between them.

“What is that?” you asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

He let go of your leg after a squeeze of your thigh before reaching into his pocket.  You saw a small pill before he slipped it into his mouth as though he was in thought for a moment.  

“I need time.  If you had given at least a few weeks’ notice, arrangements would be different.”

The Doctor settled into his usual armchair and you arranged yourself on the bench properly, the round device prodding your wet folds.  It sat in such a way that you felt a little pressure on your clit, and thus every shift of your hips made your eagerness all the more prominent.

“Play as normal.  We’ll see how the rest unfolds.”

Heart pounding, you took your position and began to sightread, willing yourself to focus.  Huh.  A tarantella.  This one looked old judging by the sun damage on the paper.  Quick and daring, like an arctic fox across the tundra, darting through ice tunnels.  You read ahead to keep the pace only for your pinky to slip and hit a sharp rather than a flat.

You felt a jarring sensation and buzzing beneath you that ran from your core to your belly button, your breath catching.  Maybe just the pressure.  Angling your hips a little differently, you pressed on and continued smoothly, fingers flying across the keys.

Wait, was that a quarter or an eighth note?  The pencil marks weren’t erased neatly, echos of previous thoughts not faded enough.  The strange feeling returned, stronger than before, and you gave a surprised yelp.  You felt yourself grow wetter, the dull throbbing you’d felt all morning giving way to a painful ache.

Thankful for the easy refrain, your fingers kept the melody.  Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the Doctor with one hand on his cane, the other idly playing with a small corresponding remote, half-hardened member pressing against his thigh.  You caught his thin lips in the trademark smug smile that the Segments were known for.

“Poor planning should be punished accordingly, Tsarvena.  Keep going.”

You tried to even out your breathing as you shifted pedals and recognized patterns.  These notes were part of a scale, follow through and hold two beats, not one.  Notes blurred together and you winced as you realized your mistakes just as the vibrations ran through your core, a taste of white hot heat ripped away from you.  Your hands slammed the keys before they slipped off the board entirely and gripped your skirts.  The sound that ripped itself from your lips was almost feral, sharp and keening.

“I didn’t think you had the stamina but that was simply pathetic,” the Doctor sneered.  “Not even halfway through a single sheet.  Come here.”

“I don’t recall you having authority over me, Harbinger,” you hissed, chest heaving.

“You’re in no position to bicker, Tsarvena.  If you had come to me weeks or even months ago, I’d have planned accordingly.  As it stands, I’m likely shaving off a decade of my life for this experiment.  Do as I say and come here.”

You cried out as the device demanded your pleasure again and you rose on shaky legs, every step towards the Doctor complete agony.  Burning red eyes took in every inch of your flushed skin and parted lips, your entire being drunk on arousal.  This must be what it was like, you mused, to be consumed by pure fire.  And he hadn’t even touched you properly.

He reached for the stays on the front of your dress, undoing the hooks with experienced practicality.  Pushing it away from your torso, the Doctor ran his fingers over the lace, callouses nipping at the gentle material.  He tugged you closer, only long enough to play with your hardened nipples.  Flicking, squeezing, sucking.  You felt teeth against the soft flesh underneath before he pushed you away.

The damp lace was irritating, no doubt the intention.

“On your knees.”

The carpet was plush as you sank down, thighs soaked with your own juices.  You’d expected only penetration, the act itself, not this.  What was he—

“Come closer and undo my belt.”

You pushed yourself up and reached forward, elbows resting on his thighs as you pulled at the metal.  You pulled the leather through the shining loop and flicked your gaze up to find him watching you.  He didn’t protest when you reached for his fly and he hissed in relief as he sprang free.  

You blinked, shocked that a man his age could even—

He shifted his hold on his cane and placed it across his knees, pinning you in place.  The dreaded device at your entrance hummed and felt your walls clench at the sight of his cock.  Worn, veiny, and when you dared touch, somehow still like velvet over steel.  He remained silent as you continued touching him, reaching the base and lower still, finding his balls, heavy and weathered.

The thought of them slapping against you clouded your mind and without much thought, you leaned forward to wrap your lips around the glistening tip.  The Doctor inhaled sharply, twitching against your tongue.

It took some coaxing but you finally were able to press your nose to his base, the ache in your core unbearable.  You bucked your hips on nothing, shifted your hips so your heel pressed the device against you harder, unsure of what you were seeking other than relief.

The Doctor growled and grabbed your head, pushing your face against him.  “No, no, save that orgasm for when I’m buried inside you, Tsarvena.”

The pleasure was momentarily broken as the Doctor set  an unforgiving pace.  You sputtered and gagged as he came, refusing to let you pull away until he finished, the last remnants shooting across your lips and chest.

His laugh was gleeful as his fingers painted his cum all over your mouth.

“Works much better than the evidence originally indicated,” he snickered.  “Perhaps I should thank you for forcing my hand, I might never have finished this project without your little request.”

Dazed, you didn’t quite understand what he meant until you realized he had yet to soften.  Virgin though you were, you were well aware of basic reproductive anatomy and expectations.  Wasn’t he at least tired?  He looked almost refreshed, like he’d just had a cat nap.

“Stand up and turn around.”

He shifted his cane to provide the freedom necessary and you turned around, reflection catching in the polished piano’s open lid.  Hair was falling from its pins, your dress hung like a death shroud, and neither of you wiped the pearly substance from your collar.  One look at you and no one could mistake the events.

The Doctor pawed at your skirts and pulled you back, arranging his legs between yours.  Hiking up the layers, you felt cold air on your thighs and bottom.  Fingers plucked the soaked device from your lips and you peered over your shoulder to see him lick it, your slick glistening.

“One experiment we have to forgo, Tsarvena.  Had I been able to plan properly, I would know every facet of your body and you would have the experience you so desire.”

“So you keep telling me,” you replied.  “But are you sure you would have been up for it?”

“I’d find a way.  I always do.”

More squeezing, exploration of the exposed skin between the stockings and the panties.  The lace was pulled down, and you stepped out of them before you felt hot breath on soft flesh, teeth grazing and nipping at one cheek, and then the other.  A shiver ran up your spine and he bit harder, likely enough to bruise.  You tried to reach back to swat at him but you missed.

“No marks, I thought that went without saying,” you snapped.

He gave a chuckle and bit you again, your mouth opening in silent shock at the pain.  “You’ll think of me every time you sit down.”

Casting him an indignant look, the Doctor reached up to spread a hand over your back, bending you over.  The other, now free of the remote and his cane, gripped your hip to pull you back.  His shaft sat between your cheeks, hot and hard, sticky with your saliva.

“Really, like an animal?” you bit out.

“I warned you that Regrator would have been the romantic choice,” came the reply as his touch left your back and he slid his length along your flesh, jolting you as his tip brushed past another sensitive entrance.  “This angle should, however, provide intense results.”

You felt his tip finally pass along your soaked entrance and clit, slick swollen heat sliding around his length as he nestled between your lips.  Your inner walls throbbed eagerly, twitching at your opening, and he groaned in response.

“Last chance, Tsarvena.”

You gave no reply and instead rolled your hips, catching his tip with your entrance.  You wiggled and tried to sink down, your body pliable.  Long fingers grabbed your hips, guiding you down slowly until you sat down entirely, toes brushing the carpet.  Your body stretched to accommodate with a dull ache, unaccustomed to the intrusion.  The Doctor leaned forward slightly, as much as the brace would allow, letting go of your hip long enough to take your hand and guide it between your legs.  You felt his length and then where your body took over, until he took your hand lower, your slick coating his worn skin.  You cupped his balls, earning yourself a groan as you brushed them against your thighs.

“You seem to be quite bold despite your inexperience,” he grumbled into your neck, teeth grazing near the hem of your dress.

“I’m merely curious,” you replied.

“A healthy trait in the right dose,” his breath tickled your skin as he guided your hands to the chair’s arms, pressing them in.  “This works best if your feet are flat.”

Planting your feet and gripping the arms, you let out a shuddering moan at the slick sound as your bodies parted.  Nails dug into the flesh at your hips as the Doctor guided you along his length.  He lifted you to the point where he almost left you entirely, bouncing you on his tip before forcing you back down, your legs burning.  You relaxed into the rhythm he set, every stroke a spark stoking a fire building deep inside.  He bit you as he pulled you down into his lap, your toes balancing your weight and curling into the plush carpet.

Your sounds were obscene, squeals and cries and moans you never thought would fall from your lips.  Panting as your legs trembled, you tried to focus on the pressure building inside you, urging whatever release your body craved—

The Doctor slowed, setting long strokes that toyed with your entrance.  You gave a whining keen, your body craving the fullness, walls demanding more.

“Breath, Tsarvena, and let go.”

White hot heat engulfed your vision as something gave way, your body shattering like ice.

“Good girl.  That’s it, keep coming.”

You shuddered in his lap, swaying your hips, as you clenched down on his cock.  The sensation was so sweet it bordered on painful, your core wanting more despite having just had a taste.  You didn’t want to stop.

A second wave hit you harder and you gave a sharp cry as he guided you through it with a rougher pace.

“Hungry little thing,” he chastised.  “You wanted me that badly for all these years?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yet you waited until the inevitable to come to me.  Pathetic.  We’ll just need to make the most of the last hours we have, then, hmm?”

The pace was unrelenting and you found yourself tumbling over edge after edge as he chased his own release, slamming you down as he twitched.  You felt warmth shoot deep inside, flooding you.

Your eyes locked with your reflection again, this time an image of complete ruination.  Hair truly in tangles, lips parted, eyes dazed.

The Doctor lifted you onto unsteady feet and you felt his essence drip down to your swollen lips.  Rough fingers scooped up the substance and plunged back into you, plush walls more than accepting of the touch.  One hand grabbed a cheek, squeezing and pulling at you.

“Admiring your handiwork?” you slurred, arching onto his fingers.

“If you behave this way for your intended, you have little to worry about, Tsarvena.  We’re hardly finished.”

You gasped as he slid his length between your cheeks again.

“How are you—“

“Anything is possible with the right chemical composition.  You will be little more than a stumbling fawn when I’m through with you.”

He was true to his word.  The piano and score long abandoned, you instead spent the rest of your time in a haze, pleasure so intense it bordered on painful.  By the end, you had no thoughts, filled to the brim and then some.

“I’ll feel you with every step down the aisle,” you mumbled, legs high as you were splayed on the nearby couch.

“Then my work is complete.”

You managed to find the energy to dress and tidy yourself.  When you reached for the lace panties long abandoned, the end of his cane kept them in place.

“Those are mine now.  A parting gift, if you would be so kind.”

Your skirts would be soaked with your mingled juices, then, you wanted to protest.  The glint in his eyes told you that was exactly the point.

Amid the crowd the next morning, you spotted a younger visage next to Pantalone.  The one always sent in the Doctor’s stead when he could not travel long distances.  Younger, the face the public always saw.

The smile and head tilt you received as you walked up the aisle with your husband was unsettling enough.  It was the lace tucked into his breast pocket, peeking out for all to see, that dropped your stomach to your feet the rest of the evening.

You spent your wedding night with thoughts of red eyes and worn fingers, unable to forget.

You returned from your honeymoon weeks later, routine upheaved as you eased into married life.  To no one’s surprise, you looked a little worse for wear despite spending so long in the mild climates of Mondstadt and Fontaine.  At first you only thought it was motion sickness, the boat ride home far choppier and unsettling than the initial trip, but it lingered; when you missed your cycle not once, but twice, all doubt disappeared.

Part of you had known.  You didn’t expect to feel changed but ever since the night before your wedding, your world felt ever-so-slightly off kilter.  

It wasn’t until months later, during a seasonal summit, that you saw the Doctor again.  You hadn’t felt much movement over the last day—hardly a concern for your physician—but it worried you all the same.  To come this far, only for something to go wrong…you only wanted to do this once.

Did he speculate, you wondered, as you did?  You felt it in your bones that the child was his: an intuition that he would never believe until bloodwork proved otherwise.

“Play for me, Doctor?” you asked simply.  “She’s been lethargic lately.  It’s harder for me to reach the keys now.”

He looked older than you recalled, the angles of his face harder, and gaze more pointed.  His shoulders must ache, too.  His words about shaving off years of his life were true, it seemed.  All to give you what you wanted.

What he clearly wanted, too.

You swayed in your seat on the sofa as he obliged you, a familiar tune that your father used to play.  Soft and tender.  How did he remember that?  

It wasn’t until the last notes of the song that you felt the familiar flutter in your belly, relief spreading through you.  You eased yourself out of your seat and walked over to the piano and then reached for his tired hand to press it against the swell of your abdomen.

“She’s yours,” you whispered.

“The probabilities are doubtful.  Your husband was boastful of your excursions over post-dinner drinks.”

“And you don’t think it’s strange that she’s active for you?”

“New stimulus provides that result.”

“We’ll see.”

Something softened in his face for the faintest of moments, as though he was entertaining the idea.  How ironic, you thought, the known heretic impregnating the daughter of the Archon he served.  Fitting.

He left after a strong kick, patting your hand wordlessly in departure.

You recalled seeing him next in a fevered haze.  Fighting with your physician, the one your husband insisted on, hurling insults at your spouse.  Your mother, Archon of her people with larger worries, pressed cold compresses to your head to keep you awake.

“The right thing to do would be to deliver the child,” the Doctor snarled.  “If you wait longer or hope for a natural rupture, you risk both lives.  Pathetic, you’re her partner, you dolt!”

“Zandik,” your mother said, the older man pausing in his rant.  “Is that what you do?”

He stared at you, solemn.  Perhaps it was the fever but you swore he looked guilty.  After a moment, he shifted his gaze to your mother and said, “It’s the only thing to do if you wish to give both of them a chance.”

“Then get the steadiest pair of hands among you for the task.”

The last thing you recalled was your mother singing to you as a figure with glasses and shining red eyes lowered a mask onto your mouth and nose.

Hours later, morning sunlight kissing the walls of your bedroom, you woke to find the chair in the corner occupied.  The aquamarine nestled into the figurehead of the walking stick glinted at you.  Murmurings of a language you identified as a dialect of Sumerian rang over the rattling of the nearby radiator.

A bundle, whining.  Tiny fingers reaching and rubbing cheeks.

“Ah, mamusya is awake, little duchess,” the Doctor murmured.  “You should meet her properly.”

Instinctively, you reached for the covers but the glare sent your way and the sharp stabbing pains in your abdomen halted you.

“I’m old but not incapable, Tsarvena.  Stay there.”

The babe was small and scrunched, cooing as she was shifted over to your arms.  It was impossible to miss the dusting of blue hair, the wrong shade to match yours.  The eye color would reveal itself in time.

“I told you.”

He was silent, idly playing with his walking stick as he watched not you, but the baby.  The Doctor reached out and the child wrapped a hand around his finger.

“Zandik,” you murmured, his name strange on your tongue.

He left without another word and you never saw him again.  Only the shadow of his younger self remained, ever present, ever curious.  The segment in the prime of his life offered you only few words when you were well enough to travel.

“Keep her from the others.  Take her far away from here.  She deserves that much.  It’s what he would have wanted.”

And when she began to show signs of darkening eyes, you did exactly that, determined to give her the freedom neither of her parents ever had.

[magicalbats]

The Servant of Two Masters (Part 5)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 34,472

Warnings: Afab!reader, fem!reader, not gender neutral, BIG age difference, segment shenanigans;

With Dottore/Omega - mind games and manipulation, coercion, vague threats, spanking punishment, over the knee spanking, fingers in mouth, drool, brief vaginal fingering, licking up spit from floor, stepped on with boots

With Zandik - cunnilingus, piv, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, kissing, some small infantilization

Part 1 & 2 Part 3 Part 4

A/N: It's just about 5am and I don't think I can edit this anymore tonight. Forgive me. 😂

⭐

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear mama,

Please forgive me for the haste in which I have written this letter, but I do not know how much longer the person I’m about to entrust it to will wait for me to get my thoughts in order. 

Between everything going on here with Master Zandik and the man in the mask, the mysterious “son” I recently met, even Lord Regrator’s house call, and the lack of any correspondence from you on top of it all … I just don’t know anymore, mama. I don’t know what I’m doing here some days. It is clear to me that I don’t really belong in this household, keeping this particular company, and I badly wish to return home to be at your side. For a number of reasons I can’t do that, though, so it seems that I am truly stuck in this situation for the foreseeable future. I can’t help but shudder to think what will happen when my role here is made redundant. 

Even more than that, though, I find myself nearly sick with worry over you. Is the treatment at the hospital not going well and that’s why you haven’t replied to any of my letters? Do you not wish to frighten me with the truth? Are they even reaching you at all? 

I’m scared, mama. For myself and for you. The situation here seems to be fast unraveling before my very eyes. I do not know how much time Master Zandik still has left in this world, but it’s starting to feel more and more like my own end is intrinsically tied with his. I can’t go into too many details in case this letter is intercepted but I have made the decision to do something truly foolish. Yes, even more foolish than venturing down into the cellar. 

Even knowing the risks involved and the danger it might invite, I have to try to get in contact with you somehow. You are my only lifeline to the outside world, mama. If this letter manages to reach you, please give your reply to the woman who delivered it and insist that she hand your correspondence off to me personally.  

Please, mama. I desperately need your help!

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Breakfast the next morning is an exceedingly awkward affair. 

After crying yourself to exhaustion the night before, it hardly comes as a surprise that you wake up just as tired as you’d gone to sleep. The early morning light that streams in through the single solitary window over your bed makes your swollen eyes hurt and for a long while you just can’t seem to find the energy to get up. 

But, eventually, you decide that you need to make every effort to put that awful experience in the cellar and all of the terrible consequences that had come with it behind you. Lingering on it or stewing in the still present ache across your bruised bottom wouldn’t serve any purpose beyond making you miserable. Maybe if you put in the effort to look nice and presentable for Master Zandik he would find it in himself to forgive you. Or at the very least he might pet and dote on you again, even if he was still a little upset at what you’ve done … 

You have to force your limbs to cooperate and with no shortage of effort but, somehow, you manage to rise to your feet. After spending a bit more time than you usually would on your appearance — taking extra care to brush out your hair and style it, making sure every ribbon on the flouncy uniform is tied off into a perfect bow, and even going so far as to crack your window open to scoop some of the snow off the sill so you can pat it on your face in an attempt to combat the puffiness — you deem yourself ready. 

Or as ready as you think you can be. Although you’re not so sure any of it will work, you still put on your best smile for him, hoping to leave that regretful business behind you where it belonged. 

Unfortunately when you open the door to his room you find Zandik already up and stubbornly trying to dress himself. Horrified, you forget about your silly idea to win him over through appeal and quickly rush to his aid. 

But he refuses to say much of anything to you even when you implore him to take a seat on the edge of the bed, so that you might help him. He finally relents though, much to your great sigh of relief as he lowers himself down to the mattress with his slacks awkwardly tangled around the knobby bends of his knees. Heart in your throat, you start on the top half where his shirt is only partially buttoned up and slightly twisted where he’d been wrestling with it. Your heart silently breaks not only to see him like this but also because of the way he won’t even seem to look at you while you work to get him dressed. 

You can’t quite decide if his expression is one of anger and disappointment, or of — remorse? Guilt?  It’s hard to tell when it was so rare to see him looking anything but arrogant and self assured. Even in his softest moments with you his brow always seemed to rest at an angle that would suggest he was thinking of complicated things that far surpassed what his current physical condition could easily accomplish. That was never enough to truly stop him though, not when he was so confident in his own abilities, his own genius. Now, though … 

Now he almost resembles a man defeated, the way his thin shoulders slump and the slight hunch in his spine has deepened. This posture leaves his head solemnly hanging even when you gently, carefully brush out his hair for him. But, to his credit, he does not snap at you for fussing over him nor does he try to slap you away. He simply lets you do whatever it is you’re going to do without so much as a glance or even a single word uttered in your direction. It’s not at all dissimilar to how he’d acted when you first arrived here, and yet it’s somehow that much worse after the progress you’d made. For a horrible moment, you think this stonewalling from him might actually kill you. 

And then, at last, he mutters a brisk ‘thank you’ and then an equally clipped ‘let’s be off’ when he takes his cane from your outstretched fingers with a surprisingly gentle hand. Wondering if you should throw yourself at his feet, beg and cry, and plead for his forgiveness, you listlessly follow after him towards the door. 

“I’ll take my breakfast in the library today.” He tells you as you shuffle out into the hall together. 

“Yes, Master …”

Once inside, you hurry to get a fire going in the hearth while he takes his usual spot at the long desk situated near the center of the room. It seemed he hadn’t yet given up on whatever he’d been working over the other day even in spite of all the interruptions that have occurred since, but you still weren’t quite sure what had so much of his attention lately. The few glimpses you’d caught in glancing over his shoulder had only revealed long, tedious formulaic equations that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to you. Although you could read, maths hadn’t exactly been a priority in your curriculum growing up and whatever he was doing was well beyond your level of comprehension. 

He must be well aware of that, too, because he doesn’t even make an attempt to conceal the sheets of scrawled notes he’s looking over when you come up next to him with a folded blanket in hand. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence there at his elbow at all. It’s like you may as well have been a ghost haunting his periphery. 

Finally having no other choice, you softly speak up. “Are you comfortable, Master? Would you like this on your lap?” 

“No. That will be all for now.”

It probably would have hurt less if he’d just stabbed you in the chest with his pen and gotten it over with. 

“But it’s such a chilly morning, sir.” You try again, struggling to keep your voice even and light as you shift behind him to drape the blanket over his shoulders. “At least let me - -“

“Dammit, girl! I said that’s enough!” He abruptly snaps, making you jolt so hard you nearly drop the blanket to the floor. “We’re in Snezhnaya, you daft idiot. Every morning is chilly. Just leave me to my work and go start on breakfast.”

“… y - yes, Master. Right away.” 

Valiantly fighting back a fresh sting of tears, you leave the well intentioned blanket hanging over the back of the chair in case he changes his mind, and sadly make your way over to the door. Not for the first time you ask yourself if you should throw all dignity and self respect aside in favor of pleading with him for a second chance. Even if it meant debasing your sense of self, surely anything would have been preferable to this. Maybe if the atmosphere between the two of you had not been so warm just the previous day it would not have hurt so bad but this change in his demeanor was proving to be an unexpectedly devastating blow to your heart. No playful pinches. No light exchange of conversation. No flirting, no touching. You weren’t sure how you were going to survive this. 

But, you try desperately to reason with yourself, it did make sense that he would still be displeased with you so soon after the incident. You had, after all, broken one of the few rules he’d set in place for you and the sting of his rejection, the withdrawing of his doting pats and ruefully fond glances, is sorely felt. Certainly you would not be going against his wishes ever again if it meant more of this. 

You quickly make up your mind, deciding that you must win your way back into his good graces somehow. 

Down in the kitchen, you get to work making his favorite breakfast and brewing his much loved coffee with extra care and attention. You even take the time to juice a few oranges for him, rather than using what was already in a pitcher in the icebox, so that he could have it as fresh as Snezhnaya could possibly offer. And it’s certainly too much for the old man to eat by himself, once everything is said and done, but you don’t know what else to do other than to show him how much you care through this act of service. Even as misguided as it might be, you at least had to try. 

Carting it all upstairs on a big silver tray takes you longer than usual, especially when your spanked bottom is still sore and the nerves twinge with pain at every little shift. But you finally make it back to the library, making sure to keep your expression in check while you proudly set out everything next to Zandik on the table. Everything you’d prepared, juiced and sliced, and brewed for him sits in a welcoming heap next to his open book. 

Dread twists your stomach into even tighter knots, however, when he just somberly looks over it all as if the sight of it only saddened him. You truly start to panic then, swelling with anxiety and nervous jitters. You couldn’t understand it. Why was he behaving this way? It was almost as if you were someone about to be sent to the gallows and he simply couldn’t bear to say another word to you in his grief. 

And you realize quite suddenly that that’s exactly what it is. He really doesn’t even look mad at you anymore, just … resigned. As if he knew your time there with him was running out. 

It feels very much like someone has just dumped a bucket of ice water over your head. 

“M - Master? Are you sure everything is — alright? Do you not like what I’ve cooked for you? Would you like something else?” 

Slowly closing his eyes as if it physically pained him, Zandik breathes out a long suffering, world weary sigh. “I’m so sorry, girl. I shouldn’t have acted in such haste last night.”

“I’m … I’m sorry?” 

He gives his head a resoundingly sad shake. “There isn’t much I can do to protect you, as much as I may wish I could. I simply no longer have the strength or the ability that I once did, and one of my greatest accomplishments in life will also very likely be the making of my own downfall. I hope you can at least forgive me.”

It takes you a long moment to find your voice, and another after that to figure out what you even want to say. “Forgive you for what, Master? If … if this is about what happened in the dining room - -“

Cutting you off when he reaches out to snag your nearest hand in a shaking death grip, Zandik yanks your arm towards himself in a way that almost frightens you. It’s a little too similar to the way he’d grabbed you and pulled you over his lap for it not to. 

But all he does is peer up at you imploringly, his pale eyes dancing with a sporadic energy that only makes you more nervous. “I don’t know how much time we still have. Just listen to me, girl. Listen well, and don’t be afraid. When he comes for you, just stay calm and don’t make it any worse for yourself. As long as you’re good and obedient, you’ll be fine. Do you hear me?” 

“Wh - … when who comes for me?” 

Before he can answer the distant click of the door handle on the other side of the library sends freezing shards of hoarfrost racing through your veins. You suddenly can’t breathe as you straighten up in a prickling jolt and Zandik, likewise, is quick to drop your hand which falls useless to your side. 

And you watch, shuddering, when the door abruptly swings open to admit the Doctor inside, as if right on cue. 

You can’t help the way you stare at him in terrified silence. He was still here? You’d thought for sure he would have disappeared back to wherever he retreated to until his next unexpected appearance by now.  

“Good morning, little mouse. Old man.” He purrs, inclining his chin towards Zandik who only grunts a quiet, noncommittal sound in response. Then his attention is right back on you again. “I must say, that smells rather nice. Perhaps I will have to try some of your cooking one day, after all.” 

You give a tiny start at that. Trying and failing to kickstart your tripping brain back into gear. “Oh. W - would you like some right now, my … my lord? I could fetch you - -“

But he’s already waving it off with a gloved hand. “That won’t be necessary. I have other matters to attend to later so I can’t dally here for very long. I’d like to talk to you, though, if you can spare a few minutes of your time.” 

Brows lifting in abject shock, you turn from him to look at Zandik in search of some sort of explanation or reassurance, or even just a silent indication as to what was going on. He’s back to refusing to look at you though, focused instead on the cup of coffee he sips from, and you have no choice but to swallow down the nervous lump you suddenly find in your throat. Yes, you could probably guess what the Doctor wanted to talk about. 

Was this really what Zandik had just tried to warn you about though? He must have known the Doctor would come for you then, and he was right. There was nothing an eighty year old man could do to stop his younger counterpart from taking you, or doing whatever else he wanted. You would just have to meet your fate with a brave face. 

Straightening up, you fold your hands in front of you over the apron and give the old man a stiffly executed bow. “Then I will return shortly to clear away your dishes, Master. Please don’t hesitate to ring the bell if you need anything at all.” 

He noises a brief sound of acknowledgement and nothing more, so you turn to make your way over to the Doctor with as much dignity as you can muster. His mouth has pulled into a sharp little smirk underneath the hooked beak of his mask, however, and that does absolutely nothing to quell the disquiet kicking up in your stomach. 

“There’s a dear. Come now, let us step out and talk in private. I don’t imagine this should take very long.” 

You very much don’t like the sound of that, but you obediently trail after him even while a whirlwind of panicked thoughts swirls around inside your head. Was he going to dismiss you after all? Even after you’d said you would stay on despite everything you’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours? Your trembling hands helplessly ball into your apron, making a wrinkled mess of the white material. That didn’t seem fair to you. To punish someone who was willing to sacrifice themselves mentally, perhaps even physically, by continuing to work under his employ, even knowing their big secret … surely it just wasn’t right. 

But you choke back those thoughts, keeping them tightly locked away, as you follow the Doctor down the corridor until he eventually comes up to the one locked room in the entire manor. Zandik had said it was his seldom used office although, in light of recent revelations, you supposed it was also the Doctor’s office too. It was just as the surgeon had said yesterday. 

‘We’re something of a package deal.’ 

So, whatever was Zandik’s was also theirs too. No wonder every single one of them you’d met so far seemed so inclined to help themselves to your person. As if the consent of one was a blanket consent to all. How … fiendish. 

Trying and failing to calm your fluttering nerves, you stand there and watch as Dottore fishes a key out of his pocket, inserts it into the lock with a heavy click and then shoves the door open to step inside. You follow in his wake, nervously glancing around while he shuts and — you can’t help but notice with another ratcheting spike of anxiety — locks the door behind you. Trying to pretend like you hadn’t noticed that, you allow yourself a moment to anxiously look around.  

You’d never been inside this room before but it looks very standard to what you might have expected a powerful and brilliant man to call his office. There’s a stately desk situated along the opposite wall, facing the door, with a single window watching over the empty highbacked chair. It is not dissimilar to the one in Pantalone’s office, and you can’t help but wonder if he wasn’t the one who’d furnished this place as you take in the shelves crammed with yet more books (this house truly was inundated with them, even more so than you’d initially thought), the sparse art hanging on the walls for a flare of decoration, the mahogany, low set coffee table and what appears to be a matching sofa with delicately carved legs. Altogether it looks respectable, professional even, and you feel very out of place standing in it. Just like back in the bank. 

“Don’t look so nervous, little mouse. It’s not as if I brought you here to do experiments on you or anything.” The Doctor croons at you, sauntering over now to the finely upholstered sofa where he plops down, seemingly at perfect ease. 

You can’t say you feel much the same way as you draw a stuttering breath to calm yourself, just as Zandik had instructed you to, before moving to stand at attention in front of the low table, bracing for the worst. If it really came down to it you could always prostrate before him on hand and knee, and beg for a second chance, an opportunity to prove your loyalty and willingness to obey. Appealing to his ego enough just might do the trick. 

But all he does is study you for a long, drawn out moment from behind the barrier of his mask. Not for the first time you can’t help but wonder how he can see anything at all through that thing, and yet he never seems to find it difficult to get around or bothersome to wear. It was all very strange, just like everything else in this sprawling old manor. 

And then, drawing an almost eager breath, he sits forward to brace his elbows on his knees, hands coming together between them in a loose clasp. 

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” 

You slowly blink. That was not what you’d expected him to say to you. 

But even when it feels as if your stomach is falling into a bottomless pit you still lightly clear your throat, nudging your chin up in what you hoped was a respectful manner. “I would be lying … sir, if I said I don’t have any questions. Rather pressing ones, in fact. However, I am well aware that the details aren’t really any of my business and I should respect the confidentiality between employer and employee. I’d planned to do just that.” 

He chuckles in response, a low, drawling sound that soon morphs into a full on bellow that tips his head back, laughing up at the ceiling. Your nervous disquiet is soon replaced by confusion as you stare at him, trying to make any sense of what’s happening. And then he shifts atop the sofa again, changing positions almost as quickly as he changes moods, to recline back against the jade green cushions in a confident sprawl. 

“Oh, you are a clever one, aren’t you? That’s a very good answer. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that it is the correct answer for you to give me in this situation, darling mouse.”

You can tell he’s mocking you and a hot wash of affront crosses your face, yet he doesn’t even seem to notice it as he continues with just a smattering of irony to color his voice now. 

“Did Zandik give you that pretty answer? He really should know better. Something you need to understand about me — about us — is that we so rarely concern ourselves with what is right or proper, or polite, and that sort of lip service doesn’t exactly mean a whole lot from our collective perspective. As a whole, we are much more interested in and intrigued by the truth. How we choose to interpret that might differ slightly between one or the other, depending on what our individual mindset was during that period of our life, and yet it always comes down to the same bottom line regardless.” 

Pausing briefly, he brings his head up about a centimeter as if to look you straight in the eye. “So, then. Tell me what you really think, and we’ll go from there.” 

For some reason you don’t hesitate to respond, and the words are out before you even have the conscious thought to give them voice. Anger replacing confusion now.  

“As a matter of fact, I think this place is starting to feel like a circus.” And then a hastily tacked on, “My lord.” 

The Doctor hums a vaguely amused sound, nodding once as if in agreement with that sentiment. “I can understand why you would start to feel that way. Goodness knows how this probably looks to an outsider, but you will have to forgive us that unfortunate lack of self awareness. You see, I’m afraid we’ve long since lost any insight into the perception of what unrelated parties might think. Pantalone is quite accustomed to our comings and goings at this point in time, so he doesn’t exactly offer an enlightening perspective. He already knows what we’re like. All of us.” 

But yet he’d still sent you straight into the den of the wolf. 

“And he’s fine with it?” You say, instead of that first impulsive thought. The Doctor seemed to be in a largely agreeable mood despite all that had happened yesterday, but you didn’t know how long that would last and you were keen to get some answers if he was willing to give them. 

He just exhales a slow, almost wistful sigh though. “More than fine with it, I’d say. We are long term partners and collaborators, after all. You can’t very well have that kind of history with someone and not see them for what they truly are. And as for you, sweet mouse? Do you think you’re starting to see that same truth now?” 

You drop his gaze — or whatever constituted for it with that featureless mask in the way — as you continue to wrinkle the ruffled hem of your apron. If he was really planning on sending you away, and he’d said nothing to make you believe otherwise yet, then honesty couldn’t do any real harm. Especially not if he planned to kill you before he would ever allow you to escape back into the outside world again. 

“Yes, sir. I believe I am.”

“Good. And what is your take on it, hm?”

“Well … if you want the truth, I’d heard the rumors before coming here. That some of Her Majesty’s Harbingers were cruel and dangerous. Some even — maniacal. But as long as it was all in the name of the Tsaritsa and the motherland then most of the peasantry was willing to look the other way. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what I’d even envisioned when I heard those whisperings. Surely it was nowhere near the scale of this, though … forgive me, my lord, but this place is looking more and more like a house of horrors everyday. I just — I don’t understand why you would subject me to this sort of treatment. Did I do something to deserve it?”

“What do you mean?” He says, giving his head that curious carrion bird tip again. “You were the one who came to the Northland Bank that day seeking help and I gave it to you, did I not? So what is the problem exactly?” 

“Yes — I was there that day to seek out Lord Regrator’s help. Not yours.”

Dottore scoffs a mirthless laugh to that. “I’m afraid I fail to see what the difference is. Pantalone and I aren’t really all that dissimilar, are we?” 

You give your head a slow shake now. “It’s not wrong to say you share similar traits with one another. But it also stands to reason that I chose to implore Lord Regrator over any of Her Majesty’s other Harbingers for a reason. Doesn’t it? I thought … since he’s only a banker and not much someone would expect to see on the front lines, if what they say about him is true, then that had to mean I would be relatively safe with him.”

The Doctor barks a not entirely mirthless laugh. 

“Ah, yes. That poor, helpless banker always seems like the safer choice, doesn’t he? But as much as it does pain me to be the bearer of bad news, I’m afraid I must inform you that Pantalone has his own bad personality traits too. I wouldn’t recommend underestimating him simply because he looks so lovely and fair. He wears a mask just as I do, even if it’s not one you can see outright on his person.” 

A hot pulse of surprise curls through your chest then, and not only because you’d had similar thoughts about Pantalone’s invisible mask. The way he talks about the Lord Harbinger carries with it an unmistakably fond note, a hint of familiarity that takes you back to the drawing room. Was it possible that he was also …

But Dottore goes on before you can truly examine that thought, so you have to quickly tuck it away for later. 

“With that being said let me remind you, little mouse, that you are perfectly safe here with us. Even if it may not always seem that way, none in our ranks would ever actually do something to jeopardize your role here. I told you before, didn’t I? We don’t want to do it ourselves. It will have been a waste of my time and energy to secure your cooperation and bring you here just to then turn around and kill you. Which is precisely why I was so very pleased that you made the right decision yesterday.”

You stand up a little straighter with the chilly tremor that runs up your spine at that reminder. Yes, you recalled quite well the sense of impending danger that had come over you when he’d posed that million mora question. Would you stay or would you go? Even if he asked again, you’re quite sure your answer would still be the same. As much as you wanted to check in on your mother yourself, you knew you couldn’t leave Zandik alone with this jackal. 

“But, my lord,” you stammer at last, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t even understand why you would go to such lengths in the first place if you care so little for Master Zandik. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You despise him. Even though he’s …”

“Me?” He helpfully supplies. Mouth tugging into a crooked grin, Dottore sits up once again but this time he crosses his arms over his chest, one finger tapping at his bicep as if in thought. “That’s right. He is ‘I’ and ‘I’ am him. And yet you are undeniably correct. I don’t particularly care for the old fool. Would you like to take a guess as to why?”

You give a numb shake of your head. 

“It is because he is inferior and soon to be obsolete. Oh, but don’t look so surprised, my dear. It’s true, isn’t it? His physical and even mental acuity are on a sharp decline, and have been for some time now. As I said before, I simply can’t imagine he has that many more years left in him at this point. Or so I could only hope. Meanwhile, I am Zandik when he was at his peak. Physically. Intellectually. Every aspect of my condition is perfectly honed and sharpened.”

“The Prime.” You murmur, echoing the surgeon’s words and earning yourself a rather gracious incline of his head. 

“Very good. You are paying attention. I do so like to know that what I am telling you isn’t just going in one ear and out the other.”

You can’t help but shudder at that uncomfortably familiar phrase. You’d heard the exact same thing down in the cellar. “Well, I can certainly see the — similarities between you and the other one. But, my lord, if you really feel that way about Master Zandik then why even concern yourself with his care? Why bring me here?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He volleys back in a way that would seem to suggest he was lifting his eyebrows at you. “It’s really only another form of self preservation once you get right down to it. Even in a perpetual state of self loathing, sympathy for oneself is just part of the human condition, is it not? Even when you have none to spare for anyone else. Besides, the old fool wouldn’t be such bad company if he were not so feeble now. I dare say, I even used to rather enjoy our discussions.” 

Thinking that probably went without saying, given how much he clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice, you nervously shift there in front of him. “I see. So, even though you look down on him for what he’s become in his old age you still recognize that he’s one part of yourself. Then … may I ask how many of you there are?” 

“Hm. Give or take, I’d say there are about seven of us now.”

“… give or take, sir?” 

“Why, yes. Zandik created quite a few segments of himself throughout his life, and not simply out of pure vanity. As I’m sure you can imagine, it is quite efficient to be able to split one’s time and energy across multiple consciouses, each with their own unique perspective shaped by what stage of life they were in at the moment of their freezing. Let’s think of it as … a snapshot in time, shall we? An eighteen year old, for example, is going to have a much different take on a conundrum than a sixty-five year old. We’ve made some very worthwhile breakthroughs simply by utilizing ourselves as a springboard, so to speak. But of course we’ve had to sacrifice one or two over the years, for the greater good and in the name of progress. You understand.” 

Despite your best efforts to remain calm in the face of this information, you just can’t seem to keep the shock out of your expression. Seven? And you’d only met two of them so far. Three, if you were generous enough to include that little pervert in your room last night. But you were hesitant to bring him up or mention that alarming encounter with him in the bedroom, for fear that you might accidentally stick your foot in your mouth and let it slip that you had not been entirely truthful about when and how you’d first seen him. As much as you wanted to file a formal complaint about your slippers, one missing, one ruined beyond salvation, you knew it was probably better to keep your mouth shut about it. 

Still, seven was — a lot. More than you’d expected. 

“I see … and are all of these ‘segments’ living down in the basement, then?” 

“No, no. You don’t need to fret about that, dear. We all freely come and go as dictated by our whims and research. You might meet them, you might not. I suppose it depends on if they decide to show themselves to you.”

“But who are they? What do they go by? Surely you can’t all be Zandik.”

A thoughtful little hum. “Well, of course it goes without saying that there’s me. Omega. And then there’s Beta  - -“

“Wait.” You lift a hand, cutting him off. A little too frazzled and worn thin to worry about being rude. “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep track of who’s who just by those designations. There must be another way to tell them apart … you said they’re all Zandik at different life stages, right? Then what ages are they?”  

Chuckling a low, drawling sound, the Doctor drops his hands to his lap where he idly clasps them together. “Interesting. I don’t believe I ever thought to use such a simple method of differentiation before. It’s — quaint. But to answer the question, between us there is eight, eighteen, twenty-two, twenty-five, thirty-five — yours truly, by the way — forty-five and sixty-five. And Zandik, of course, is currently eighty-four years old, as you already know.”

Your head starts to spin so fast you feel like you just might pass out on the spot. That was a lot to swallow, a lot to take in and process anyway, but … 

“Eight? There’s a — a child running around here?” You can’t seem to keep the horror out of your voice, but that only makes his grin widen. 

“I don’t believe he’s here right now, but yes. Don’t worry though, little mouse. Even at that age, ‘I’ was rather precocious and far more intellectually gifted than my peers. My eight year old self doesn’t need to be coddled anymore than I do. In fact, if you are anything like the adults who were around ‘me’ at that age, you might even find yourself thinking of him as rather unsettling.” 

You flinch as if he’d just reached out and slapped you. “I wouldn’t think that of a child, my lord.” 

“Oh, but it’s alright if you do. It won’t bother him or the rest of us. I’d even go so far as to say he’s quite used to it by now.”

“… that’s terrible.”

“No. It is simply the way of things.” Exhaling a curt breath, the Doctor sedately spreads his hands out to either side in a persuasive manner. 

“A fear of the unknown and mysterious is just another facet of the human experience, is it not? As such, most people are perfectly content not to ask too many questions or wonder outside of the simple, easy to comprehend boundaries already dictated by popular understanding. They don’t want to know any more than that. They cower at the thought of what real truths might be uncovered by digging any further than what is considered to be the norm. And when those same, small minded individuals see someone — a child, no less — asking too many questions and digging much deeper than what is necessary, that has a tendency to put them ill at ease. They don’t want to know what lies beyond the pale of human consciousness and they don’t want anyone else to know either. It’s safer that way for the collective. Less chance of something disastrous coming of it.” 

A cold, hard lump starts to settle in the pit of your stomach as you stand there, listening to him talk. Is that what Lord Regrator meant when he’d said Zandik hadn’t been shown much kindness in his life, or at least some small part of it? He was … rejected as a child by those around him for being too smart, too precocious, too strange in his single-minded pursuit of knowledge. Even that which was forbidden, by the sounds of it. Even that which was dangerous or blasphemous to the gods. That probably explained why he’d questioned you as he had in the bedroom yesterday, before you’d snuck off on your own. 

If what the Doctor is telling you was really true then that would also seem to account for Zandik’s prickly, tightly guarded demeanor as well. And why it had taken you so long to earn even a small sliver of his trust. No wonder it was as difficult as pulling teeth to get him to lower his walls — and why the few, fleeting moments when he did let them down, it always felt so overwhelmingly meaningful. You couldn’t believe he’d lived a life like that. 

“Oh, my. How curious. Does that make you sad, darling mouse?” The Doctor croons, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“A - a little, my lord. But I can promise you this won’t change anything for me. Not where this child is concerned, and … not Master Zandik either.” 

“Frankly, it wouldn’t matter much to me if it did. All I really care about where it involves you is that the job I have tasked you with is seen to and taken care of as our terms dictated it would be. It’s a bit off of the current topic — we’re here to discuss your rule breaking and reestablish expectations, after all. But if you don’t mind me saying so I think you’ve done exceptionally well at this task thus far. Even taking into consideration the extra liberties you’ve engaged in and the flagrant disobedience yesterday, I really do have to commend you for all your effort in seeing to that old fool’s care. He seems to be doing quite well and you certainly have more patience than any of us do. That is why I wanted to have this discussion, to clear things up and make sure we’re on the same page. Now that you know the truth I don’t mind being transparent with you on the one condition that your cooperation remains assured. I do not have the time or the desire to track down another maid.”

You swallow hard, dropping your gaze deferentially as a potent flood of relief suddenly washes over you to nearly drop you on your ass. Did that mean he really didn’t plan on getting rid of you then? It was a little hard to believe given the circumstances, but it did make a certain amount of sense. You were already here, already committed to the task. Knowing him as well as you were starting to know him, you’re not particularly surprised that he wouldn’t want to go through all the trouble of finding someone else. It was probably you or nothing. 

“I understand, my lord, and I’m happy to oblige your request of me. B - but, if I may … there is one other thing I have to say while I have the chance.”

“Go on.”

Determined to say your peace, you stubbornly bring your attention back up to scowl at him. “How can you possibly say that I am safe here when the one from yesterday terrorized me for so long? I thought for sure I was going to die multiple times throughout that ordeal and I'm certain the only thing that saved me from an even worse fate was your unexpected appearance. You … you said he was you at twenty-five, didn’t you? I must admit it — frightens me more than I’d like, to think that you might share those same tastes. Especially when I consider that there are more than just the two of you.” 

Chuckling under his breath, Dottore once again shifts atop the sofa seat to cross his legs now, giving his propped up foot a casual, slow motion flex. “That’s right. Zandik was just starting to settle fully into adulthood at twenty-five. More comfortable in his own skin than ever before, confident. Physically capable and powerful. His genius at long last found a sufficient outlet in the form of medical research. You didn’t like him, little mouse?” 

“We didn’t really get a chance to chat.” You grumble, saying it as politely as you can bring yourself. 

“A pity. Perhaps next time the two of you will find the opportunity to get to know each other better.”

At your sharp, glowering look, he issues another drawling laugh that makes his shoulders tremble even as he brings a hand up to thoughtfully stroke his jaw. 

“Oh, don’t sulk. I’m only joking. Although I won’t pretend your lingering reservations are completely unfounded, I must confess that I fail to see the problem.”

Pausing, he puts his head to one side, the gesture decidedly inquisitive, before going on. Like he truly couldn’t understand what would have you so out of sorts about what happened. 

“He didn’t kill you or maim you, and I’m quite certain he didn’t do any long lasting damage to your body either. Based on what I observed and my own understanding of ‘myself’, I have no reason to believe he was doing anything other than playing with you. Did that truly upset you so much?” 

“Well … yes. I have to admit it did. He didn’t even ask me first and I told him to stop more than once, but he wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I didn’t really want him touching me like that.”

“And yet, you seem to have no problem with letting Zandik touch you?”

Your cheeks flood with embarrassed heat at having that thrown back at you. And the worst part was you couldn’t even deny it. Yes, not only did you seem to not have any issue at all with that but you’d even invited it, craved it almost to the point of madness. But how did he know anything about it when he was, at least to your knowledge, so rarely ever present in the house? 

“D - did Master Zandik tell you that?” 

Smirking at that shyly stammered question, the Doctor gives his head a curt nod. “Indeed he did. We had quite a long discussion last night, after you left us. Him and I, and … hm. I suppose for the sake of simplicity, you’ll probably want to refer to him as 25, won’t you? The three of us talked through what happened, both the cause and the consequence, and I do believe we came to a mutual agreement between us.” 

You all but wither there on your feet, silently begging a black hole to open in the floor and swallow you up. There is no running away from this conversation though, or the truths he’s imparting to you, and you have no choice but to gather your courage enough to stand tall under the burning spotlight of his attention. 

“And I suppose you’re going to let me in on what you decided without me there to even defend myself?”

“But of course. You first though.” 

“Alright.” You breathe out, struggling to get your thoughts in order. “Then I guess I’ll just say it. Yes, I have found myself very — taken with Master Zandik. I admit I'm … fond of him. More than I ever expected to be with anyone. But, my lord, even if I choose to invite one into my bed that is not an invitation for all. I don’t even know you or - or 25 hardly at all yet. Or Lord Regrator for that matter. And that’s aside from the fact that my body was never part of our original agreement. As much as I don’t expect you to understand this, I have to be honest when I say that the incident down in the cellar left me feeling … violated. And not very safe, if you want the truth.” 

The Doctor’s smile is gone now, and his voice holds a tight edge to it when he speaks next. “Are you really suggesting that you would prefer an old man with one foot already in the grave over one of his younger selves? Even the version of him that was in the prime of his life?” 

You almost find yourself cowering back from the bite in that question, but you stubbornly stand your ground. It was now or never. “Yes, my lord. As of this moment I do like him better than you, and certainly more than 25. And is it really any wonder why? Y - you accosted me in the library the other day, you made me take your fingers even when - -“ 

“And if you’ll also recall the verbal exchange between us in the library,” he cuts you off, letting a faint growl color his words now. “I told you that I could do anything that fossil can do for you, and I could do it so much better. Do you not think you are selling yourself a little short by choosing an old man at the end of his life over any other option available to you? After all, you are still so young and aesthetically pleasing to look at. I might even go so far as to call you beautiful. Even if we remove the factor of one of the hypothetical ‘me’s, I’d still wager that you’d look much better on Pantalone’s arm than on his.” 

Somehow you just can’t seem to keep the shock off your face while you try and fail to wrap your head around that. This place really was going to drive you mad. 

“Do you mean to say … you would rather even see me with Lord Regrator than Master Zandik?”

“I would like nothing more than to see you helpless and folded up underneath me, little mouse.” He snaps, sneering at you now. “What you do beyond that and with whom doesn’t really concern me. I simply wish to highlight the difference for you, so that you fully understand just how naive your current position really is. If you want my honesty so bad then I’ll admit my interest in you only goes so far as making you realize that I am the better Zandik in every possible way. Is that clear enough for you?” 

You flinch back, recoiling at the barbed wire sting of his words as much as your own reeling disbelief. Ever so slowly, the pieces were starting to fall into place now. The Doctor didn’t actually want you. He never did. His one and only objective was to assert himself as the dominant male, bask in the validation of reasserting himself as the prime consciousness. It was just typical masculine grandstanding you might expect from any other man still young enough to have not tempered his ego yet. You’d been right to give him a wide berth of space. Although Zandik still had his pride, certainly, at least he was not so caught up in his own testosterone fueled power trip. 

“Well, dear? I’m waiting.” 

“… yes, sir. I understand perfectly.” 

And just like the switch is flipped. 

“Good. Then, do you have any other questions for me? Are you still prepared to uphold your end of our agreement now that you know everything?” 

Your hands fist into the front of your apron, balling the material so hard they shake. “Yes, sir. It will be my honor to stay on and continue seeing to Master Zandik’s care.” 

The Doctor’s body language reads as being really quite pleased now as he straightens up, unfolding his legs to brace both feet on the floor again. Almost as if he were readying himself to start a laborious, information dense lecture. 

“Excellent decision, my dear. I do hope you understand just how much I appreciate that willingness to cooperate. Then, with that settled, let me share with you our conclusions from last night. First;” he intones, holding up a single finger. “So long as you agreed to stay here and take care of that old wretch as you have been, we decided that it would only be fair if the segments are likewise free to come and go as they please. 25 made it quite clear how troublesome it is to have to sneak around in what is essentially one’s own home, and I wasn’t inclined to say he was wrong about that.”

Your mouth flies open to protest but the Doctor is quick to cut across you. 

“Ah, ah. On the one condition that there is no more skulking about in the shadows to draw the attention of curious little mice who don’t realize how close to the spring trap they wander. Any new, let’s say, arrivals will be properly announced so that there are no more unexpected surprises. You can thank Zandik for that concession.”

An icy chill creeps through your numb body. Did he mean … 

“You - you told him, then? About why I went into the cellar yesterday?” 

“Of course. We couldn’t very well have a productive discussion without all of the facts, now could we?” 

Drawling a low, rumbling chuckle at the floored look on your face, he gives his head a solemn shake. “Poor little mouse. How transparent and easy to read you are. I can tell you’re displeased with me for not speaking up about it sooner, but what can I say? I was curious to find out how Zandik would choose to punish you and I can’t say I was disappointed in his methods. I rather liked watching you get pulled over his lap and having your skirt flipped up, if you want the truth. I think it suited you. But unfortunately for your sore bottom, your penance isn’t quite finished just yet.”

“… w - what do you mean?” 

“Two;” he goes on, lifting a second finger. “At my behest as your employer and the one who is paying your salary, Zandik agreed to let me punish you in whatever way I see fit. Oh, but don’t look so shocked, dear. Although you did look appropriately chastised when you sulked out of the room with your sad little head hanging down, I just don’t think that old fool’s efforts were enough to truly get the message across. I want to make absolutely certain that there will not be another incident like the one yesterday.” 

The still tender skin across your ass prickles warmly at the remembered pain as much as the imagined discomfort that was sure to come if he really decided to spank you again. And most horrifying of all is how your pussy gives a muted little throb of interest in response, stirring entirely against your will. You wouldn’t have ever thought yourself a masochist prior to this, and yet that seemed to be exactly what this place was turning you into. It really was mortifying and shameful. 

And as if that wasn’t bad enough you also knew he was right. Although it had certainly hurt in the moment, you were well aware that this was likely due more to the length at which you were spanked and not so much the force behind it. The waning strength in Zandik’s body meant he needed to pace himself, to drag it out long enough to make the sting settle through repetition rather than sheer power. The Doctor though … he was physically fit and more than capable of giving you a good beating. Even putting aside the humiliation, you were quite certain being spanked by him would be so, so much worse than what you’d already experienced once. 

No way could you just blithely go along with this. 

“I - is that really necessary?” You finally manage to say, wrestling to get the words out around your own thrumming, fidgety nerves now. “I swear I won’t do anything like that ever again, my lord. Even if you don’t punish me any further. I promise I learned my lesson. B - but if you must do it, does it have to be that? Can’t you choose a different method?”

The Doctor clicks his tongue, tut tutting at you. “Really now, trying to bargain your way out of a much deserved spanking isn’t going to do you any good, I’m afraid. I saw exactly what sort of physiological effect it had on you last night. The way you wilted and withered, cringing even when he was not striking you. And let’s not beat around the bush, shall we? If you’ll excuse the turn of phrase, that is.”

You make a face at that but he just goes on, unperturbed. 

“You’ve more than earned at least this much. What do you think the punishment would have been if you’d broken something important while you were off traipsing around in the cellar, hm? You have no comprehension of how important, how much time and energy, and not to mention how much of Pantalone’s mora, has been poured into some of the experiments and the equipment down there. I’m not here to threaten you, little mouse, but do understand that I would have been even less pleased with your behavior than I was, and the consequences would have been even more unpleasant for you as a result. The only thing that seems to have saved you from being thoroughly trussed up by my hands is the fact that 25 found you before you could do any real damage to anything.” 

Whimpering softly at the reprimand in his voice, you anxiously shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to blink back the rising sting of tears. You really didn’t want to let him put his hands on you like that, but it was clear enough that you didn’t have much of a choice. It was either this or invite something even worse upon yourself. At least this was even an option though, and they hadn’t decided to just kill you outright and get it over with, but still … 

“Fine. I’ll do it. But I want your word that this will be the end of it, and there will be no more punishments. From any of you.” 

He barks a harsh laugh, sounding amused and maybe just a little impressed with your gall to start making demands. “I cannot and will not promise you that there will never be another reason to punish you. That all depends entirely on you, doesn’t it? But what I can tell you is this; as far as your transgression regarding the cellar is concerned, you will no longer be in any trouble once you leave this office today. That is assuming, of course, that you do not make me have to use force to wrangle you under control as if you were little more than a petulant child.”

Affront creeps across your face, but you bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying what you really want in response to that. He truly was an egoistic jerk on a power trip! No wonder 25 had reminded you so much of him and less of Zandik. 

“I won’t fight you. If it must be done, then so be it. Is that everything, sir?”  

“Ah, yes. One more thing.” Grinning another sharp little smile under his mask, the Doctor rather ominously lifts a third finger to join the first two. 

“The final term we agreed on was that, while Zandik might technically be your master and the person you report directly to, it should be well within the rights of the segments to borrow you from him for a time. It stands to reason, does it not, that you are the singular maid in this household which is generally shared with Pantalone, when he is able to come, as well the other segments. There should be no reason why you can’t assist elsewhere when we have use of you.”

Smirking as if he’s just played the winning checkmate, the Doctor nudges his chin up with a haughty little chuckle, taking the opening of your stunned silence to continue his indictment of you. 

“I’ll even be nice and let you in on a little secret. 25 seems to be rather smitten with the idea of taking you on as an assistant despite your less than confidence inspiring display yesterday. And I’m sure you’ll also be quite pleased to know that the old man certainly didn’t want to give you up very easily, but he did finally relent on the compromise that his permission has to be granted first. I suppose that should also assuage some of your concerns about safety, no? From this point on none of us will be allowed to abscond with you without authorization from your beloved old wretch.” 

Your brows slowly knit in response to that pointed jab at Master Zandik even as a dull flutter of understanding starts up in the back of your mind. So that’s what he was angling for, using the situation created by your own lack of foresight to renegotiate the terms of the initial agreement. This would essentially make you beholden to the whims of all of them by the sounds of it, but … Zandik had very likely realized this as well, and that’s why he’d insisted on a clause to better define the rules of engagement between them and you. 

Somehow that just about breaks your heart. He’d still been looking out for you even when he was displeased with you and mad enough to take you over his lap like a disobedient toddler. Your punishment had in all likelihood come from a place of caring then, even if his methods were a bit questionable. His attempt to warn you in the library was to that end too, you now realize. He’d said he didn’t want you to be scared and he was right. You would have been terrified if you’d known what was coming given the already bruised state of your bottom. 

Still though. Some part of that makes you inexplicably happy. And if they’d truly discussed what happened – what really happened, and not what Zandik had assumed, then that also meant he already knew you weren’t a bad girl. Not in the way he’d chided you for, anyway. He hadn’t been mad at you earlier, just … worried and remorseful. It was unexpectedly sweet in the face of this otherwise terrifying situation. 

Gods, you felt like an absolute twit, but you’re glad for the sense of relief that comes over you all the same. Finally, you could breathe easy again. At least where the old man was concerned. 

“I understand, my lord.” You say, finally lifting your head. “Then I will defer that authority to Master Zandik from here on and obey his judgment without question.”

“Hmph. Another pretty answer. But no matter. I’ll take it.” Exhaling a somewhat terse, anticipatory breath, the Doctor gives his right thigh a sharp pat. “Come, then. To my side, little mouse.”

You give a small jolt at that. “… right now?” 

“But of course. I’ll have to leave soon, and I would hate for any part of this to remain unsettled. Better to just get it done and over with, don’t you think?” 

Your stomach does a nervous flip that makes you feel well and truly sick, but you still frantically cobble together your resolve and move to step around the low table that stands between you and him. In many ways this is even worse than last night. You hadn’t known what was about to happen, for starters, and you’d also been unable to make the decision for yourself. You’d simply been steered into place, handed off between one set of hands to another and then forced into position. 

Now, though, you have to wrestle with your own self preservation instincts and a fight or flight response that goes absolutely haywire to make you feel jittery. Completely under your own compulsion, your own power, you shuffle around to come stand at his elbow even when you know what awaits you. It’s nerve wracking enough to almost make you collapse. 

But you obediently halt next to the couch, keeping your chin tucked down as you nervously fold your hands in front of you. You flick a quick, surreptitious glance at his waiting lap and then back down again, unable to look. Haltingly, you start to fidget. 

“Do I just … should I - -“ 

“Not yet. I’d like you to take your panties down for me first.”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?” 

The Doctor chuckles at that, a slow, grinding sound that seems to caress over every inch of your body. “What’s wrong, little mouse? Aren’t you wearing any today? And here I was so ready to pin all the blame for that on 25. I didn’t expect you to be such an exhibitionist. How unexpected.” 

Your cheeks couldn’t possibly get any hotter at this point, but you press your lips into a warbling line to stop yourself from arguing back. He was right. It likely was better just to get this done and over with, and he’d probably always have some smart comeback waiting and at the ready for you anyway. Arguing wouldn’t do you any good. 

So you hesitantly reach underneath your skirt, finding the hem of your panties to slowly tug them down until they hit the tiny metal clasps where the garterbelt connects to your stockings. Unable to push them any lower, your hands anxiously flit for a moment, indecisive, before shyly curling up to hover at about waist level. 

“Would you … like me to step completely out of them, sir?”

“No need. That should do just nicely. Now lift your dress.” 

A small whimper slips out even though you probably should have seen that coming, and on some level you sort of did. Honestly you weren’t sure why you would have ever expected anything less from this man. 

But you do it without complaint and only minimal embarrassment. It seems that in the repeated exposure of your nether region you were slowly — horrifyingly — starting to grow accustomed to these flagrant displays. And it helps that this is not unlike how you’d presented your cunt to Master Zandik in the library, your quim giving an eager little throb at the memory as you gather the hem of your flouncy skirt and lift it up. You immediately shudder at the waft of cool air against your heated skin, trying to pretend like you don’t notice the goosebumps erupting all over you. 

And the Doctor just takes a moment to simply admire you standing there before him like that, evidently drinking in the sight of the soft curls between your legs (you can’t help but wonder if he would find them slightly damp to the touch) and the soft, cushiony pudge where your thighs spill out over the tops of your stockings. He must like what he sees, you can only surmise, because he sedately leans back against the sofa to make room for you across his lap. And you don’t miss the vibrating thrum of tension that seems to curl through him when he does it. 

“Prostrate yourself. I’m not going to make this as easy for you as Zandik did by guiding you into position. I want you to make the decision and choose your fate all on your own, little mouse. This is as much a test as it is a punishment.”

You visibly twitch at that, cursing the heavy weight in your chest that threatens to choke you up and suffocate you. But you make a valiant effort to maintain your dignity in front of him and, with only a prim little sniff, you nudge closer to hesitantly lower yourself across his legs. 

It’s an even more awkward experience than it had been last night, he was certainly right about that, particularly when your butt is already exposed to the room with the lifting of your skirt. Tense and halting, you struggle to find a somewhat comfortable angle at which to lay out over his thighs only to quickly find that there simply isn’t one. It was likely part of the punishment, as small of a thing as it might be, yet another aspect of the humiliation ritual. Finally, having no other choice and with your heart lodged in your throat, you force your body to come to rest on your stomach and you go still, waiting for the pin to drop. 

For a drawn out moment he neither says or does anything at all. The only sounds in the room come from the ticking clock hanging on the far wall, your slightly labored breaths and the deep, steady drags of the Doctor’s lungs. 

Then, surprising you enough to make you jump, one gloved hand slides into place over the back of your neck and gently nudges. 

“Further. I want this round bottom of yours in the air.”

You make a small, unbidden squeak at that but you comply with this too. Lifting your body slightly, you shuffle even closer and then drape yourself over his legs again. You immediately realize why he’d wanted you like this, when the change in position leaves your head dangling almost down to the floor and the pressure on your stomach only increases as your back end is forced into a higher jut. Positioned like this, you have to stretch your legs out behind you and just press the toes of your shoes into the wood grain to maintain some semblance of balance. How insidious. 

“There. That’s much better.” Dottore finally coos, leaving the one hand on the back of your neck to keep you in place while the other finds your lower back and then smooths down one side of your ass. The sensation is enough to have you trembling, breaking out into a fresh wave of prickling gooseflesh, and you mewl a quiet sound at the contact to already sore nerves. 

You really were still aching from your last spanking and this was only going to make it that much worse. Dammit. 

“Don’t fuss now, darling. I know how unpleasant this is but believe me, it hurts me even more than it hurts you to have to subject you to this treatment.” Sighing a rather wistful, put upon exhale, he takes a moment to drag his hand up the other side, slightly lifting one fleshy globe before giving your butt a light, attention grabbing pat. “Spread your legs. Same as before, little mouse. And keep them open.” 

With no shortage of effort, you nudge your feet apart until you’ve got them spread much the same as the last time you’d found yourself in this situation. But the sofa is much lower than the chair in the dining room was, so you have much less space to stretch out in or find any traction with your shoes. The end result is that you’re forced to settle fully on your stomach, your toes barely leveraging balance now, and you quietly seethe when you realize, much like before, he’s made sure you have as little room as possible in which to lurch or absorb the blows. You would be completely at the mercy of his hand and the resulting, skin crawling recoil like this. 

But contrary to what he’d said, he doesn’t seem to be much in a hurry to get this done and over with and you give a tiny jolt when he slips that hand between your thighs, still crooning at you, to cup around your bare cunt. The Doctor gives it a squeeze and a patronizing jostle to make the nerves vibrate slightly. Groaning, you struggle to blink through the rosy haze that starts to descend over you. 

To have this sort of reaction when you were simultaneously queasy with fear … there really must have been something wrong with you. 

“What a good girl you’re being now. I must say, it did surprise me a great deal when I found that grumpy old badger alone and having quite the fit I might add. It didn’t seem like you to go against direct orders like that. But I suppose you would have me believe it was for a good reason, wouldn’t you?” 

You self consciously shift at that but try to play it off as if you were trying to get comfortable, stamping down the urge to squirm. Surely he couldn’t have known you’d stretched the truth to justify your actions … could he? 

“I - it’s true, my lord. What I told you was the truth. I saw - -“

“Yes, yes, I remember what you said. That you witnessed — I suppose you would feel inclined to call him 22, wouldn’t you? — when he was coming or going, and that raised your suspicions. And just like a good little maid should, you ever so bravely faced the horrors in the cellar. Isn’t that right?” 

A stilted nod of your head. “Yes. That’s right, sir.”

Humming a vague sound, the Doctor gives one side of your ass an almost thoughtful squeeze before slowly dragging his hand across to do the same on the other. But this time he digs his gloved fingers deep into already bruised flesh, making you yelp a startled squawk of discomfort. Even then, he just keeps squeezing. 

“It is a bit interesting though.” He says, perfectly casual and offhand despite the pinching force of his fingers on your skin. “That idiot 22 has been rather preoccupied with assembling a proto type mech arm for the last handful of months. He’s been working on it since even before you arrived here. I’m not sure when you might have seen him considering he often locks himself up for days at a time to play with his little toys.” 

A frightened chill races down your spine at the implication that he really did know the truth, and you draw a sharp, half strangled breath — to say what, you do not know. And you never get the chance to find out what you might have said either when the hand on your ass suddenly retreats only to come back down a second later to a resounding CRACK! 

The force behind just that one single hit steals the oxygen from your lungs, making your chest cinch so tight you can’t seem to get any air at all as you stiffly rock forward as much as this position will allow. It’s not very far though and you’re forced to just sit with it as a result, the muscles down your extended legs trembling while you try to process the hurt now radiating out from your ass. 

It’s only then that you understand the full scope of the differences between them, unable to ignore it or look the other way when just a single slap has you reeling in shock. This was why he was considered the prime. He was considerably stronger than Zandik, and limber enough to use the full range of motion in his shoulder, the full extent of the musculature in his arm to put a great deal more power behind the swing of his hand. 

And what a heavy hand it was, sitting on the curve of your ass cheek right where it had landed while heat radiates out from under his palm. Almost without even realizing it there’s suddenly a flood of tears in your eyes but you desperately work to blink them away as you at last manage to suck in a delayed, faltering gasp. 

“Oww …” 

“Heh. It looks like this will not be quite as easy for you as the last spanking you received, darling mouse. You’ll soon find that I am not nearly as soft hearted as that old fool is, and I won’t hold back just because of some sentimental notions of fondness. Zandik is free to try and protect you as much as he wants. But I am not nearly so lenient.” 

With that, his hand slips away and you frantically try to brace yourself for the next strike but nothing can quite prepare you for the way he cracks you across the other side, sending shockwaves rippling up your quaking body. You have a split second, hysterical thought that his glove probably isn’t helping, the way it seems to catch the skin and stick, but you quickly realize it wouldn’t even matter if he’d taken it off. He’s too powerful, too in control of his limbs, his posture, the way he subtly shifts underneath you with the raising of his arm and a soft slither of fabric and then —

CRACK! Back on the first cheek again, to nearly send your skin crawling off of your bones as you helplessly rock with the momentum, gasping woundedly like a drowning animal. It devastates you right down to your very core, and when he reaches across to smack the other side just as hard as the first time you can’t quite seem to stop your legs from futilely kicking out behind you, twisting in agony. 

Evidently unperturbed by all of your wild squirming, the Doctor picks up the pace by a small margin, swatting at the left cheek and then the right again. CRACK! CRACK! In agonizingly quick succession. 

Unable to stopper it any longer, you let loose a harried, high pitched squeal and jerk against his thighs when he smacks the left side again. But on the next slap to the right, he catches the crease where your ass meets your thigh just right and a blinding burst of splinters shoot through you like a million fiery pinpricks. It has you clenching your teeth, seething, so caught up in the agony of it that you almost don’t even notice the tears streaking down your face or the dribble of leaky snot coming from your nose. You just don’t think you can endure this the same way you did Zandik’s spanking and you outright squeal, bringing your legs together in a tight press to protect your naked cunt from the wrath of his hand. That last blow had been more than just a bit too close for comfort. So close you’d felt the aching stab of it in your quim. 

This, however, seems to displease him, and he begins to rain a stinging procession of punishing blows down on your defenseless ass even quicker now. “What did I tell you, little mouse? I said to keep your legs open for me.” 

“I - I caaant — ough! Wh - whaaaa, please, please, it hurts — ahhh!” 

“It is supposed to hurt, my dear. That is the whole point of pulling disobedient little girls over my knee, is it not? Ah, but if you really can’t keep them spread, then … perhaps next time I will have to remember to bring some rope with me, so that I might tie you down on the table and help you obey. Really, now. You’ve always been so well mannered, I didn’t think I needed to take the time to educate you this much.”

“I’m sorry! I’m suh - sorry, sir! I’m — yeeek! I’m s - sorry!” 

All but blinded by the tears, you frantically reach back with your outermost hand in a vain attempt to shield yourself. It’s impulsive and instinctive, but even knowing it’s a foolish decision and one likely to agitate his ire you just can’t seem to think straight or control the motor functions of your heaving frame when he’s lighting your ass up like that. It robs you of your breath, it makes your higher functioning mind short circuit and, if he kept at it this vigorously for much longer, you were sure you’d soon lose your bladder control too. 

But the Doctor just gives his tongue a sharp little click and reaches for your wrist with the hand that had been on your neck. The other is still slapping back and forth between your blistering cheeks, undaunted by the mindless kicking of your feet. 

“Goodness, it does appear to me that you are in need of a proper training regiment. I had no idea your manners were so lacking.” He mutters, perhaps more to himself than to you, as he somewhat ruthlessly pulls your arm into a tight bend and then pins it against your lower back. “Leave it there. You may grab onto the tie of your apron if it will help you.”

The angle is all wrong, pulling on your shoulder and giving you even less wiggle room when your upper half is now twisted in place with that awkward wrench. Whimpering and whining, you shudderingly find the strip of cloth cinched around your waist somewhere in the mess of fabric and slip your fingers underneath it, which earns you a quiet hum of approval. 

“Yes. I do believe some strong ropes to help you stay still and in position will do you plenty of good, sweet mouse. And as for that mouth of yours …”

Humming a soft sound of consideration, he gives your captured arm a tight squeeze of warning before sliding his hand away, reaching up to curl under your jaw and shove those digits into your mouth instead. It’s not at all unlike what he’d done to you in the library, when he’d made you clean his glove of your own arousal, but in the middle of being spanked seems to make it that much more humiliating. You mewl around the intrusion, trying to turn your head away, but then he claps you across your ass again and you freeze. It’s like the pain is sucking out your energy, frying your brain, and you can’t seem to make your body cooperate beyond that. 

And it’s no wonder why he would choose to wedge your mouth open like this. Unable to bite down or clench your teeth anymore allows the heaving groans, the miserably faltering sobs and the rough gasps for air to slip out unhindered. It also quickly starts to make you drool, you realize in a far off, dreamy sort of way as you wetly swallow around his fingers. Just another level to the degradation. 

“Now,” he intones, punctuating this with another hard slap to your throbbing behind. “I want you to listen to me well, little mouse. Because I will not be repeating myself again.” 

SMACK! SMACK!

He goes on, speaking over your wailing moans. “For as long as you are here, you are subject to the will and whims of a Fatui Harbinger. Even if you think of Zandik as your true master, don't forget that I am the one who hired you and you would not be here right now if it were not at my discretion.” 

SMACK! SMACK! 

“And even if only by virtue of my title, I still hold the greater authority over you. That means if I tell you to jump, you should be leaping at the opportunity to ask me how high.” SMACK! “And if I ask you to explain yourself to me, then I expect the truth. I’m afraid you’re more than a few decades too early to think you can pull those sorts of childish tricks over on me.” SMACK! SMACK! “I don’t doubt that you did see that bumbling idiot given your accurate description of his mask,” SMACK! “But something tells me that was because you were wandering somewhere you shouldn’t have been.” SMACK! “Am I wrong?” 

You sadly shake your head, hiccuping a thick sound around his fingers, and he rewards you for your answer with yet another blistering swat. 

“As I thought. Then I hope you’ll excuse me for choosing to punish you like this, but I’m sure you know exactly why I thought it necessary.” SMACK! “Don’t you?” 

This time you force yourself to nod, even as you cough and spit up a bubbling sheet of drool that slowly oozes out to drip down your chin. 

“Then let’s try not to have a repeat of this most unpleasant experience, hm? I don’t mind playing the villain, you know. I’m quite good at it, in fact.” SMACK! SMACK! “So hate me all you wish. Prefer that old wretch over me if it suits you, but don’t test my charitable disposition where you are concerned again.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! “Considering that I would be well within my right to take you by force or even kill you if I so wished it, I’d say I’ve been very considerate of your autonomy up until now. Which is far more than most people can say of me. Do try to keep that in mind the next you find yourself in my presence, won’t you?” 

Sniveling so violently you snort some awful, unbecoming sound, you stiffly brace for the next strike. But it never comes. 

It takes you a long, drawn out moment to realize the Doctor has grown still above you and his hand is not lighting up your sore cheeks anymore, but that hardly comes as a true relief. It feels like your ass is on fire, somehow even hotter than your face, and it’s nearly impossible to wrap your reeling head around the sheer agony of it. Even if you had not already been spanked by Zandik you were sure it would have hurt just as much, no doubt about that. But to have those heavy handed swings pepper your behind on top of the lingering bruises … oh, it felt like you’d never be able to properly sit down ever again. 

All you can do is lie there, stretched across his lap, trying to catch your breath and failing miserably at it. You felt like you might really throw up and he doesn’t help combat that when the fingers in your mouth twist, hooking into the corner of your cheek to slightly pull you more to the side. A numb squeak of surprised confusion rattles out of you at the shuddering strings of spittle that drip out over your lips, unable to stop it like this. That glistening thread of saliva just keeps stretching lower and lower until it finally snaps, and the wad of spit hits the floor underneath you with a tiny plap.    

“Are we at a mutual understanding now, dear mouse? I trust I won’t have to have this conversation with you again, will I?” 

“N - nrohh shir …”

“Wonderful. I won’t be half as merciful a second time.”

His other hand returns to slide over your ass then, making you jolt so hard you nearly come right up off his lap, squealing. But all he does is smooth that gloved palm over the aching curve of one globular cheek, rubbing the hurt in to make you hiss a wounded groan. 

He does the same to the other side and then, cooing a soft sound of approval, he reaches up to unlatch your aching fingers from around the knotted tie of your apron. It takes longer than it should when your digits seem to be locked in place from how tightly you’d been clutching at it, but at last he manages to pry you loose. And then, surprising you a great deal, he directs your arm lower down to manually curl your trembling fingers into the meat of your own ass. 

“That’s a doll. Spread yourself open for me. Let me get a good look at you.” 

There’s nothing else you’d like to do less but, certain that you did not want to invite any further discipline from him, you hesitantly obey, pressing your fingertips deep into the plushy give and pulling to the side. 

“Good. Now, the other. Go on. Use both of your hands, darling.”

Sucking in a painfully hitching breath, you awkwardly shift atop his thighs, struggling to work your left hand between the press of his body where you’re tucked in against his front. Finally, you manage to extend your reaching fingers far back enough and you grab at the aching flesh even when it hurts to shyly tug your cheeks apart, baring you fully to not only the cool waft in the room but his piercing gaze too. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to block it all out, but it’s nearly impossible. The self conscious twitch of your puckering hole, the fleshy press where your labia meet to form a pudgy slit. You’re hyper aware of all of it, especially the insistent, throbbing pulse across your ass, only heightened by the grip you have on yourself. 

The Doctor coos at you once more, something quiet and nonsensical, as he slips his hand between your thighs again. It takes every ounce of willpower you have not to let go, not to shield yourself from his probing inspection and go scuttling away, but you force your thrumming body to stay prone and pliant for him. 

Even when he proceeds to slowly drag the pad of his thumb over the wrinkle of your asshole, lightly pulling at the flesh to make it slacken in the middle, you just groan a hissing breath. And yet more drool spills from your mouth, tongue lolling uselessly, to softly pitter patter on the hardwood beneath you. 

“According to 25, you seemed to rather like this sort of stimulation. Is that true?” 

You shake your head, noising a muffled, “Nuhh-uhh.” that makes you sound like you’re drunk. 

Snorting an amused chuckle, as if to say he doesn’t believe that, the Doctor takes a moment to just simply caress over that tight hole until it gradually starts to raise up under his ministrations. Coaxing it to relax, which it does completely against your will. And it becomes harder and harder to stop yourself from squirming, especially when you start to feel an unmistakably eager thrum start up in your lower gut. Was he really going to penetrate you like that? Could you actually take his finger without the excess of lubricant the surgeon had used? 

But then, a drawn out moment later, he abandons your pucker to reach further down and you can’t quite seem to decide if you were disappointed or relieved about that. He doesn’t give you the chance to figure it out, either, because he finds the apex of your pelvic mound where he sets in to lightly rub in slow, persuasive circles, encouraging you to warm up to his touch. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s handling you much more gently now, and the contrast between his rough fingering in the library as much as the toe curling spanking you’d just received has left you primed for a soft hand, or if it’s simply a matter of your cunt being just as overeager as Zandik liked to say it was, but you do give into that coaxing gesture. Almost embarrassingly fast. You can’t help it though as you shudderingly cant your hips into the source of your stimulation, much too eager for any amount of comfort or sympathy after everything that’s happened to make a better choice. 

And you positively hate yourself for it as soon as you do it, sobbing a broken, unhindered little sound that rattles and breaks off at the end, punctuated by the drawling laugh he croons at you. 

“Yes, you’re a good girl indeed. I don’t imagine I should have any further problems with you from here on out, will I?” 

You shake your head as much as you’re able to but the fingers hooked in your cheek make that difficult. He was right, though. Never again would you invite this sort of treatment from him, you’re quite sure of that. 

Especially when he then slips those deft fingertips away to press into the center seam of your body, pinching the skin just ever so slightly when he worms them into the meaty grip of your labia where he proceeds to hum a feigned sound of surprise. 

“My, what do we have here? I do believe you’re wet, little mouse. Is this all for me, or did you simply enjoy your spanking that much?”

Noising a tiny sound of protest, you subtly shift against his legs, fighting the urge to squirm. But he remains ever unperturbed, just slowly dragging those digits through the delicate creases and folds, smearing liquid arousal, with an utterly casual swipe of his hand. You’re ashamed at how much it actually makes you want it, to have him touching you like that. But any relief, any amount of gentle care, anything to distract you from the pain radiating out from your sore cheeks was much appreciated, and you reluctantly press back on him in supplication. 

The sharp rush of alleviation that comes when he obliges you, finding your sticky entrance and slowly pushing in, one fraction of an inch at a time, is almost enough to have you shattering to pieces right then and there. You just screw your eyes closed, breathing out a slow, shuddering breath, while that gloved finger slides up inside you on a mortifyingly smooth glide. 

“Oh, isn’t that cute. Your little hole twitches when I enter you like this. I take it you must rather like it, then?” Chuckling at your halfhearted groan of denial, the Doctor turns his wrist so that he can continue to finger your open with his first digit while his thumb comes up to rub slow, patient circles over your pucker again. 

“I think 25 was right and you do rather like being touched like this. If I were more of a tyrant I might choose to take offense at your fibbing, but don’t worry. I can tell this is still new to you, and I imagine your brain just hasn’t had a chance to catch up with the rest of your body yet. I’m quite certain you’ll come to love it in due time though. Who knows? You might even start to crave it. But, well. Given how greedy this little cunt of yours is, I doubt you’ll ever want anything more than to have it stuffed full and leaking. What do you think, hm? You want it all hours of the day, don’t you?” 

Such an intense tremor works through your body at his sultry, purred words that you need to readjust your clammy grip on your ass cheeks, struggling to keep them spread for him. Your neck droops bonelessly to one side, losing all of your strength and the will to keep fighting it the more he keeps touching you like that. 

But the Doctor is quick to tug on the inside of your cheek, using his hooked fingers to pull your head back up at an angle that makes you keen a weak sound. You can’t help feeling like a fish being reeled in, further humiliating you, and with the change in position the cool sheets of drool running down your chin start to dribble a slow path along your straining neck. He was making such a mess of you …

“Yuh - yeshh shir.” You stammer at the jostling nudge he gives you. 

“As I thought. It really is such a shame that I can’t stay and play with you more, but I fear my time for leisure is starting to draw to a close. Perhaps that old fool would like to have his way with you some more in my stead.” Heaving a somewhat dramatic exhale, the Doctor slides the hand between your legs out — much to your groaning frustration and dismay — to leave your quim vibrating after him, always eager for more. More, more, more. 

He was right to say you had a greedy pussy. 

The finger in your mouth also retreats to leave you gingerly working your jaw and swallowing hard to lubricate your dried out throat. Quickly letting go of your ass, you bring a quaking hand up to wipe some of the spit from your face, grimacing at the sticky mess you find. You’d have to stop in your room to freshen up first once you were allowed to leave. 

“You may stand.” He says, and you fumble to do just that even when your legs almost refuse to cooperate. 

But you manage, somehow, unsteadily pushing yourself upright to awkwardly settle into place at his side, standing at attention with no shortage of effort. Your hands tremulously clasp together in front of you, head bowed, and you give the Doctor a stiff bow. “Th - thank you for having this discussion with me today, and also … your correction of my behavior, sir. I swear it will not happen again.” 

At his gracious nod, you start to reach for your panties with every intention of pulling them up so you can beat a hasty retreat, but he stops you with an almost rueful cluck of his tongue. 

“Ah, ah. Not just yet, little mouse. Don’t you still have a mess to clean up?” 

You shoot him a bewildered, tear stained look, but he just nudges his chin down at the small puddle of drool you’d left behind on the flooring. It should be physically impossible for your face to get any hotter than it already is and yet, somehow, you manage to do just that, flushing in indignation. You wished you could snap at him and point out that it was his fault, but you wisely keep that thought to yourself. 

Instead, you snifflingly reach into a pocket in the apron to withdraw your handkerchief, leaving your panties tangled in the garterbelt clasps for the moment while you step forward to kneel down between him and the coffee table. Unfortunately you don’t make it much further than that. 

His hand is suddenly in the back of your hair, gripping only tight enough to stop you from scuttling away. You yelp in surprise, swaying unsteadily where you’re knelt when he forces you forward, making you go down on your hands and knees. He says something to you then but you can’t really hear him over the violent pounding in your ears. You’re almost too shocked, too stunned to properly react to anything that’s going on. 

All you know is that he drags you closer to the puddle by your hair and then, to your roiling revulsion, starts to shove your head down. You try to fight it with frantic urgency, one hand reaching back to grab at the unbudging wrist behind your head while the other abandons the handkerchief completely in favor of shoving at the ground in a blithe attempt to stop this from happening. 

It’s no good though. He’s much too strong, physically bigger than you, and his elevated position sitting on the edge of the sofa gives him far too much leverage when you were under him and on your knees. Despite your best efforts, Dottore finally gets your head nudged down enough to press your cheek into the wood grain next to the puddle. Just as if you were an untrained dog being forced to look at the mess they’ve made in their masters home. 

And was that really all that far from the truth?

“I didn’t say you could use something else to clean it up, did I?” He intones lightly, almost conversationally. But that doesn’t truly detract from the haughty, twisted edge in his voice somehow. “I told you to clean it up. Use your mouth.”

“M - my lord, please!” You warble sadly, sounding nearly hysterical even to your own ears. 

“Do it, little mouse. Or do I need to take you back over my lap again to encourage your obedience?” 

A frantic sob catches in your throat, almost choking you on it. You’re sure you’d rather die but you just can’t risk him spanking you again. You knew it would kill you. Submission was the only choice you really had. 

Even seeing the truth for what it is isn’t nearly enough to stop you from internally cringing so hard you’re half convinced you’ll faint dead away on the spot. But you do relent, even when your wilting pride screams at you not to. 

You have to consciously force yourself to relax, allowing him to pry your cheek up from the floor with a harsh jostle so he can then redirect your face towards the puddle of spit. He doesn’t shove your mouth into it though, simply waiting until you hesitantly part your lips and stick your tongue out. Only then does the Doctor bark a cruel laugh and press on the back of your head, guiding you into place so you can start lapping up the fluid with mortified, recoiling kitten licks. 

“That’s a good pet. And don’t you look lovely like this?” 

The Doctor pushes up to stand then, evidently confident that you would continue to obey, and you do, even as he shuffles behind you a few steps to get a better look. Standing near the corner of the sofa now, he neatly folds his arms behind his back and just watches. Observes. 

And you’re sure you must look a mess at that moment. On your hands and knees, mouth to the floor, with your bare ass up in the air and your panties twisted around your thighs. Pussy out, empty and waiting, but somehow so terribly wet for this monster. 

You can’t bring yourself to conceal your hate for him, glaring back at the Doctor from that awkward angle even as you clean away the spit from the ground with your tongue. He already knew how you felt about him anyway and it clearly doesn’t bother him one little bit as he smirks at you in return, his mouth cutting a sharp line across the lower half of his face. 

Good at playing the villain, indeed. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset. You’re free to hate me as much as you wish,” he purrs, sounding like the thought thrilled him really quite a lot. With a heavy clunk of his boot and a groan from the floor, he takes a perfectly measured step towards you. And then another. “Or you could even try to find some way to kill me, if you think you’re up to the task. Frankly, I’d applaud you for it if you did. Just remember who holds the most power here, little mouse.”

Coming to stand over you now, he gives his head that infuriating tip you were starting to hate so much. 

“It is not that feeble invalid Zandik. And it certainly isn’t you either.” 

His foot comes up then to press down on the back of your head. The pressure sedately forces your mouth to the floor until you’re laying in what remains of your own drool and your cheek squishes against the wood. You let out a tiny sound of protest but it doesn’t do anything at all to deter him. He just holds you there like that for an incomprehensibly long time without ever fully stepping down and crushing your skull even though some small part of you almost wished he would. At least it would be quicker than dragging the inevitable out like this. 

But, at length, he finally removes his boot and you’re able to gingerly pry your face up, wincing when the skin tries to stick. The Doctor is already turning away from you though, pacing back over to the corner of the couch where he peers down at you as if you were a filthy animal that’s wandered in off of the street. His somewhat agreeable mood from earlier is completely gone now. Vanished. Like a magician’s trick. 

“That will be all for today, little mouse. I really must be going soon, so do hurry and pick yourself up. And don’t forget to fix your clothes while you’re at it.”

Weak and shaky, you fumble to get your feet back under you again only to nearly collapse in a heap on the ground. You have to use the side of the sofa to steady yourself enough to get upright where you sway unsteadily for a moment even as you tug your panties into place. The caress of soft cotton over your blistering bottom nearly makes you sob even as you’re made painfully aware of how very wet you are between the legs after his rude probing. It really is like some sick joke. 

“Come, come.” He says, urging you to speed it up. “Do not dawdle, now. I’ll escort you back to the old man on my way out.”

You shoot him a miserable look, very conscious of the tears and residual spit on your face. “B - but, my lord, I need to - -“

“What you need to do is listen.” The Doctor huffs as he reaches out to snag your elbow in a tight, pinching hold which he then uses to drag you, stumbling, closer to him. “Haven’t you learned this lesson yet? I did not bring you here to think, only to obey.”

Pausing, he takes a moment to chidingly tug your much wrinkled apron back into place where it was twisted askew. You try to take that chance to wipe the moisture from your cheeks with the heel of your palm, but in regretfully short order he’s pulling you into motion with him. 

Unlocking the door with a decisive click, Dottore pulls you out and into the hall, just the same as he’d done last night. He neither slows his pace or shortens his strides to give you a chance to keep up, and you’re left simply tripping along after him as you self consciously attempt to get yourself sorted out in time to face Master Zandik. It’s a resounding effort in futility though. Between the hurt in your body as much as the damage to your ego, the mess he’s made of you, it’s nearly impossible to keep your emotions in check. 

So much so that by the time he reaches the library and yanks this door open, you’re rapidly blinking through a swimming sheen of fresh tears that have welled up in your burning eyes, completely unbidden. 

Zandik, still sitting at the studiously crammed desk, lifts his head to glance across the room when you’re rather unceremoniously shoved inside to stand front and center. His expression slackens to deepen the wrinkles that mar his skin when he sees the state you’re in; flushed and wet faced, clothes untidy and rumpled. 

And with a final slam behind you, the Doctor takes his abrupt leave. 

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For a long, drawn out stretch of seconds the two of you just stare at one another from opposite sides of the library in mute silence. 

But then the dam seems to crack and crumble with all the sudden destruction of a crashing maelstrom behind it, and the tears are suddenly coming full force. 

Zandik stiffly moves as if to stand and come to you, but he doesn’t need to do that. You’re already crossing the room in a disoriented, nearly blind rush, unable to stop the blubbering sob that wells up within you from escaping. He only has a split second to realize you were running to him, not away, and he has just enough time to turn in his chair before you make it around the desk where you all but throw yourself into his arms. 

There are no thoughts of decorum or decency in your head as you shudderingly cling to him, pressing your face tight into the knobby curve of his shoulder. For the span of a single heartbeat he almost doesn’t seem to know what to do with this. What to do with you. 

And then his cool, faltering hands slowly come around you to press into your back, holding you against him. 

That alone is enough to have you breaking into pieces, wailing a muffled sound of despair while you soak the fabric of his jacket in your tears. It’s just too much. The pain and the loss of your innocence, the ever present threat of impending doom that seems to lurk around every corner in this old, creaky mansion. And that was to say absolutely nothing of the dreadful situation with your mother. You couldn’t leave this place to check on her yourself and there was no telling when Lord Regrator might grace the sprawling grounds with his presence again. Or even if he would honor your request of him in the first place. It was slowly tearing you down, bit by bit, and you felt hopeless. Lost and vulnerable. 

But Zandik manages to surprise you enough to pierce through the misery by some small margin when he softly tuts at you, wrapping his bony arms more securely around your shoulders so he can gather you tightly to himself. 

“Stupid girl.” He softly murmurs, petting over your bowed head with one hand. “You came back.” 

You nod into his shoulder, much too busy crying your eyes out to speak, and you weren’t sure what you would have said to that anyway. Yes, you’d come back. But what other choice did you even have? Not only did you doubt that the Doctor would ever let you escape this place alive but you also knew you couldn’t leave him here at the mercy of his own demented segments. Who knows how long he’d even last with them in charge of his care. He could be dead for days before they noticed given how infrequently they seemed to check in on him. 

And it just wasn’t fair. Not to him or to you. And gods, what did Pantalone think of all this if he knew how the younger parts of Zandik were as the Doctor had claimed he did? In retrospect it really was no wonder why he would want you here taking care of the old man in his stead. 

You just weren’t sure how much longer you could continue to do it before your sanity chipped away though. 

“There, there.” He’s saying, trying to comfort you. Stroking over your hair. “It’s alright, isn’t it? Calm down. Before you make yourself sick.”

You give your head a stuttering, miserable little shake, clutching at the front of his white jacket hard enough to make your fingers hurt. 

Quietly sighing into the side of your head, Zandik lets you carry on for another moment longer. Consoling you and rubbing your back. But when the tears still won’t stop, and you start to sadly hiccup, struggling to pull in short, gasping breaths, he finally gives his tongue a small click as he gently nudges at you. 

“Come here, girl. Let me see you. You’ve got my shirt soaked straight through, you know.” 

Sniffling very sadly, you let him tug you closer until you have no choice but to take a seat atop his thigh, even when it makes your bottom throb hotly at the pressure. You’re almost too wretched to care in that moment, although you do still catch yourself self consciously fidgeting at both the pain and the worry that you might crush him. He just feels so very thin and frail under your soft, filled out figure. 

It is not so different from when he’d pulled you into — not over — his lap previously though, and you gratefully settle into place against him, keeping your face tucked into the crook of his neck to stubbornly hide from him. But Zandik successfully surprises when he reaches down to somewhat unsteadily grab at your calves, pulling your legs up to drape them over the opposite armrest. A fluttering note of surprise curls through your constricting chest when you realize he’s cradling you to the front of him while the arm behind your shoulders carefully rocks you now. Just like one might an inconsolable child. 

Rather than embarrass you, though, the thought actually makes your heart ache with real affection. He really did care about you on some level despite that unfortunate ordeal in the dining room downstairs. You wouldn’t have thought this tangible proof of what you’d quietly started to suspect would make you feel so indescribably … happy. 

“That’s better, now.” Zandik murmurs at you when the choking sobs and the full bodied shakes start to slowly subside, soothed away by his unexpectedly gentle hands as much as the comforting smell of him as it fully envelopes you. “Just take a moment to breathe. There. You’re alright. You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but laugh a thick, half strangled sound at that. “Relatively speaking, I suppose …”

He gives your tense shoulder a doting pat at that. “Sometimes that’s all we can truly ask for, eh?” 

Slowly nodding your head once, you bring a careful hand up to wipe at your face. You’re not quite ready to look at him just yet though, keeping your head ducked down while you try to get yourself a bit more under control first. In some ways you couldn’t really believe you’d just come crashing down like that. But even when you were admittedly a little embarrassed about it, you can’t exactly say that it wasn’t without good reason. The exchange with the Doctor had taken a lot out of you and in the aftermath of your pitiful sobbing you just felt … empty. Barren, just as the mountainous, snowy plains outside were void of much of anything. Just a desolate white wasteland inhospitable to most life. 

And yet, Zandik does a surprisingly excellent job of warming you back up again, of filling in the empty spaces within your fractured mind as he dotingly pets you and rocks you in his lap. It was — nice. Really nice, in fact. You were quite certain you could have simply stayed like that with him forever without any complaint. 

But just as all things must eventually end, so too does this quiet moment between the two of you draw to a close and Zandik finally stirs against you some moments later. 

“Are you able to talk again?”

With one last sniffle, you gather your courage enough to lean up from his shoulder yet you still keep your face turned away for the time being. Somehow you got the feeling that looking at him too soon would just bring the tears right back. “Yes, Master …”

“Good.” He says shifting under you to dig into one of his pockets. A real challenge given how thoroughly curled up on top of him you are. “Allow me to speak first. Here. Blow your nose, silly girl.” 

He holds a handkerchief up to your face, making you belatedly realize you’d left yours on the floor in the office. But you can’t seem to care much about it as you lean into his hand and do as he’d asked of you, feeling really quite awful. 

“There you are. Now, listen to me well. I owe you a real apology, don’t I? The irony is that, even for all of my supposed intellect, I can't seem to figure out what to say to you that might even come close to being enough. I’m not sure how to express just how sorry I am that there wasn’t more I could do to protect you, and for … not listening to you, when you tried to tell me I had it wrong when you came up from the cellar with him. Those two explained everything to me after you left. I’m surprised you even decided to come back like this.”

You have to take a moment to self consciously clear your throat, finding your voice hoarse and thin when you try to speak. “Yes, Lord Dottore said that he and 25 had a long discussion with you. About me, and … us. I’m glad he was telling the truth about that.” 

A spark of genuine confusion cuts through Zandik’s remorse, making his pale brows knit slightly when he glances into your face again. “25? What in Teyvat are you talking about, girl?” 

“O - oh. That.” You offer up a sheepish laugh. “I know that probably sounds a little silly, doesn’t it? I just wasn’t sure if I’d be able to remember names like Omega, Beta … and that wouldn’t really help me keep track of who’s who either. So, Lord Dottore said for the sake of simplicity I could call them by their ages instead. Is that — alright with you, Master?”  

He gives a slow, rather owlish blink to that before stiffly leaning back into the chair with an almost disbelieving huff. “He really told you everything, didn’t he? I have to admit, that does surprise me a fair amount. The only other person who I’ve ever fully divulged the entire scope of my folly to is …” 

“Lord Regrator, sir?” You take a swing, earning yourself a sharply barked laugh. 

“That’s right. Clever little thing.” He starts to send you a rueful yet fond look, wanting to smile at you, but he seems to realize what he’s doing and quickly sobers. Much to the silent aching of your heart. “But you still came back. Why? After everything that’s happened and the way I acted towards you … I was sure you’d decide to go back home to Snezhnograd.”

“Honestly, I might have felt so inclined if I truly believed he would let me leave.” Shyly lifting your gaze, you send him a meaningful glance from under the wet clumps of your eyelashes. “Or if it were not for you, Master.” 

A silent beat passes over the room, and the intangible spark that seems to pass between you and him is only punctuated by the constant ticking of the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. 

Then, ever so slowly, Zandik nudges his chin up to squint at you — though it lacks any of the usual bite or critical assessment you were used to. 

“So, you do realize it then. Quite clever indeed, aren’t you? All that studying and reading your mother made you do has served you incredibly well. I was … I don’t mean this as a jab, girl, but I didn’t know if you would realize it or not. How much danger you’re actually in.” 

Hearing him say it doesn’t exactly feel great, not when it only solidifies what you’d already started to suspect regarding your ultimate fate here, but it does make you feel slightly less crazy. 

“Yes … I realized it yesterday. When we were down in the cellar. It is — unfortunate, of course. That this is the state of things, and the circumstance of our meeting has to be so tinged in melancholy. I must confess to you, Master, that I’m deeply worried about my mothers condition and I wish I could go to her. Even if it was only for one day. Knowing she is at one of the best hospitals Snezhnaya has to offer doesn’t give me much comfort when I have yet to hear any word from her. It’s starting to feel a bit like I’ve been erased from the outside world. Like I only exist here. With you.”

Zandik straightens slightly with the slow breath he pulls in at that, as if he wanted to respond but he doesn’t know what will be of any comfort to you. What wouldn’t just be the same pretty lip service the Doctor had chided you for. Or maybe he simply isn’t sure what he can say that won’t send you spiraling into another fit of anguish again. 

It doesn’t really matter though, not when your choice has already been made. Not today, or yesterday, or even the day before, but back at the Northland Bank, and you carefully bring your hand up to brush your thumb over the deep frown lines on one side of his mouth.  

“I’m sure I’ll figure something out when the time comes though. Perhaps … if he’s feeling generous enough, I suppose it’s possible that Lord Dottore might decide to keep me on as his own personal maid? Or maybe he’ll decide to pass me off to Lord Regrator. They might even want joint custody of me, if they can’t decide who should have responsibility of me after the divorce.” 

That earns you a real laugh, the sound punching out of Zandik’s chest with a vaguely wheezy cough. Almost as if he was unaccustomed to vocalizing such sounds, and it had been a very long time since he last laughed with the sincerity of his whole chest. 

But it pleases you almost as much as it surprises you, making your stomach flip and light up as if a whole fleet of fireworks was erupting inside it. 

Feeling strangely emboldened now, you offer him a far easier smile than you would have thought you were capable of after everything you’ve endured. “I don’t know if I actually believe that. I’m sure it’s just as likely that they will find me not worth the hassle of keeping alive and that will have to be the end of the road for me. But really, Master, I’m glad you’re talking to me like this again. I really do hate to see you upset with me. I’m sorry for disobeying you.”

Zandik holds up a hand to stop you, looking really quite pained at the reminder of his behavior. “Keep it. I don’t deserve your apologies and, frankly, you don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m afraid the majority of the blame belongs to me. There were any number of things I could have done to better equip you for navigating this situation on your own. Being truthful with you is right at the top of that list.”

Breathing out a terse sigh, he tips his head back against the chair and closes his eyes while he gives the meat of your leg a rather amicable pat. 

“But if he already told you everything then there’s no excuse for me not to be honest with you as well. And now that you know what I have done, the lengths I’ve gone for the sake of progress and in the name of results, I find myself admittedly a bit … amazed, that you still wish to be close with me like this. It’s only natural if you saw me as a monster and yet, you evidently do not. As always I expected the worst.” 

You sit with that for a long moment, turning it over in your head while you fiddle with the loose tie around his collar. “Was it the same for Lord Regrato too?” 

A mild scoff. “His situation was quite different from yours. Ah, but not entirely dissimilar, I suppose. He saw me at my worst when I was still young enough to be a threat to anyone and everyone around me, but somehow he still accepted what I am. Heh. You could probably even argue that he made me worse, in a way.” 

You’re not so sure you believe that when, in light of all that you have learned, it occurs to you that something must have happened at some point in his life to facilitate the changes in him that then culminated into the man sitting before you today. Although there were certainly shared traits and habits between Zandik and his younger selves, there was also no denying that he was noticeably different from them too. He wasn’t so — rigid and unrelenting, so caught up in his own ego that he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. There was a capacity to be soft within him, a desire for closeness even if he didn’t always know the best way to show it or ask for it. Could that really have been Pantalone’s doing? Had he healed some part of Zandik’s soul in his open, unburdened acceptance of who he was as a person? 

The thought makes your mind wander back to what the Doctor told you regarding the other segments, how they represented various age ranges with Dottore himself firmly planted in the middle and two that came after him. Forty-five and sixty-five, respectively, if memory serves. And you find yourself even more interested in them now, wondering if they, too, had been softened in the face of Pantalone’s influence. 

“Will you tell me about it?” You ask when you can’t seem to keep your pressing curiosity held at bay any longer. 

“Hm. Perhaps later. It is, after all, a rather long story, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Rousing himself, Zandik tips his head back down to look at you with a sober expression. “I think I'd rather talk about you for now. Are you sure you’re alright? What did he do to you?” 

Internally withering at the reminder, you tuck your chin down and avert your gaze. “He spanked me …”

The old man gives a tiny jolt at that. “Again? After I already …” Cutting himself off with a sharp click of his tongue, he slides the hand on your back higher up to cup around the curve of your skull, pulling you back down into his shoulder again. And you’re glad for it as you hide your face against him, hating the hot flush that creeps across your cheeks as much as the rising sting of fresh tears. “That damned brute. I knew he wanted to add on to your punishment, but I thought — well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? What’s done is done, I suppose. Oh, your poor bottom.” 

The bony hand on your thigh slides higher up to grab at soft pudge, lifting the back of the skirt slightly when he pulls on your hip to rotate your pelvis towards him. You tremble at the waft of cool air on blazing cheeks and squeak a small sound, balled hands clinging to him all the more fervently. 

Zandik just softly coos at you, however, as he leans forward to peer down at what he can see of your ass from this angle. The way he immediately hisses, pulling in a slow breath through his teeth, makes your stomach roil as you start to fidget in his hold. 

“Look at what he’s done to you. And after I tried to tell him I’d already taken care of it too.” Exhaling a terse breath, he carefully reaches up to smooth a soothing hand over the tender flesh of your topmost cheek. 

You whimper quietly at the renewed stabs of discomfort but quickly relax into the touch as much as you can when his cool skin proves an unexpectedly effective balm. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but at least it makes the tanned surface area not feel quite so warm. 

“I don’t know how you can forgive me for treating you that way in front of him. I should’ve known better. It might have been one thing to have Feofan watch while I spanked this cute bottom of yours. We very well could have turned it into a game to play with you, but …” His wizened fingertips find the edge of your panties and slip under the material to rub over a greater expanse of your behind, gooseflesh erupting all over you when you shiver. “I guess I always did enjoy taking out my frustrations on others, and somehow I still haven’t fully moved on from that bad habit yet. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions and I most certainly should not have said those terrible things to you either.”

Squirming slightly when the touch of his hand so very close to your neglected cunt makes heat curl low in your stomach, you shift in his lap to turn your face inward. You leave your head resting against his shoulder though, not quite brave enough to look him in the eye just yet. Who knows what you might say or do. 

“You needn’t apologize, Master. I sort of deserved it, didn’t I? Even if you were mistaken about my reasons for doing so, I still broke your trust in me. I’m really sorry about that.”

“Not another word of that now, girl. They told me everything. That you’d claimed to have seen one of them skulking about, and I can’t say I don’t understand why that might concern you.” He murmurs, still petting over your sore ass which faintly twinges at that unintentional reminder of what the Doctor said while he had you over his knee. He’d seemed to know you hadn’t been completely honest about how the one in the half-mask had first come to your attention, but did Zandik? You weren’t so sure you were willing to admit you’d only stumbled into that perverted weirdo because you’d gone off on some foolhardy mission to investigate that strange noise. 

The strange noise you suddenly realize you haven’t heard all day. How curious. 

“Yes, I … I thought I saw someone through the window when we were in the library the other day.” You admit, deciding a tiny half truth couldn’t possibly get you into any more trouble. “That roused my suspicions enough, but then I happened to catch a glimpse of someone in the house when I — got up to fetch a glass of water in the night. I was very thirsty after the lesson in your bed, Master Zandik.” 

He stiffens slightly when you give the soft pudge on his side a playful pinch, emphasizing that reminder. Despite knowing full and well that it was technically wrong to leverage your sexuality like this in hopes of distracting him enough that he won’t think too hard about your story, you just can’t seem to stop putting your hand in the fire. Even if it was not with ideas of your own self preservation in mind, there’s simply no denying that you were still eager to invite his gently tempered attentions upon your body. 

The Doctor had been right about that too, as it turned out. You were so needy, so hungry to feel that carnal rush again that it seemed very little could actually deter you from seeking it out. A strict hand or a doting one. Evidently it didn’t matter. Not even the lingering throb across your ass could dissuade you for very long. 

And the best part is, it seems to work. 

Zandik shifts slightly underneath you, sinking lower into his chair so he can gather you more securely to his front. The hand in your underwear even slips out to grab at the meat of your thigh, using it as leverage to adjust the way you’re sitting in his lap. 

Suddenly you find yourself laying out on your back while he cradles you not unlike a baby to his chest. That almost manages to embarrass you and quell the stirring flame that flickers at your loins, but then his wrinkled hand comes to rest just at the twisted hem of your skirt, his long bony fingers stretching out over your soft thigh to give it an almost possessive squeeze. Much too close to your eager quim for you to think of anything else than him touching you there. 

And yet, Zandik’s attention remains on your face, not on what’s between your legs, keeping his chin tucked down as he looks over your expression. Reading your mood, maybe even your mind, taking you in and drinking up the sight of you curled so sweetly on his lap for him. 

“Were you, now?” He rumbles at length, his tone noticeably dropping an octave. Yes, yes, you were quickly getting the hang of this little sex kitten minx act, weren’t you? “If my memory serves me well, and I haven’t gone completely senile yet, I seem to recall you also had another lesson right here in the library that same day, didn’t you? What a greedy little girl you are, to demand two orgasms from me in such a short period. Do you remember what I taught you the first time I used my fingers on you here?” 

You slowly nod, biting down on your lower lip to chase away some of the hazy fog falling over your mind. It seemed inevitable when he talked to you like that, though. None of the segments made you feel the same way, not even close. 

“Yes, sir … you - you taught me how to ask for my cunt to be played with.” 

“Mmm. Very good. You really are a clever girl. And how do you ask for it, then?” 

Stamping down the urge to fidget and shy away from it, you sedately spread your legs for him so that they fall into a wide v where they’re hooked over the opposite armrest. The shift nudges your flouncy skirt further up with a near silent slither of the fabric, and you shoot a quick glance between your thighs to find that the edge of your panties is now exposed. 

Zandik turns his head to look as well, humming a soft sound of approval, encouraging you to keep going. And you do, reaching down to just pinch at the bulk of the material so you can slowly inch it up, up, exposing another tiny strip of your underwear at a time. Soon enough you can see that the cotton is plastered to the outline of your cunt, moulded to the pudge of fat little lips, and you almost start to have second thoughts about this. Maybe you should have cleaned up first. After all, the Doctor had teased and probed you only enough to get your excitable cunt drooling for him before taking his abrupt leave. Would Master Zandik take offense to that? 

The thought is out of your mind in an instant, dissolved like sugar in warm water, when he doesn’t hesitate to reach down and cup his palm over the puffy mound of your cunt. You shudder intensely at the sensation as much as at the visual, the latter making you feel almost dizzy with want. 

His hand just looks so thin and bony, with long spindly fingers that seem to stretch along the whole length of your slit and sharp, jutting knobs for knuckles, especially when framed against the soft, supple curve of your bracketing thighs. His skin wrinkled and worn while yours was smooth and glowing in your youth. Something about that sharp contrast seems to drive you crazy, and you needily buck against his hand, nudging your pelvis up into that territorial touch. 

“Very good.” Zandik croons at you, rewarding your sweet supplication of him with a stilted caress. “What a nice little student you are. I’m glad to see you were paying attention. Sometimes I have to wonder if you’re not doing so much of your thinking with this insatiable cunt that you don’t always hear everything I tell you.”

Whimpering a soft sound at that, you cant your hips again to tentatively grind yourself into the broad palm of his hand, seeking out your pleasure from him. “That’s not true, Master. I — I always listen. I want …” 

You trail off, suddenly overcome by stage fright and innocent bashfulness, but Zandik turns to glance down at you again, even while he continues to slowly rub over you. “What do you want, girl? I can’t know unless you tell me. Go on.”

That was certainly easy for him to say, wasn’t it? 

But you still do your best to be brave, even though you can’t quite bring yourself to look him in the face when you speak it aloud. 

“I want to … be good for you, Master Zandik.” 

What a humiliatingly infantile thing to say to someone who was old enough to be your grandfather!

And yet, it seems to strike a sensitive chord in him, and he shudders faintly with the low groan he breathes out, hand stilling against your cunt while he tries to wrangle his response back under control. 

“Is that so?” 

“Y - yes, sir. I do. I promise.” 

Rumbling a low sound that seems to vibrate through him and into you, Zandik gives your pussy an almost thoughtful pat, pat with his fingers. Then, seemingly making up his mind, he gives your shoulders a light nudge with the opposite hand. 

“That’s a very sweet thing of you to say to me, girl. Thank you for that. Why don’t you stand up for me, hm? If you want to be so good.” 

You aren’t sure what to think of that request but you don’t really stop long enough to question it either. The heated way he looks at you guarantees you don’t have the brain power for much thinking at the moment as you gingerly work to get yourself straightened out and then push up to stand. 

But when you try to turn around to face him, his hands come up to grab hold of your waist and stop you. 

“Stay like that for just a moment.” 

The following sensation of him grabbing the knotted bow of your apron manages to cut through the fog and surprise you enough that you give a little jolt. “M - Master? What are you doing?” 

“Something I probably should have done a long time ago, if you want the truth.” 

Even though you have no idea what to make of that answer you still obediently stand there while he works the bow loose with shuddering old fingers. The sensation of the garment soon falling open to hang from your shoulders makes you shiver slightly but he doesn't tell you to turn around just yet. Instead, Zandik reaches under the back of your skirt to locate the tops of your thigh high stockings where he spends a long stretch of moments simply fumbling with the little clasps holding them up. 

You start to strongly suspect what he’s doing now, but you can’t quite seem to find your voice when he finally reaches up again to grasp around your waist. Giving it a mild squeeze, he indicates for you to spin around. And you do, slowly, keeping your chin tucked down so you won’t have to peer into his face when you were so sure yours was probably pinched in alarm. 

It surprises you a great deal though. He’d never once tried to get you naked, only exposing your cunt to the air and to his machinations, but … even that night in his bedroom, he could have just as easily unbuttoned the top of your housekeeping uniform to pull your tits out and he hadn’t. You probably wouldn’t have even complained about it all that much in the hazy heat of the moment. Instead, he’d simply caressed and pinched, and kneaded your tit straight through your clothes. 

Now, however, something seems to be noticeably different. Zandik just has so much of his sharp attention fixed on you that you can’t help the way you start to feel self conscious or how vague little thoughts of worry begin to flash through your mind. What if he didn’t like your body as much as he currently thought he did? Were your breasts too large? Too small? And the love handles on your sides … 

Suddenly you don’t feel quite so eager with arousal anymore as you stand there, awkwardly fidgeting, while he takes his time ever so carefully pulling the apron from your body. He drops it somewhere down at his feet and then, same as before, he reaches under the dress to fiddle with the front clasps on the garterbelt this time. 

“M - Master?” 

“Hush. There’s no reason to start getting shy with me. I’d just like to see you, that’s all.” 

You don’t have the heart to reject his request, although you do secretly wish he’d at least leave you some small strip of clothing to give you even just a tiny sense of security. Even if it was entirely fake. To be perceived in the nude like that by a man was …

“There. They don’t make these things easy, do they? Lift your foot for me, girl. Put your hands behind you on the desk if you need to.”

Snapping out of your swirling thoughts, you peer down in plain faced uncertainty. But even when your heart pounds a wild, violent rhythm you still obey without question — such a stark difference from your interactions with the Doctor — as you carefully curl your leg up as he’d asked. 

Noising a vague sound of approval, Zandik bends to the task, head bowing, while he works to unlatch the two shiny buckles on your shoes. It’s clearly difficult for him, the tiny eyelets and clasps much too petite for his stiff, arthritic fingers, but he stubbornly keeps at it until he has both of them undone. 

Your shoe is summarily removed and dropped to the floor next to your apron before he goes back in to roll your stocking down the length of your leg. Once that’s gone, he allows himself just a brief moment to cradle your foot, pressing in on sensitive nerves and the chords of ligaments, squeezing the appendage softly, and then letting it go. 

At his instruction, you switch to the other side so he can repeat the process there too, and this time you need to use the desk to brace yourself. Despite how embarrassing this undoubtedly is, it’s still somehow fascinating to watch him work. The concentration along his wrinkled brow is regrettably attractive in a way that makes your chest and your pussy ache for him terribly. That serious set of his mouth, the way his eyes squint down at the small buckles as he grumbles something unkind under his breath about the shoemaker responsible for them. 

And it hits you at full force like a sack of bricks. 

Gods, you’ve never known anyone you found more attractive in all your life. 

In some utterly inexplicable way even his own segmented younger selves couldn’t quite compare with their variously covered faces and the lack of any truly unique identifying traits that you’ve seen thus far. 

You understand, then, why the Doctor hated Zandik so much. As long as he was alive, as long as he was still whole and kicking, he would always be the total sum of their individual parts. They were nothing more than redundancies of him. Even Omega, the one that was supposed to be in the prime of his life, intelligent and powerful, couldn’t truly match up to the whole and completed picture that was Zandik. 

It’s almost enough to bowl you over on the spot, but you say nothing of what you’re thinking when he at last gets that shoe and stocking removed as well. At his behest you lower that foot to the ground to stand before him, about an inch and a half shorter than you normally were. 

But if he notices it he certainly doesn’t seem to care. He’s a man seemingly on a mission now, and you suck in a slow, halting breath when he then reaches up to start fiddling with the first button at your throat. 

“Would you … like me to help you, Master?” You cautiously hedge, earning yourself a light scoff. 

“Impatient girl. That shouldn’t be necessary. I think I can manage this much on my own.” 

Even though he says that it still takes him a moment longer than it should for him to get the little fasten undone before he can move onto the next. Now he has something unkind to say about the garmentmaker, and the Doctor for giving this outfit to you, and you soon find yourself giggling over Zandik’s predicament even when he sends you a sharp look of warning. 

Your girlish titters are quick to subside, though, when he eventually gets the last button loosened and starts to nudge the top half back over your shoulders. It occurs to you then that he’s actually serious about undressing you right there in the middle of the library, regardless of who might walk in. 

A fluttering thrill zaps through your body as you move to oblige him, shrugging out of the top half of the dress and then pulling your arms through the sleeves. Then, with his help, you shimmy it down over your hips and step out of it to leave you standing in only your slip and the garterbelt underneath it, and your decidedly very damp panties. A small fraction of your earlier eagerness returns when you wonder what he planned to do with you, but he gives your fingers a halfhearted swat when you reach for the hem to pull the top half off. 

“Eager little thing.” Zandik softly chides you, slipping his hands underneath the breezy silk slip to find the garterbelt instead. “I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been patiently waiting for soon enough, but you must let me do what I need to do first. Nice things will only come for good girls that can wait. Do you understand?” 

You offer up a stilted nod of your head, torn equally between excitement and insecurity now. It was impossible to say when the last time was that someone saw you naked. Sometime long ago in your childhood, perhaps, but in this context … 

Trembling fitfully at the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your lower stomach while he makes quick work of relieving you of the belt, you abruptly find that it is getting harder and harder to breathe. Your skin aches for his touch so much that even just the faintest sensation of his fingers on your body makes you shudder and quake. It feels very much like you’re a firework set to go off at any moment, especially when he hooks into your panties and tugs those down as well. 

Now the only thing standing in the way is the laughably thin, flimsy barrier of your slip, but in all truth you’ve never felt quite as naked as you do then. Your nipples are tight and hard, seeking where they stick straight up through the silk, and your bare cunt … 

“I’m going to take this off now.” He warns, no doubt noticing the stricken look on your face. At your disoriented glance, confused by your own thoughts, Zandik stretches his arm up to curl a finger under the strap on one side of the garment, inching it down to hang off your shoulder. 

A quickly ratcheting thread of tension settles low in your gut as you nod to him, much too busy focusing on pulling oxygen into your lungs to respond verbally. Eager now to set his eyes upon you, Zandik wastes no time tugging the other side down and then ever so carefully inching the slip down the length of your body, one tortuous fraction at a time. Your tits are the first to spill free and you suck in a sharp little rattling gasp at the sensation of silk being drug over those painfully hard points before they hit the air. Bare and vulnerable.

Then it trails lower and lower, down the length of your stomach to briefly bunch around your hips before he can nudge them the rest of the way down where they finally pool around your ankles. 

And suddenly you’re as naked as the day you were born, standing in front of the old man who unabashedly drags his eyes over every single inch of you. He neither shies away from any one part of your body nor does he skim past anything in a way that would suggest it was unimportant to him. It’s as if all of you inspires some amount of fascination in his mind, even the most benign places you wouldn’t have even thought to give a second glance. 

Yet, Zandik lingers on your arms and your clavicle just as much as he does the full weight of your tits. The grabbable pudge at your sides you’d felt so self conscious about a moment ago he now caresses almost lovingly with his eyes, and the soft swell of your lower tummy gets the same attention too. You’d thought he might expect perfection from you but, on the contrary, it’s almost as if the proof that you were simply human, nothing more and nothing less, is what endears him the most. 

The potent fertility of your young body has never been so starkly obvious as it is when he reaches out with a thin, faltering hand to palm over the side of your hip. You sway unsteadily at the contact of withered fingers on your bare skin, thrumming for him at an intensity that nearly immobilizes you and renders you mute. 

This should feel wrong to you. It should have you shirking away and choking on tears, mourning the loss of your innocence as much as your dignity. 

But it doesn’t. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, dragging the cool pad of his thumb over the faint crease along your waist. “What a lovely little thing you are, girl. I wonder how I got so lucky as to have you at this late stage. The things I would have done to you even just twenty years ago …” 

Breathing out a heavy sigh through his nose, Zandik nudges your hip now to indicate that he wants you to turn. And when you comply it feels like you’re moving through molasses the way your limbs feel so distant and numb, slowly shuffling to the side where his bony hand slides forward to palm across your tummy, holding you in place. 

His other set of fingers come up to lightly trace over the curve of your ass to make you twitch, whining a low sound at the sensation. Your bottom still feels hot to the touch, tender and heavy where it sits on your backside, but the thought of pulling away from him doesn’t even occur to you. He’s perfectly gentle in the way he caresses the sore skin with wrinkled fingertips before then placing his palm across one globular cheek to rub it. Slow and soft, apologetic even. 

Carefully turning your head, you glance back over your shoulder only to feel a tiny little thrill curl through you when you find Zandik peering up at you. Watching your reactions even while he tries to rub the lingering hurt from your bottom. 

“I’m sorry I spanked you without knowing the full story first. I truly mean that.” He tells you quietly, and you’re sure he means it. 

Your mouth starts to move but nothing comes out so you have to pause, swallow down the rock lodged in your throat, and then try again. “It’s alright, Master. I … I understand why you were upset with me.” 

“It’s really not.” He insists, dropping his gaze when he bends close to press a lingering kiss to your hip where he keeps his head bowed for a long moment before coming back up. “I should’ve known better. I knew you weren’t a bad girl, so I’m not sure why I jumped straight to assuming the worst. I said such terrible things to you.” 

Carefully reaching down, you find the crown of his head with your fingers and gently run them through the wavy strands, smoothing it back slightly. As much as it had hurt in the moment, both the smack of his hand and the barbed words he’d spit at you, it still pulls at something in your chest to see him like this. You would have forgiven him even without his apologies, understanding on some level that you’d invited those consequences into your life with your own behaviors. But when he drops his pride enough to show you this much remorse for his actions …

“Please don’t continue to beat yourself up about that, Master. Sometimes it does feel like this place is going to slowly turn me into that, so it may not have been so far from the truth. But if I’m allowed to be a little selfish, I … I’d like to give you all of me before anyone else can take it first. I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

Groaning some quiet, long suffering sound, Zandik bows his head again, pressing the wrinkled line of his brow against your soft hip. He recovers quickly though and the hand on your ass slides up to cup the swell of your cheek, lifting it slightly as he ducks down to press another kiss to the aching flesh. 

You suck in a sharp breath at the sensation of his mouth so very close to your nether regions, but then he straightens in his chair and pulls you around to face him again. At his nudging insistence, you shuffle right up into the space against his legs and watch, wide eyed, as he leans up to catch one stiff nipple between his lips. 

Your mouth drops open in some startled amalgamation of shock and arousal, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away when he gives the teat a quick suck and then pulls back with a wet little pop to leave it coated in a thin sheen of saliva. Zandik rolls his eyes up towards your face at the sound of your stilted inhale, observing your reaction, watching you as you watch him slip his tongue out to lightly flick at the coiled bud. Just nudging it up and down. Up and down. Slow and steady, deliberate. 

Such an intense shudder tears through your body that you nearly levitate straight up onto your toes, stumbling when your knees nearly give out. But the hand that once rested along your ass now comes up to lock around your back, to hold you in place and stop you from scuttling back. At the same time his other hand slips into the space between your legs, bullying the tight press of your thighs apart where you’d been squeezing them in a blithe attempt to alleviate some of the pressure there. He finds your slit with familiar confidence, using the long press of his fingers to rub over the dimpled apex in casual, knowing circles that only make you crave him so much more than you already do. 

Groaning a wavering sound of fast building pleasure, you tip your head back to bask in the rush of sensation while your hands come up to latch onto his thin shoulders. Zandik gives your back a brief squeeze of acknowledgement, encouraging you to give yourself over to him more, to relent more and to offer more of your body up to his perusal. 

And you do, gladly. Happily. Your mouth drops open on a wounded little mewl when he takes your achingly stiff nipple between his lips again to noisily suckle at the teat, making sure you can hear the way his mouth works around the bud. The way his jaw flexes against the meat of your breast, the heated exhale he breathes out through his nose, the hand dragging over your cunt to smear liquid arousal, encouraging you to make more for him … 

It all culminates to have you very close to the edge by the time he finally pulls back, seemingly with no shortage of effort when he forces himself to disengage from your thrumming body. You can’t help the way you whine a needy sound in response to the loss, but it quickly morphs into an eager, salacious groan when he reaches up to palm at your waist with a possessive pinch. 

“I want you to sit on the desk for me. Right on the edge.” He tells you with a noted hint of urgency. 

You shuffle back half a step, bumping into the table behind you harder than you’d meant to. But you feel well and truly drunk now, intoxicated by the hot urges of your own skin, and you blindly grip at the ledge of the table as you turn to glance down at what’s already on top of it. 

The book he’d been referencing for the last few days is still sitting open, pen set aside as if in wait for him to resume his note scribbling. Zandik quickly leans forward, however, and he shoves everything directly in front of him to the opposite side to nearly send the tome flying. He does knock an orderly stack of papers off in the process though, along with a small screwdriver that goes rolling across the floor, but he doesn’t appear to care about any of that right now. 

At his encouragement, you somewhat awkwardly shift to get your butt lifted up onto the desk, hissing at the hard pressure, and then you use your hands to pull yourself a bit more securely on top of it. Your heart slams out such an incomprehensible rhythm against your ribcage that it seems to make your eyes vibrate as you watch him sit forward in his chair, grabbing at your ankles to direct them out to either side. 

“Brace your feet on the armrests for me. That’s it. Good girl. Don’t be shy.”

A very real part of you can’t believe you’re doing this. Everything feels so surreal, hazy and immaterial around the edges like some sort of fever dream, and yet there’s no mistaking the utterly shameless way you let your legs drop open for him. There’s still a self conscious thread of uncertainty in the back of your mind that just won’t seem to go away when you’d never been looked at in this way by a man before. You’re not sure what to expect from him. 

But Zandik’s reaction is resoundingly enthusiastic when he groans a quiet, rumbling noise of desire when he looks upon you, fully opening yourself up to him in this way. His sharp gaze fixes intently on the spot between your legs where he takes a moment to just drink you in, studying the fleshy press of your slit, the curls framing it and the hint of petal soft folds that peak out at him. 

His attention is so profound, in fact, that you eventually start to squirm, almost painfully aware of how your clit preemptively throbs for him and the way your pussy just keeps weeping for more of his touch. 

And when he finally gives it to you, winding his hands under and then up to latch onto the cushiony grip of your thighs, tugging your pelvis right to the very edge of the desk, you feel like you just might faint dead away. Even when you half expect it, even when you’re silently begging him for it, watching him bend his head over your defenseless cunt still shocks a flustered squeak out of you. 

“M - Master Zandi — eek!” 

The tip of his tongue just nudges your swollen clit but it’s enough to nearly send you jolting right up off the table. His spindly hands dig deep into the pudge around your thighs to hold you in place while he slowly, lazily flicks that pulsing bud back and forth. Back and forth. Teasing it with the suggestion, giving you a much needed chance to process and come to terms with what’s happening. He was really putting his mouth on you. Just like he’d said he would. 

Trembling uncontrollably now, you first twitch back from that strange feeling and he simply follows you, insistent that you would acclimate and let him eat you the way he wants. It’s more than a little overwhelming, not to mention embarrassing to see him bent to your cunt like that. But, to your surprise, you warm up to it quickly, relaxing into the sensitive judders rather than trying to run away from them. 

You hiss a strangled sound and haltingly roll your pelvis towards him now, digging your heels into the armrests to leverage yourself. Zandik hums a quiet sound of approval into your pussy, retracting his tongue for a brief moment to wet it and swallow the taste of you. Then he comes back up to press the flat of his tongue to that receptive pearl, lightly dragging it from side to side. That fleshy bud rolls with the motion, grinding under his attention, and you beautifully heave for him in response as you lean back on your braced hands so you can stretch out for him. Languid and luxuriant in the way you offer your pussy up to his wicked machinations. 

Pulling back a moment later with another low, gravel edged groan, he gives his head an almost disbelieving shake. “Gods, girl. You really are going to be the death of me at this rate.” 

“I … I don’t taste — unpleasant, do I?” You shyly ask, peering down at him over the swell of your tits and the crease of your belly where he sends you a sharp look of warning. 

“Not even a little bit. As expected, you’re just as sweet as you look. And don’t ever utter such nonsense in my presence again, do you understand me? I don’t like to keep repeating myself.”

“Mm … y - yes, sir.” 

Nodding once as if to indicate that this matter was put to rest now, he shifts slightly in his chair to get comfortable or perhaps even to find a better angle from which to attack you. Giving your trapped thighs another bony squeeze, he leans down again. 

But this time instead of going straight for your clit, he takes a long, wet swipe from the bottom of your cunt right up to the top. You give a full bodied twitch when he passes over the delicate button at the top and then huff a vaguely impatient groan when he redirects his mouth back down towards the center of your slit. 

Here, Zandik tips his head slightly to one side so that he can kiss you; big, sloppy, open mouthed smooches that leave behind the sticky residue of saliva and slowly works the puffy press of your lips open. This only seems to highlight how very soaked you are, honeyed and drippy where the byproduct of your own excitable youth gathers in a copious mess along the seam. And he drinks from it as if you were a fountain, greedily lapping up the excess so he can swallow it down his gullet. 

It makes you throb, stiffly squirming there atop the desk when you’re so primed and ready to feel him mouthing at the spot you really want him to focus in on again. But he takes his time with this instead, slowly turning the opening of your body into a viscous, creamy mess, driving you wild in the process. 

And you very nearly sob in relief once he finally — finally! Worms his tongue into the malleable grip of your labia to tongue at your entrance, poking and prodding, and just dipping it into the tight heat of your cunt. It’s an odd sensation but not exactly unpleasant, and you heave a sucker punched noise when you feel your insides try to clamp down on that hot, wet appendage when it slips inside. There’s nothing for you to squeeze or cling to though, and his tongue just seamlessly glides back and forth for a drawn out stretch of seconds, fucking you with it. 

Your toes painfully curl on the armrest as your head lolls back, boneless and stupefied to mewl another helpless moan up at the ceiling. “Master, please! I need you …” 

Scoffing a muffled laugh into your cunt, Zandik gives your gooey hole one last, vigorous suck to make you yelp before pulling back with a faltering yet deeply pleased sigh. “Yes, yes, girl. I’m well aware how needy you are. You’re lucky I feel like spoiling you a little bit today, but be warned. Next time I just might hold you down and make you take whatever I decide to give you.” 

Just the thought of that sends intense, hotly sparking shockwaves through your already thrumming system to leave you shaking on his desk. The old man between your legs chuckles at the reaction, clearly enjoying the way you respond to him almost as much as you love the way he seems to give you no choice but to respond in such a noticeable way. 

You can’t quite manage to stop it or get a hold of yourself as you tip your face down, chin tucking close to your chest, so you can look at him through the hazy fall of your eyelashes. Zandik gives you a sharp little crook of his mouth while he slides one of his hands off your thigh, moving inward, to find the aching bundle of nerves at the top of your slit with his thumb. 

“Is this what you want, darling girl? Do you want me to put my mouth here again?” 

You eagerly nod, not even trying to hide how desperate you are for it. 

But he only hums a brief sound of acknowledgement as he lightly brushes the worn pad of his thumb over your clit. Barely nudging it back and forth. “I know you want it, but how badly? You’ll have to use your words to tell me.” 

The tight knot in your chest seems to swell, nearly choking you up. “I … I want it very much, sir. I want to c - cum for you.” 

“Mmm. Not a bad answer.” Zandik rewards you by increasing the pressure on your clit somewhat, speeding up his ministrations only enough to nudge at it more keenly. It still wasn’t enough though. “But how do you want it? What method shall we use to get you there, hm?” 

You can’t help the way you whimper at that. Even knowing he was taunting you with it, coaxing the words out of you, even when he’s got his face between your thighs, you hesitate to give it voice. You’d never spoken so crassly before. 

“Oh, that is an adorable look on you, but there’s nothing for you to fret over. You can do it. Use your big girl words, now.” 

Trembling so fitfully you have to close your eyes in an attempt to ground yourself in reality, unable to keep looking at him like that, you give your head a numb, slow motion shake. “Nghn! Ooughn … I - oh, blessed mother — I want you to … put your mouth on me again, Master. Please. Please luh - lick me some more until … until …”

“Until what, sweetness?” 

“Mmnghn. Until I — cum on your tongue. Sir.” 

A visible tremor works through Zandik’s body, culminating in a low groan that falters from his mouth. He wants that too, and it makes you feel marginally better about what you’ve just said, what shameful words you’ve spoken to your Master, even when your head seems to spin dizzily fast. 

“Such a good girl you are for me. And how could I possibly ever deny you any request when you ask it of me so nicely?” 

He dips his head then, sliding his thumb away to possessively curve over the soft pudge of your lower belly instead, and you hold the air in your lungs so hard it hurts.  

But that breath instantly punches out of you when he flattens his tongue to that swollen little pearl to drag and grind it in an abrupt rush of wet, fleshy friction. Such an explosive thrill of delight shoots through your thrumming body that you nearly come completely up off the table, the sharp jut of his hands the only thing keeping you pinned in place. 

And yet you quickly recover, using your feet braced on the armrests of his chair to rear against his mouth in a blind, supplicating search for more. Luckily he seems to be perfectly happy to give it to you now that you’ve politely asked for it, and he laps vigorously at your pulsing cunt even when your thighs start to quake around his head. 

It almost shocks you how rapidly the tension in your gut swells, doubling and then tripling, to have you weakly swaying on top of the desk in pure, doped out bliss. As much as you’d loved the friction of his fingers playing in your pussy, his tongue seems to be on another level entirely, and your eyes soon begin to roll back in your head while you inch ever closer towards the edge of oblivion. 

What finally sends you into a convulsing fit of spasms another moment later are his hands, abandoning your thigh and your stomach to slide up the quivering length of your body. Zandik finds the meat of your tits and squeezes them tight before finding the sharply pointed nipples with his fingers. He gives them both a stinging little tweak and a fleshy tug and, just like it did down in the cellar, that seems to send you careening straight into a vertigo-inducing free fall when the thread suddenly snaps. 

The orgasm slams into you full force as if you’ve just been consumed by a tidal wave that crashes over you and swallows you up in an instant. You jolt hard enough that the desk vaguely rattles underneath you, squealing a dire sound of immense pleasure as you dig your toes into the armrests and instinctively lift your pelvis in an attempt to escape his tongue. But it’s no use, he’s got you situated in front of him in such a way that no amount of mindless bucking and shuddering can seem to dislodge him from your cunt, and all you truly succeed in doing is grinding yourself on his mouth even more. 

Your arms quickly grow too tired to hold you up any longer as you judder through the throes of your release, wailing a threadbare, faltering moan as your upper slowly body sinks down lay out across Zandik’s desk. And still, he just continues to hungrily eat at you even when your pussy seems to flood around his tongue to a truly obscene degree. You’d never felt so copiously slick in your entire life, but somehow that helps to ease you down from that heart pounding high over the next long stretch of minutes while you gradually fit yourself back into your own head. 

The rosy aftermath leaves you panting for breath, sweaty and so very, very turned on you almost can’t stand it. Even before he gives your clit one last, lingering suck, starting to straighten up from your sopping wet core, you know you still want him to touch you more. Lick you more. Caress and pinch, and hold and squeeze you more and more, and more. 

It felt like it could never be enough. Not truly. 

“My goodness, girl. You’re certainly a leaky little thing, aren’t you?” He rumbles, snapping you out of your lolling stupor enough to bring your chin down, looking at him along the heaving sprawl of your body. 

You watch, feeling somehow hungrier than ever, as he swipes at his mouth with a shaky hand to rid it of some of the pussy juice coating his skin. It doesn’t really work though, and you can still see it glistening faintly when he takes his fingers away. And something about it stirs a surprised chord in the back of your mind. Had you really cum that much? 

That thought seems to stoke at the simmering heat within you, and you eagerly bring your thighs together in a tight press that, of course, catches his attention and brings his gaze back up. 

“Please, Master … can we — keep going?” 

His grumpy brows lift in unconcealed surprise. “And you don’t know how to quit while you’re ahead, either. You’ll have to make do with my fingers though. I can’t eat needy little girls out all day, you know.” 

“N - noooo.” You whine softly, rubbing your thighs in a tighter press to match your quickly ratcheting excitement. But you couldn’t think of anything else at that moment. You had to have it. “No fingers, sir. I — I want to have your cock …” 

Zandik goes very still at that shy admittance. He just looks at you for a long stretch of moments, watching the way you not so subtly writhe in place there in front of him. Too eager to sit still and so caught up in the low pulse of wanting in your cunt that you don’t even seem to care about how very nude you are. 

Ready and wanting. For him. 

Finally clearing his throat with a thick cough, he sits up a bit straighter while his mouth tugs into a serious, contemplative frown. 

“You don’t mean that.” He murmurs at length. 

“I do, Master. I really do.”

Zandik shoots you a plainly tortured look. “Yes, you certainly think that, don’t you? But as much as I may want to, there’s something that you simply must understand. I am but an old man, you silly girl. I don’t know how good I can actually make it for you in this state.”

You slowly push up on your elbows to get a better look at him, meeting his gaze head on. And you give Zandik a tremulous little smile as you implore him with hopeful eyes, trying not to turn bashful. “I don’t care much about that, sir. I swear. It’s just … I want it to be with you, that’s all. Not somebody else. Even if it only lasts for a moment or two, I’ll be happy as long as you’re the one who — takes me first. That’s all I want.” 

He starts to turn away, screwing his eyes shut as if you’ve just delivered a fatal blow to his heart. “Burn everything, girl! You can’t say things like that to a man who’s old enough to be your father! No, it’s even worse than that! I could be your grandfather!” 

“B - but it’s true - -“ 

“Dammit! I don’t care if it’s true or not!” 

Abruptly shoving his chair back with a scrape of the legs on the floor, Zandik stands up so fast he nearly unbalances and tips over. A quick hand slapped against the desk next to your thigh is the only thing that keeps him upright, and he heavily hunches over you as if he were some kind of heaving, snarling, half starved beast.

It startles you more than a little bit and you peer up at him with widened eyes, yet so utterly, perfectly calm even when his lips pull back to sneer at you that he can’t seem to catch the laugh that barks out of him. 

Hanging his head as if in defeat, he reaches up to remove his monocle which he sets aside with a sharp little click on the desk. He stands there for another moment longer, just letting his head droop between his shoulders, before he finally gives his neck a stiff shake. 

Then, scoffing a harsh sound, he pushes himself upright to loom over you, prone and pliant where you’re spread out in willing, open invitation before him. He barely even looks at you now though, as he sets in to yank rather aggressively at his belt, and it does not escape your notice that his fingers seem to falter more than usual. 

“Damn stupid girl. Look at what you’re doing to me.” He grumbles under his breath, his narrow chest heaving slightly against the front of his shirt. “Look what you’ve asked me to do to you. There must be something wrong with you in the head to want to give yourself over to the likes of me. Do you really think I’m someone who deserves to take your virginity?” 

“I do.” You tell him honestly, sounding distant and dreamy. Unable to hide your excitement at his acquiescence, your victory. 

But he shoots you a brief, no less grumpy look of warning before dropping his attention back down to focus on the unbuttoning of his slacks. “You’re a damned fool. I really hope you know that. You’re supposed to want better for yourself.  You should want to be on top of a comfortable bed right now, not sprawled out on some old man’s desk. You should want it to be with someone — special to you.” 

“You are special.” 

He stills, the set of his brow truly anguished. And yet, he only takes that short moment to collect himself, to relocate his mile wide ego and steel himself with it. 

Grunting a tight, anticipatory sound in the back of his throat, Zandik at last gets his pants unfastened and he shoves them down his hips, along with his underwear, to a quiet rattle of the loose belt. One wrinkled hand comes up then, sliding under his shirt and drawing up his stomach to lift the material, while the other grabs at his bobbing cock to give it a tight squeeze. So tight it makes his knuckles protrude through the paper thin skin over them. A strange detail for you to notice when he points it down at you, right at the messy spot between your legs. 

“Is this what you want?” He grumbles wretchedly. 

You’re almost too fixated on staring at his cock to respond, dumbly nodding your head in a mute affirmative. Eating you out must have been an exciting experience for him, and the final nail in the coffin had likely come when you’d asked him to deflower you. Because he is hot and hard, the ruddy pink glans winking at you when he gives his length a savory pump to make the foreskin momentarily bunch in a noticeably sticky pucker before then drawing it back. Exposing the head and tucking the sheath of extra skin back behind the raised ridge. 

Gods, you could watch him do that a million times and you’re sure you wouldn’t grow tired of seeing it. The sight alone is enough to have your pussy eagerly throbbing for him, clenching around nothing, as you impatiently fidget, and he seethes a pained hiss at the shameless display. 

“Then show me how much you want it. Go on, then. Spread your legs wide for me, girl. Let me have a good look at your little pussy before I take it for myself.” 

You’re vibrating at such a hitherto unknown frequency that you don’t even really stop to consider what you’re doing or who you’re inviting in. You just immediately drop your legs apart into a wide v and present your weeping cunt to him without an ounce of hesitation. He was right. You did want it bad. 

“Gods. Just look at you.” Slowly reaching out, Zandik lightly runs the tip of his fingers down your slit to smear the excess of arousal gathered there, tracing over you a few times before pulling his hand back. 

And you watch, your throat a suddenly bone dry wasteland, as he proceeds to wipe that liquid arousal over the tip of his rigid length, mixing your juices with his own tiny, glistening bead of precum to leave the skin visibly coated in a fine sheen. 

“I’ve never seen a girl want cock like you do. You look like you’re starving for it even after I already made you cum once. Greedy.” 

“I … I’m sorry, Master.”

“Don’t be. It’s unexpectedly endearing. And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a heady ego boost on top of that. Now …” Releasing a slow, wavering breath, Zandik lifts his unoccupied hand to gently nudge at the back of your nearest thigh. “I want you to grab under your knees and fold them up towards your chest for me. Make sure you don’t let them go until I tell you to, alright? I need enough space to work you open first before you start pawing at me.”

Your chest tightens slightly at the admonishment, but you know he’s right. Already you want to grab him and yank him against you, to rub yourself on him like a cat in heat, and he hadn’t even stuck it in yet. How embarrassing. 

You do as he’d asked though, slipping your hands down to hook behind the bends of your knees so you can hold them up in the air. This position lifts your shoulders from the desk enough that you have a perfect view down your front and you can see the way your puffy cunt lips spread slightly in the stretch. Zandik sees it too, and he groans a rattling sound even as he shuffles right up to the edge of the desk to stand over you. 

Using the one hand to guide himself, he angles his cock close to brush the head against exposed, velvety soft folds. Just acquainting you with the touch of him there, giving you one last chance to make a better decision and allow him a moment to steady himself. Then he presses in a little deeper to sink into the fleshy embrace of your inner labia, letting the fleshy pudge grip around the glans for a moment while he slowly drags it through the sticky mess he’s already made of you. Up and down. Up. And then back down again. Sedate and steady. 

A breathless moan slips out as you watch him, his head bowed in concentration to let the wave of his hair hang down in his face. You’d never seen someone look so good before, and you also hadn’t realized how nerve wracking this would be even when you want it more than anything else. There’s a certain apprehension in the back of your mind, a nervousness that can’t quite be quelled by your arousal. Once you let him do this to you there would be no coming back from it. 

But you were already sinking deep into the pits of hell and had been since the first day you arrived here. No. Even before that. Likely since you stepped foot inside the Northland Bank. That was the true cause of your downfall. This was just the end result of it. 

And you hold your breath tight in your lungs when you realize he’s working his way up to it, ensuring both you and him are adequately lubricated when he carefully flexes his hips to send that galvanized flesh skirting up the length of your slit. Slow at first, but he seems to quickly pick up the pace, letting his own urges take over while he fucks himself within the meaty press of your cunt lips. 

Huffing harder now, faster, Zandik finally angles his narrow hips back to pull away from you. Then, in one shockingly fluid motion, he angles his cock straight out and leans back into the cradle between your thighs, spearing through tender creases and folds on a stilted push to find your entrance. 

He hits it dead center, too, and he immediately starts to sink in. A rough, wheezing gasp catches in your throat, mouth dropping open, but not even a peep comes out as you watch the length of him gradually disappear inside of you. 

The glans is easy to accept, your inner walls so soft and gooey, swollen with the intense need for this, exactly this. But the more of it he feeds into you the more you start to feel the stretch. Even when you're slippery and puffy for him, it’s still the first time you’ve ever taken anything like this. And it doesn’t exactly help how very hot he is, how heavy, how he seems to pulse within you when he lets out a faltering groan of immense pleasure. 

Shuddering intensely there on his desk, you shyly roll your eyes upward to look at him. Zandik is too busy looking down at your cunt spread open around him, watching the way you take him, watching how well you take him, to notice where your attention is at, and you’re free to sear this image of him into your brain. His head cocked slightly to one side, his brow knitted half in concentration and half in stricken agony at the tight heat of you encompassing his cock. The little frown that tugs at his wizened mouth as if he was so absorbed in the experience of you that it was taking all of his focus to fully appreciate it. 

Maybe he was committing this all to memory too. You knew you would certainly never be able to close your eyes without seeing the image of him hunching over you like this for the rest of your life. 

“Ooughn. That’s one hell of a grip you’ve got, girl.” He hisses at last, when he’s forced to come to a halt when he’s wedged only half of the way inside. Pausing to catch his breath. “You need to relax a little bit. It doesn’t hurt, does it?” 

You shake your head, still too stunned to speak. And you do try to relax, but it’s so terribly hard to do when you feel like a livewire set to go off any given second, wound too tight and panting for more of his cock. 

Zandik heaves a stuttering breath, releasing his cock so he can reach out and find your clit in the slippery mess coating your pussy. Softly nudging it with the broad width of his thumb, he uses his other hand to shove the front of his shirt up again, exposing more of his body to your voracious eyes. 

You’re not entirely sure if it’s the added stimulation he provides or if it’s just the sight of his soft, slightly rounded tummy pressing in on your pubic mound like that, the wispy little hairs that lead straight down to the base of his cock, but something about it makes you positively gush around him. You can feel it oozing out of you like warm honey, wetting anything and everything it comes into contact with, and you shake helplessly. 

And when he stiffly pivots his hips back, withdrawing from your tight clutch so far that he nearly slips out of you only to come gliding right back up a split second later, he sinks in even deeper this time. This was likely what he’d meant about needing the space to open you first, you realize, groaning a haggard mewl as you glance down to watch in rapt fascination while he does just that. His thrusts just keep getting smoother and smoother, longer, the more he fucks into you like that, using tiny little jabs of his cock to coax your pussy into relenting to him. Even if it wanted to deny him, and you’re quite sure it didn’t, his cock turns out to be very persuasive. 

Soon enough he’s executing fuller thrusts and you can’t seem to stop the mindless bleating that punches out of your chest. He never quite works his way up to a hard and fast tempo but those long, drawn out, patient strokes are more than enough to drive you well out of your mind. 

“There! That’s it. Mmmnghhn. And doesn’t that feel better, girl? Look at how nice you’re taking me now.” He croons at you, praising you, even while he pants heavily at the exertion. “How do you like that cock in your little cunt, huh? Better than my fingers?” 

You frantically bob your head in a delirious nod, chest hitching as you struggle to find your voice. “Yuh - … yes, sir, yes, I do! I do. I love it, Master! I — ooughn! I love your - your cock! It feels so good …”

He has to close his eyes to brace against what you’re saying, the rhythm of his hips faltering slightly before he can recover. “Fuck. You really have no idea what you’re doing to me. I can’t take it at this age. You’re going to have me shooting off like an over eager schoolboy here in a moment … ughhn! And you feel so good too. Wish I could stay in this needy pussy all day. Ahhn, but I’m sure you’d like that just as much as I would, wouldn’t you?”

A keening sob slips out of you. “Yes, Master! I - I would! I want it …”

Rumbling a deep, uniquely masculine grunt, Zandik lets go of his shirt again and hunches further over you, smacking that palm down on the desk next to your head. You whimper slightly as you peer up at him through the inebriating fog hanging heavy over you and he peers right back, watching your expression closely while his hips continue to sedately fuck into your dripping cunt. For a split second, you wonder how you must look to him in that moment. 

But then he leans down, swooping to catch your mouth in a heated kiss that sends a tingling zap of static electricity racing through your body, right down to the tips of your flexing toes. You’re so pleasantly startled by the sudden gesture that you almost forget yourself, recalling his instructions at the last second, and you stubbornly readjust your hold under your knees. Even as you crane your neck up to meet him, kissing him back with wild abandon, you continue to hold your legs open for him so he can freely jab away at your cunt. 

His thrusts turn a little sharper then, evidently spurned on by the unhesitating way you kiss him, and you groan a heady sound into his mouth when your eyes start to edge back in your skull. Your pussy really feels like it’s melting for him now, so sensitive and thrumming, swelling with a kinetic energy that tells you another orgasm isn’t that far off. And you’re glad for that, so happy you could just weep, especially when Zandik proceeds to snake his tongue into your mouth, claiming every possible inch of you.  

He soon pulls back though, huffing and puffing in the scant space that separates you from him now. The old man takes this chance to study your pinched expression up close, lingering on the way you stare up at him as if in a drunken, dreamy haze. 

Something he sees must strike a chord in him though, because he winces, stricken, and tucks his face in close to press his forehead against yours. For once, his skin is not the perpetually cool balm you were accustomed to it being. 

“Burn it all, girl. I’m about to cum. Where do you want it? Quick.” 

For a delayed moment, you’re not quite sure what he’s even asking. And then it hits you. 

And such an intensely powerful shudder wracks through your sweat coated body that you feel yourself get that much closer to the drop off into oblivion too. 

“Oughnn! In … inside, Master, please! I want it — wanna’ feel it …” 

He seethes a vicious sound, twitching hard against you. “Damned idiot. Aghn! You’re giving me far too much of yourself, you know that?” 

Gasping much like a beached fish, you tip your head back to nudge at his brow and a tiny flutter of pure delight dances through your chest when he cracks his eyes open to look at you. 

“I want you to have it, Master … I want you to have every part of me. Mmnghn, please — please, let me choose who I give this to.”

“Ooh. You don’t need to ask for it so sweetly, girl. You can have whatever you want from me.” Pausing to pull in a raggedly clipped breath, he stiffly pushes himself up just enough to drive his hips into you a little harder, more urgently, tipping his head back with a groan. “Let go of your legs if you want. I’m close. If you’re going to change your mind, you’d better do it fast.” 

In truth you don’t even give it so much as a second thought, but you are quick to release your knees so you can throw your hands up around his neck. The loose tie under his collar lightly sways between the two of you, dragging along the center of your bouncing chest, and your nipples turn into painfully tight puckers at the sensation. Your flooding cunt, too, tightens to an almost incomprehensible degree, squeezing him like a vice, while you watch Zandik start to tremble over top of you. 

His thrusts gradually turn stilted and uneven before devolving into a near frantic bucking of his hips, jostling you against the desk. It’s clearly taking a lot out of him, this level of exertion, and the limited range of movement in his old body seems to frustrate him more than he’d likely ever admit aloud. But he stubbornly keeps fucking into you, even when he suddenly lurches with a wounded groan, needing to use both hands braced on the table to steady himself while he simply relies on his momentum and center of gravity to slam into you once, twice, a painfully tense third time, and then —

He freezes up, grimacing at the sheer force of how hard he cums inside of you. And you know that’s what it is because you can feel it pumping deep into your guts, the way his cock twitches and throbs, contracting to deposit his sticky load so far into your body you can’t help but wonder if it will ever come out. Maybe you don’t even want it to, though. 

It passes quickly however, much faster than your orgasms seem to subside, and Zandik goes completely boneless over you in what seems only a matter of moments. His shoulders hunched and shuddering while he struggles to catch his breath. Your pussy gives a distant little throb of wanting but you decide to ignore it for right now as you reach up with a careful hand to brush away some of the hair sticking to his face. 

That appears to catch his attention enough to have him focusing back in on you again, and his mouth promptly tugs into a halfhearted smirk. The cad. 

“That’s what you do to me.” He says at last, clearly trying for rueful but it doesn’t really work when he’s still softly wheezing. “You’re going to put me in an early grave at this rate. I’m sure that egomaniac will be quite pleased with that end result. Maybe that’s the real reason he brought you here.” 

“Don’t say that, Master.” You murmur, sliding your hand into place to cup his wrinkled cheek now. 

Scoffing, Zandik reaches up to grab at those fingers, giving them a tight, shaky squeeze before lowering them from his face. “Don’t mind me. I never was very good at pillow talk. Perhaps you can ask Feofan about that some time.” 

Groaning a spent sound of complete and utter satiation, he starts to gingerly ease himself back, slipping out of you. Your body gives a sensitive twitch when you feel him slip free of your clinging grip and you can’t help but whine a needy sound at how very empty you are in the aftermath. Even when you can feel the hot, simmering presence of his seed deep within you, it’s still somehow not enough. Never enough where he was concerned, it seemed. 

“Don’t pout.” Zandik exhales a very heavy sigh as he leans over you again, one hand braced on the desk next to your hip while the other — 

His fingers are suddenly in your cunt, spearing up into your guts on a seamlessly unhindered glide to fill you up in place of his cock. You go ramrod stiff, eyes wide and unseeing as you supplicatingly arch your back hard enough to make your tits bounce. And you quickly find yourself twisting in a helpless writhe on those insidiously long digits, squealing a harried sound of delight when he jabs them into your quaking guts. 

“How are you still not tired yet?” He murmurs, giving his tongue a chiding click. “I really can’t keep up with you like this. I guess that must be the reason old men aren’t all that popular with young, pretty girls, hm?” 

You think you should probably respond to that, that you should tell him you didn’t want anyone closer to your age, only him, but you can’t seem to find the oxygen to speak. His fingers are considerably more vigorous than his cock in the way they fuck into you, hare and fast, delving deep into the clutching grip of your pussy to drive you nearly mad with it. He churns your insides up like this, working his own spend into a frothing, bubbly mess that you can feel slowly dripping and oozing out of you. 

Your cunt positively eats it up though, thrumming in rapturous delight as your impending orgasm starts to creep up on you again. It turns your mind melty and empty of anything other than thoughts of him. How good he’d felt with his cock buried deep inside your body, how his fingers seem to pluck you to vibrating fever pitch as if he were a professional musician. How good he smells. How handsome. How devastatingly intelligent. 

How being with him like this seems to make all of your suffering over the last day or so feel totally worth it and that you just might do it all again if it meant this was waiting for you at the end. 

And then he bends his head close, catching one of your stiff teats in that wicked mouth of his to suck and flick, and lick, and you nearly levitate right up off the desk when you cum with a frantic sob. 

This one seems to rock you straight down to your very core, and you wheeze as if your soul is actively trying to leave your body while you mindlessly buck and judder for him. Soaking his fingers even while they continue to work at your squeezing cunt to ride you through it, making sure to eke out every last drop of your release — likely in the hope that it will be enough to tire you out. 

Even when you finally go limp a long stretch of seconds later, gasping raggedly, you’re not so sure if that will work on you, but you certainly appreciate him trying. At least he had not left you waiting and wanting as so many others in this godforsaken place seemed to like doing. 

Giving your throbbing tit one last, lingering suck, Zandik slowly pulls back and straightens up to give you a critical look over. Even in your lolling stupor you can tell he’s taking in all the minute details most people probably wouldn’t even notice, like the amount of perspiration on your skin and the dilation of your pupils, the exact color of your stiffly pointed nipples and even the kind of belly button you had. If the way his gaze hovers over that spot is any indication, at least. 

“Was that enough to sate you for a while?” He says at length when he draws his attention up to your face again. 

You swallow hard, still working to steady your erratic heartbeat. “Maybe … for a little while.” 

Snorting an amused sound, he gingerly straightens up on unsteady legs to get his pants pulled back into place, but he doesn’t even bother to fasten them before plopping back down into his chair. Completely drained, by the looks of it, but satisfied. Pleased, even. 

Rousing yourself, you slowly sit up as well, facing him once again in your nudity. Zandik sends you a slow look from under his brow and something seems to pass between the two of you then as you just look at one another, for he shifts back in his seat to make room for you. 

“Come. Sit with me for a moment.”

The eager flutter you immediately feel in your chest almost seems a little juvenile after everything you just did together, but you can’t seem to keep the smile off your face when you carefully slide down off the desk to take your place in his lap. You almost start to feel a bit shy about your nakedness now that the rosy afterglow is beginning to fade – wondering if your stomach doesn’t look too soft or if your tits sit nicely like this – but he’s quick to gather you close to his chest before you can truly get lost in your own head. And somehow that just makes you even more incomprehensibly happy than you already were. For someone always so grumpy, he was certainly sweet. 

For a long, blissfully peaceful stretch of minutes you and your master simply cuddle up together, sharing each other's body warmth and listening to evened out breaths. It’s almost more than you would have ever dared to hope for after the last harrowing twenty-four hours you’d somehow survived despite such unfairly stacked odds and the sheer absurdity of it all. 

In fact, the quiet lull is nearly enough to have you dozing off on top of him. 

But then you hear the downstairs bell clanging and you’re so startled by the sudden sound that you come very close to bolting right up off his lap. 

“It’s Tuesday.” You blurt the moment that thought slams into you like a wet rag across the face. You’d completely forgotten. 

Zandik stirs against you with a tired grumble, giving your hip an affectionate albeit idle squeeze. “Hm? It’s just the weekly delivery. Nothing to get your panties in a twist about.” 

“No, no. I have to let them in. I always keep the back door locked, especially after I started to suspect that there was some strange intruder in the house.” 

You quickly clamor up off his lap, bending to retrieve your discarded pile of clothes. Unfortunately it occurs to you quite immediately that there are far too many layers for you to get dressed in a hurry, and you frantically try to figure out what you can skip. Oh, you really should’ve known better than to let him get you completely naked like that. 

“Just relax. They’re grunts at best. They can wait. Here.” He says behind you, and you turn in time to catch him stiffly shrugging out of his white outer coat, much to your shock and surprise. “Put your underwear and your slip on, then put this over it. It’ll do to answer the door.” 

A very strong voice in the back of your mind urges you to argue against it — just think of how that would look to them! Grunts or not! — but a second, noticeably more impatient ringing of the bell quickly makes up your mind for you. 

Yanking your panties and slip on, you accept his coat from him with a murmured word of thanks, already making your way towards the door while you button it up lightning fast. And you didn’t even have your slippers to slide into thanks to that perverted little freak! 

As a result the hardwood is nearly freezing under your bare feet as you race down the hall, descend the stairs, trip along the corridor and finally go sliding through the kitchen so fast you nearly trip and break your neck. The stone floor is the absolute worst in here though, and you hiss a seething sound as you fumble to get the door unlocked and throw it open to reveal a group of very cold looking masked Fatuus. 

“I’m so sorry!” You squeak, shivering at the blustery, ice laden wind that blasts into the house and straight up your slip by the feel of it. “I was — getting ready to take a late morning bath. I - I forgot it was delivery day.” 

They don’t look like they particularly care about your excuses as they hasten to get the crates inside, and you quickly retreat to the far corner while they work. Making sure to give them plenty of space as you wrap your arms tight over your chest in an attempt to stop the chilly shudders, but it’s no use. It’s like every last ounce of warmth has been sapped from your body, and your teeth soon start to clatter too. It wouldn’t do to leave the milk and eggs out though, so you force yourself to stand there and wait even when you desperately wish to return to the safety of Zandik’s lap. 

A few minutes later it looks like they’re finishing up, but one of the Fatuus — a young woman, hardly older than yourself — breaks apart from the rest to step over to you. Your brows lift in surprise at that, and understandably so. They hardly even acknowledge your presence most days, so you’re not quite sure what to make of it when she halts in front of you. 

 “Here.” She says, holding out a small, unassuming, utterly benign package. “Lord Regrator asked us to deliver this to you.” 

You’re so startled by what she’s just said that for a delayed moment you aren’t even sure if you’ve heard her correctly. Pantalone? He sent you something? 

Slowly, the masked woman begins to uncomfortably shift at your continued silence and blank staring, so you mechanically reach out to accept it from her. “T - thank you. I appreciate all your hard work.”

Looking mildly relieved to be rid of the thing, she nods once and starts to turn away, but an impulsive thought has you jumping to stop her. 

“Wait just a moment. Please. Can I ask you something?” 

She doesn’t look entirely sure of that but when she doesn’t immediately say yes or no, you decide to press on. 

“I was just wondering … where are you stationed at? I mean — where will you be returning to? After this.”

“We’ll be making the return trip back to Snezhnograd, miss.” 

“Oh.” You send a slow look over her shoulder at the other Fatui operatives who indeed seem to be slowly filing out. 

And they don’t even appear to notice the two of you standing together. Not yet, at least. 

The idea that pops into your head is terrible, awful, stupid, ridiculous and asinine, all rolled into one, given the still sore state of your poor bottom. But you know you can’t afford to hesitate or second guess yourself. You may never get another chance like this ever again, even if it will just be inviting yet more trouble to your doorstep. And yet, you try to reason with yourself, you wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules. Not any that had been stated plainly or outright. A mere loophole, perhaps, but it was one you could exploit.

You decisively snap your attention back to the other woman just when she’s starting to inch away from you as if you were a mangy dog that looked like it might bite. 

“I have a favor to ask of you. Since you’re going back to Snezhnograd anyway, would you be kind enough to deliver a letter for me?” 

Her mouth pulls into a small frown. “I’m not sure if Master Dottore will - -“ 

“He won’t mind.” You insist, almost shocking yourself with that blatant lie. “I — already ran it by him, you see. I’ve been worried about the post running behind all the way out here in the countryside, so he told me I could ask if I thought it would do any good. I just … since you’ve already delivered something from Lord Regrator, I naturally figured it might be within your capabilities to transport a measly little letter back. Considering it’s on your way.”

She seems to hesitate, thinking it over, and then one of the other Fatuus calls after her. “Sileny! Are you coming?”

Giving her teeth a sharp suck, she shakes her head. “I can tell them to wait for five minutes but if you’re not back by then there’s nothing more I can do for you.” 

You nearly drop the package in your hands from the overwhelming flood of relief that washes over you. “Yes! Yes, just one moment. I’ll be right back. Thank you!” 

Spinning on your heel, you go rushing back out into the corridor where, thinking of the nearest room with paper and a pen, you duck into Zandik’s lab at the far end of the hall. This one was much more humble than the one in the cellar but it has what you need, and you’re well acquainted with it enough not to have to go digging for it. 

Quickly locating a loose sheet of parchment in his desk, you toss the gift from Pantalone (was that really what it was?) down on the flat surface and snag a pen from the holder at your elbow. Your hand shakes as you bring the nib close, hesitating at the last moment. 

This really wasn’t a good idea. If the Doctor found out about this … 

You at least have to try though. Clearly your mother wasn’t getting your letters, or you were not receiving any of hers in reply, and you were determined to figure out which it was. If you could just establish this means of communication perhaps she could hand off her own correspondence to the masked woman before she left the hospital, and you would only have to wait until next Tuesday to see the other woman again. That didn’t seem so bad given the resounding silence since you first arrived here. 

Brow knitting in stubborn determination, you hurry to put pen to paper. 

Dear mama,

Please forgive me for the haste in which I have written this letter, but I do not know how much longer the person I’m about to entrust it to will wait for me to get my thoughts in order.

⭐

Cross posted: here

[boundinparchment]

Watchful Eyes

Zandik plays with a cam-girl. NSFW. Exactly what you’d expect. Dottore/female reader.

On AO3 here

He loved to watch your pussy.

It started out as a simple exploration. Your social media profile was pushed to him, full of tasteful but provocative photos, promising more on paid platforms. You always hid your face, minus your lips; maintaining the illusion of privacy was as much for your audience as it was for you. He wasn’t as versed as his Segments in the social engineering portions of the internet but, like all things, curiosity always won out.

On stream, you covered your eyes as much as you could, either with clever angles or a mask, eyes burning into the camera but your nose shape and cheeks obscured but swirling shapes.

Your channel was small, despite your tasteful approach to the profession. At the time, you must have just been starting out, perhaps all of six months in. You were empathetic and coy, careful to walk the illusion of potentially obtainable but never truly relatable.

But it was the camera angles that did it for him. You set yourself up with shots from above, below, every side imaginable depending on the position. You were completely ready to be studied, documented, not just for your cunt but for human sexuality.

The close-ups were his weak point. Watching your fingers spread your lips, slide into your entrance, toys of various sizes prodding and filling you. You looked tight, impossible to see into unless you’d already orgasmed and your walls were a tad stretched.

He came three times that first night, feeling every bit the perverted old man. The Segments never let him forget it.

Zandik liked that you never had another partner with you. Either because you didn’t want the backlash and the illusion broken or because you simply didn’t want to, it wasn’t quite clear.

But you paid attention to your regulars.

Especially the regulars that paid for bonus time to watch you orgasm again and again, breasts bouncing or ass up in the air as you slid yourself along a dildo that made jealousy grow in the pit of his stomach.

He joined the foray simply to see your reaction, the amount of mora far higher than the paltry sums others were offering, and your smile made his cock throb. No wonder Pantalone enjoyed his brothels so much.

“Oh? You’re quite generous, EccentricDoctor,” you said, so sultry that La Signora must have trained you herself. “I’ll have to give you a private session in return.”

Transactional. Give and take. No emotions, no personal attachments.

He had your attention.

And he kept it. Slightly outbidding the others for your attention trained you to look for his username and bring him into the fold. You listened when he put suggestions in the chat as fast as his arthritic fingers would let him. So few were as eloquent as he, and that did something for you, clearly.

His first personal stream, which took forever to schedule due to his own obligations, was surprisingly intimate. You had put cameras above your bed, on all four posters, and right at the foot, centered on your juicy core.

“I’ve never done a private stream before,” you admitted. “But you were so generous that I wanted to give you something special. I looked at all of the camera activity and tried to get the angles you like the most. Did I miss anything?”

You had offered the option for a voice chat but Zandik declined. Not yet. His age was hardly disguised in his voice and he didn’t want to put you off. After all, he’d only just begun this little experiment.

“Everything appears perfect,” he typed. “You look quite eager.”

You laughed, your nerves unmistakeable. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. The best way to entertain you, the best toys to use. Gave me something to keep busy during the boring parts of my day.”

Anyone else would ask something akin to, “Did you think about me when you touched yourself?” but Zandik wasn’t about to lower himself. You both knew why he was there. It was clear you gave him every thought in your free time already.

You’d been studying him as much as he’d been observing you. It was flattering, really, to see someone using simple data to put together his preferences without much interaction. He loved slow strokes, watching your lips glide as you ground the dildo against your entrance. You teased your breasts with your fingertips, pinched your nipples just hard enough to mimic a bite, laid on your back and raised your legs high.

He gritted his teeth when you pulled out restraints and tied your legs so they stayed bent, preventing you from giving in when you grew tired.

You were soaked when you finally pushed the toy inside you with a whimper. One stroke and your pussy swallowed as much as it could, plugging you up. You reached down, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts, the camera perfectly capturing a close-up that caught every detail.

“This dildo is special,” you moaned. “Let me know when you’re close. I was too excited for this, it won’t take me…long…”

He managed to send another tip, triggering an announcement on your end, just as you began to tremble. A throaty moan escaped you while you rode out the orgasm, white substance dripping from your entrance around the toy.

He came all over his hand, spend shooting before leaking down his tip and shaft. Too much of it. Zandik had held off on anything more than a tease during your previous streams, saving his cum just for this. Pathetic and juvenile, perhaps, but…

“How was that, Doctor?” You panted. “Did you cum as hard as I did?”

“Perhaps a bit too hard,” he typed. “Very messy.”

“Mmm, if only I could clean you up.”

You took the dildo, covered in your juices and the special lubricant, and slid your mouth across the tip. You sucked and then went further, tongue peeking out, licking.

“A little sweet, if you’re curious. Zaytun peaches are my favorite.”

Zandik chuckled, cock twitching in his hand. You were good, he gave you that. For a medium that made it so difficult to recreate an interaction, you were quite adept. Would it flatter you to know his age? Or would you feel invaded?

“You have given me some inspiration for a new project. A present,” Zandik typed. “It’ll take some time. But I think you’ll quite enjoy it.”

“The best present would be your cock, I think, Doctor. Toys don’t quite do it.”

“Careful what you wish for, my dear. This will have to suffice for now.”

He designed the rocker on a gliding base to ensure movement was smooth. The entire idea was merely to shift your weight and mimic a partner meeting you.

The second part of this surprise took far longer than he wanted it to and required several attempts. A cock ring helped but was too painful for the length of time the plaster required. He’d used such medication before but this time he hardly had any actual relief that felt worthwhile.

The dildo was a perfect one-to-one copy of his own cock with additional functionality that shot a similar lubricant upon a release mechanism. The material itself was able to register stimuli to a partner device, and while it wouldn’t be a perfect model of your pussy, the exterior and entrance were as close as he could get. You didn’t need to know, though. Not yet.

Not quite what you asked for but he doubted you would want him when he could no longer perform as well as you’d prefer.

You had a voracious appetite and while he was eager, you were leagues ahead of him. After all, you were young, not even in your third decade.

He obtained your shipping address after an email exchange, stipulated you had to use it first on stream, and paid through the nose for express carrier service. There could be no risk that this was lost or took too long.

You emailed him only a simple message that it came and then put out a blast announcement about a last-minute surprise stream. That eager, were you?

His heart jumped and cock twitched at the barely-controlled excitement on your face. You hadn’t opened the box yet at all, dressed in blood red lace that looked as if it had been tailor-made for you. Part of him wondered if someone else had been as generous, doting on you as he did. Not that you would necessarily disclose it, of course, if someone had asked you not to.

Zandik, however, wanted every single fellow viewer to know who made you something that couldn’t be bought.

“I got this set especially for you, my Doctor,” you crooned. “I needed something to commemorate the occasion. As you can see, I haven’t opened it yet.”

He received several notifications from people tagging him in the chat. The only thing he typed was that the color suited you.

The unboxing was rather uneventful save a few coy looks to the camera mixed with genuine surprise when you unwrapped the rocker entirely and placed it center-stage in your performance space. You played with the movement, watching the icy blue dildo move as you rocked the seat, head craning to examine mechanisms.

“Oh, and even a little mount for a camera on both ends,” your excitement bled through anything else you were feeling. “I think that’s closer than we’ve been able to get before…”

Your hand ran over the thick veins of the dildo, looking straight at the camera. “Is this you cock? You made a mold of your cock just for me?”

Zandik confirmed as much in the chat. He already had the partner piece in his lap, cock still soft, feeling every tease of your fingers.

“Careful, we might make some viewers jealous, Doctor. I’m going to hook a feed up and play with my new toy.”

Yes, play all you wanted. This was as close to having you as he’d ever get and he wanted to savor your vivaciousness, your drive.

Zandik swallowed hard when he saw the new feeds pop up and watched you guide the dildo over your pussy lips, the tip of the dildo catching on your clit. You were already swollen, the mic picking up every squelch of your juices. He felt heat against his cock as you glided along, the device picking up every motion.

“Mmm, I’d still have preferred the real thing but this will do. I’ll savor every inch, Doctor.”

He switched cameras to watch as you eased yourself forward on the seat and then leaned down to guide the dildo to your entrance, sinking down slowly to take as much of the length as you could. His mouth opened in a silent moan as the pocket pussy squeezed his half-hard cock, mimicking your walls as best it could, warming modules kicking in.

You rocked slowly, your entrance dragging along the dildo, a perfect fit for your cunt. At first, your movements were shallow, barely moving as the tip bumped your cervix, or so it felt. As you adjusted to the size, you grew bolder, longer strokes as you rocked back and forth, as if he was right there beneath you.

Your moans were obscene, genuine as they were in the private stream. What were you thinking about, Zandik wondered. Was it the idea of him inside you, thrusting into you? Your walls quivered and the device responded, picking up on the cues and your pace increased, driving the dildo deeper to stroke that soft spot deep inside—

Zandik let out a choking gasp and gripped the arms of the chair as you shuddered on camera, your slick creamy as you came, his own spend shooting into the sleeve around his cock.

“How was…that…hmm?” You panted. “I think I want more, guys. Should I keep going?”

No, no, no, he couldn’t take—

The chat egged you on and you continued, ripping out three more orgasms that knocked the wind out of him.

“Doctor, you’re awfully quiet,” you teased. “Where are you? Did I do it justice?”

Zandik could barely type, his vision hazy.

“Perfect,” he managed. “Next time, you’ll have the real thing.”

Your smile made his cock twitch.

“I can’t wait.”

[boundinparchment]

Watchful Eyes

Zandik plays with a cam-girl. NSFW. Exactly what you’d expect. Dottore/female reader.

On AO3 here

He loved to watch your pussy.

It started out as a simple exploration. Your social media profile was pushed to him, full of tasteful but provocative photos, promising more on paid platforms. You always hid your face, minus your lips; maintaining the illusion of privacy was as much for your audience as it was for you. He wasn’t as versed as his Segments in the social engineering portions of the internet but, like all things, curiosity always won out.

On stream, you covered your eyes as much as you could, either with clever angles or a mask, eyes burning into the camera but your nose shape and cheeks obscured but swirling shapes.

Your channel was small, despite your tasteful approach to the profession. At the time, you must have just been starting out, perhaps all of six months in. You were empathetic and coy, careful to walk the illusion of potentially obtainable but never truly relatable.

But it was the camera angles that did it for him. You set yourself up with shots from above, below, every side imaginable depending on the position. You were completely ready to be studied, documented, not just for your cunt but for human sexuality.

The close-ups were his weak point. Watching your fingers spread your lips, slide into your entrance, toys of various sizes prodding and filling you. You looked tight, impossible to see into unless you’d already orgasmed and your walls were a tad stretched.

He came three times that first night, feeling every bit the perverted old man. The Segments never let him forget it.

Zandik liked that you never had another partner with you. Either because you didn’t want the backlash and the illusion broken or because you simply didn’t want to, it wasn’t quite clear.

But you paid attention to your regulars.

Especially the regulars that paid for bonus time to watch you orgasm again and again, breasts bouncing or ass up in the air as you slid yourself along a dildo that made jealousy grow in the pit of his stomach.

He joined the foray simply to see your reaction, the amount of mora far higher than the paltry sums others were offering, and your smile made his cock throb. No wonder Pantalone enjoyed his brothels so much.

“Oh? You’re quite generous, EccentricDoctor,” you said, so sultry that La Signora must have trained you herself. “I’ll have to give you a private session in return.”

Transactional. Give and take. No emotions, no personal attachments.

He had your attention.

And he kept it. Slightly outbidding the others for your attention trained you to look for his username and bring him into the fold. You listened when he put suggestions in the chat as fast as his arthritic fingers would let him. So few were as eloquent as he, and that did something for you, clearly.

His first personal stream, which took forever to schedule due to his own obligations, was surprisingly intimate. You had put cameras above your bed, on all four posters, and right at the foot, centered on your juicy core.

“I’ve never done a private stream before,” you admitted. “But you were so generous that I wanted to give you something special. I looked at all of the camera activity and tried to get the angles you like the most. Did I miss anything?”

You had offered the option for a voice chat but Zandik declined. Not yet. His age was hardly disguised in his voice and he didn’t want to put you off. After all, he’d only just begun this little experiment.

“Everything appears perfect,” he typed. “You look quite eager.”

You laughed, your nerves unmistakeable. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. The best way to entertain you, the best toys to use. Gave me something to keep busy during the boring parts of my day.”

Anyone else would ask something akin to, “Did you think about me when you touched yourself?” but Zandik wasn’t about to lower himself. You both knew why he was there. It was clear you gave him every thought in your free time already.

You’d been studying him as much as he’d been observing you. It was flattering, really, to see someone using simple data to put together his preferences without much interaction. He loved slow strokes, watching your lips glide as you ground the dildo against your entrance. You teased your breasts with your fingertips, pinched your nipples just hard enough to mimic a bite, laid on your back and raised your legs high.

He gritted his teeth when you pulled out restraints and tied your legs so they stayed bent, preventing you from giving in when you grew tired.

You were soaked when you finally pushed the toy inside you with a whimper. One stroke and your pussy swallowed as much as it could, plugging you up. You reached down, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts, the camera perfectly capturing a close-up that caught every detail.

“This dildo is special,” you moaned. “Let me know when you’re close. I was too excited for this, it won’t take me…long…”

He managed to send another tip, triggering an announcement on your end, just as you began to tremble. A throaty moan escaped you while you rode out the orgasm, white substance dripping from your entrance around the toy.

He came all over his hand, spend shooting before leaking down his tip and shaft. Too much of it. Zandik had held off on anything more than a tease during your previous streams, saving his cum just for this. Pathetic and juvenile, perhaps, but…

“How was that, Doctor?” You panted. “Did you cum as hard as I did?”

“Perhaps a bit too hard,” he typed. “Very messy.”

“Mmm, if only I could clean you up.”

You took the dildo, covered in your juices and the special lubricant, and slid your mouth across the tip. You sucked and then went further, tongue peeking out, licking.

“A little sweet, if you’re curious. Zaytun peaches are my favorite.”

Zandik chuckled, cock twitching in his hand. You were good, he gave you that. For a medium that made it so difficult to recreate an interaction, you were quite adept. Would it flatter you to know his age? Or would you feel invaded?

“You have given me some inspiration for a new project. A present,” Zandik typed. “It’ll take some time. But I think you’ll quite enjoy it.”

“The best present would be your cock, I think, Doctor. Toys don’t quite do it.”

“Careful what you wish for, my dear. This will have to suffice for now.”

He designed the rocker on a gliding base to ensure movement was smooth. The entire idea was merely to shift your weight and mimic a partner meeting you.

The second part of this surprise took far longer than he wanted it to and required several attempts. A cock ring helped but was too painful for the length of time the plaster required. He’d used such medication before but this time he hardly had any actual relief that felt worthwhile.

The dildo was a perfect one-to-one copy of his own cock with additional functionality that shot a similar lubricant upon a release mechanism. The material itself was able to register stimuli to a partner device, and while it wouldn’t be a perfect model of your pussy, the exterior and entrance were as close as he could get. You didn’t need to know, though. Not yet.

Not quite what you asked for but he doubted you would want him when he could no longer perform as well as you’d prefer.

You had a voracious appetite and while he was eager, you were leagues ahead of him. After all, you were young, not even in your third decade.

He obtained your shipping address after an email exchange, stipulated you had to use it first on stream, and paid through the nose for express carrier service. There could be no risk that this was lost or took too long.

You emailed him only a simple message that it came and then put out a blast announcement about a last-minute surprise stream. That eager, were you?

His heart jumped and cock twitched at the barely-controlled excitement on your face. You hadn’t opened the box yet at all, dressed in blood red lace that looked as if it had been tailor-made for you. Part of him wondered if someone else had been as generous, doting on you as he did. Not that you would necessarily disclose it, of course, if someone had asked you not to.

Zandik, however, wanted every single fellow viewer to know who made you something that couldn’t be bought.

“I got this set especially for you, my Doctor,” you crooned. “I needed something to commemorate the occasion. As you can see, I haven’t opened it yet.”

He received several notifications from people tagging him in the chat. The only thing he typed was that the color suited you.

The unboxing was rather uneventful save a few coy looks to the camera mixed with genuine surprise when you unwrapped the rocker entirely and placed it center-stage in your performance space. You played with the movement, watching the icy blue dildo move as you rocked the seat, head craning to examine mechanisms.

“Oh, and even a little mount for a camera on both ends,” your excitement bled through anything else you were feeling. “I think that’s closer than we’ve been able to get before…”

Your hand ran over the thick veins of the dildo, looking straight at the camera. “Is this you cock? You made a mold of your cock just for me?”

Zandik confirmed as much in the chat. He already had the partner piece in his lap, cock still soft, feeling every tease of your fingers.

“Careful, we might make some viewers jealous, Doctor. I’m going to hook a feed up and play with my new toy.”

Yes, play all you wanted. This was as close to having you as he’d ever get and he wanted to savor your vivaciousness, your drive.

Zandik swallowed hard when he saw the new feeds pop up and watched you guide the dildo over your pussy lips, the tip of the dildo catching on your clit. You were already swollen, the mic picking up every squelch of your juices. He felt heat against his cock as you glided along, the device picking up every motion.

“Mmm, I’d still have preferred the real thing but this will do. I’ll savor every inch, Doctor.”

He switched cameras to watch as you eased yourself forward on the seat and then leaned down to guide the dildo to your entrance, sinking down slowly to take as much of the length as you could. His mouth opened in a silent moan as the pocket pussy squeezed his half-hard cock, mimicking your walls as best it could, warming modules kicking in.

You rocked slowly, your entrance dragging along the dildo, a perfect fit for your cunt. At first, your movements were shallow, barely moving as the tip bumped your cervix, or so it felt. As you adjusted to the size, you grew bolder, longer strokes as you rocked back and forth, as if he was right there beneath you.

Your moans were obscene, genuine as they were in the private stream. What were you thinking about, Zandik wondered. Was it the idea of him inside you, thrusting into you? Your walls quivered and the device responded, picking up on the cues and your pace increased, driving the dildo deeper to stroke that soft spot deep inside—

Zandik let out a choking gasp and gripped the arms of the chair as you shuddered on camera, your slick creamy as you came, his own spend shooting into the sleeve around his cock.

“How was…that…hmm?” You panted. “I think I want more, guys. Should I keep going?”

No, no, no, he couldn’t take—

The chat egged you on and you continued, ripping out three more orgasms that knocked the wind out of him.

“Doctor, you’re awfully quiet,” you teased. “Where are you? Did I do it justice?”

Zandik could barely type, his vision hazy.

“Perfect,” he managed. “Next time, you’ll have the real thing.”

Your smile made his cock twitch.

“I can’t wait.”

[poyon092]

[crowttore]

In which you're visited by your savior

Notes: requested by a follower ^^ 'Pantalone w his favourite brothel worker' Tags: Pantalone x fem reader, power imbalance, sex worker reader, implied coercion, age gap technically, cockwarming 1.2k Comments and reblogs much appreciated Minors DNI

There was much in your life to be grateful for. No longer did you fear the cold nights where storms raged and left frozen bodies in their wake. You had a room, warm, comfortable, private most of the time. You were fed.

Even had a purpose of sorts.

The establishment provided lodging and a wage in exchange for your cooperation.

Many of the other rooms were already occupied by visitors who came to visit the lucky souls like you who'd traded their bodies to escape the streets of Snezhnograd.

As it did most nights, your room remained empty. Which was how you found the time to walk through the corridors, listening to bedframes creaking, whips cracking, moans passing through the walls with frightening clarity.

The bare floorboards were chilly against your skin, but the mistress who ran the establishment had explained that carpets would be a hassle to keep clean. And anything less but pristine conditions simply wouldn't do, not with the clientele being catered to.

A drunken man stumbles past, nearly toppling you with his weight. The scent of cheap spirits cling to his beard. He doesn't apologize, of course, but you do. It's a lucky night, he doesn't try to touch you, barely seems to register your presence as he fumbles along the corridor, squinting at the numbers and names on the doors. Your heart is in your throat regardless.

"You shouldn't be out and about, should you darling?"

The voice comes from just behind you and you whirl around, shawl flaring out despite how tightly you're clutching it.

There's no chance to respond before silk touches your cheek in a gentle caress and you're pulled forward by a hand on your lower back. The figure lifts the dark coat and tucks you beneath it like a fledgling bird.

"I vividly remember telling the matron to enforce a curfew so little strays like you wouldn't bother the customers."

Ah. You recognized that voice. And the scent of expensive perfume.

"Regrator.. I got a little restless is all.."

He steps forward, forcing you to back up a little, walking you down the hall with a hand firmly pressing you to his chest, not letting you turn around to watch where you were going. Blind faith.

"Restless? Aren't you satisfied with your room?" He purrs out the words, more accusation than question.

Your breath hitches when he leans over you to unlock the door. The third copy of your key, one belonging to you, one kept at the establishment, and one always with the owner. "Of course I am, I just wanted to see if there weren't any clients for me.."

"Ah, so you fear your prospective clients would get lost on their way up the stairs or down the hallway? How precious. Although that service isn't part of what they pay for."

You're shepherded back into your room before you can try to think up more excuses for breaking the simple rule. Even though you were only under his coat shortly, being without it makes your hairs stand on end. Or perhaps it had more to do with your rabbiting pulse and the anticipation of consequence. Maybe a cut in pay or a warning for repeated 'insubordination' as they sometimes called it.

That fear was quickly dispelled when you caught sight of The Regrator's expression; a rare smile that seemed to reach his eyes. He wasted no time, rarely did when he visited, shrugging off his coat before taking a seat in one of two armchairs and patting his lap expectantly.

When you obliged, straddling narrow hips covered by expensive fabrics, he brought a hand to cup your cheek.

"I'm almost offended you still scare so easily, haven't you learned that I couldn't possibly get angry with you?"

One careful smile from you, heat creeping up your neck at the thought that this luxury is afforded you alone, and he chuckles with something like fondness. A press of lips against yours signal the beginning of this dance that had become routine since you'd been taken in.

"Ridiculous isn't it? To accuse me, me of all people, of squandering funds on projects that will go nowhere? Does he not know the faintest thing about investment? There will always be risk, and it's the job of any good financer to recognize when the potential benefits outweigh-" The sharp hitch of your breath (finally) draws his attention back to the present and he releases the painful grip on your waist.

Had it not been for his gloves, you were certain there'd be crescent-shaped marks for days. Pantalone simply gives you an encouraging pat on the hip, the same as a farmer might do to make cattle move, and you begin slowly grinding back and forth in his lap once more.

"Where were I? Ah, yes." He takes a slow drag of his cigarette. "I swear working with The Mayor is the cause of at least half my headaches. But I suppose I can't expect someone like him to appreciate the thought that goes into managing our funds. If only he didn't stick that long nose into my business at every given chance."

Your lips carefully trail along the surgical scar across his chest and Pantalone shivers, blowing smoke past your head while carefully bringing his hand from your hip to instead pet the back of your head. His rings get your hair tangled around them with every stroke, but he doesn't seem to care, simply tugging a little every time he meets resistance.

His length still drags pleasantly against your walls with every tilt of your hips, the tip angled perfectly for your own needs. But this wasn't about you. This was about dragging out the last waves of his pleasure, release still dripping from your core and onto his messy thighs. Your toes curl as you allow yourself one last slow grind and Pantalone groans from overstimulation.

"Oh how much I miss your warmth in those stony palace halls and tedious meetings."

He always says something similar, and it's made you spend several sleepless nights (blasted thin walls) considering the dangerous proposition you now make. "Then take me with you, I wouldn't mind the change of scenery at all sir."

The Regrator pauses for a moment, if you were anyone else is should've made you cower, head angled off to the side as he blows a puff of smoke. Then he laughs, not the silken chuckle reserved for business partners but raspy and deep enough that you feel his abdomen clench.

Laughter has his head falling back and you kiss his Adam's apple with far too much affection piercing your heart. His free hand moves from your hip to cradle the back of your neck instead as he gives a little thrust up into you.

"Aren't you the most darling thing."

You'd had a hundred arguments lined up on your tongue, how you were hardly profitable to keep there when you spent almost every night by yourself anyway, how you could do so much more for him than just this.

Your suggestion wasn't acknowledged again. Once Pantalone had finished smoking, he kissed your forehead and thanked you while pulling you off of his soft cock. Mora and a wrapped box tied with silk were procured from his coat and placed on your nightstand.

But he left without you. Left you greedy for more than he'd already given.

Again.

Masterlist

[poyon092]

dottore has to pull his ahoge to make him stop smoking