you take a look at this tumblr and see a work in progress (good ending) but i take a look at this tumblr and see a nightmare, please how do i theme this? (bad ending)
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.
Aside from the fact Aino actually has a functioning moral compass, I think they'd learn to get along great! And if Dottore should relapse too badly into Evil, Ineffa will just bonk him over the head with her vacuum arm until it passes.
Please full-view? Tumblr is absolutely murdering the image quality.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ IN WHICH mydei has been acting more suspicious lately, and the chrysos heirs are determined to get to the bottom of it.
content. fluff + crack! not proofread and probably ooc. happy valentines! 🫶
mydei is acting strange today.
it hasn't just been today, but the past few weeks that he's been off in his own head — mydei, who's known for bringing havoc wherever he steps, has been mysteriously off the grid.
he's only present in meetings in a physical sense, his mind obviously filled with thoughts about other matters unrelated to his job — he's not even present in the non-mandatory meetings (even though he always used to), nor does he bathe and cleanse in the palace's hero pools.
aglaea thinks a trial of judgement might have to be made, trianne thinks he's just homesick, but ultimately, the heirs decide that it's best for phainon to figure out what's going on with him.
so, he does.
mydei is always up before the sun begins to rise (that part hasn't changed for some reason, much to phainon's dismay), so he starts to tail him before it gets bright, hiding behind the tree bark as mydei gets ready for the new day, stepping out of his home and walking straight into the plaza.
things feel normal for the first few hours — his rival is meticulous in his work, so he oversees their small military force with great care, even if he looks a little out of it sometimes. phainon doesn't usually spend the day staring him down every second, so he chalks it up to the man taking small breaks when no one's watching.
the first alarm bells ring when mydei finishes work far faster than usual, and takes off as fast as he can.
the deliverer decides that a bird's eye view would be best to keep a keen eye on the warrior who seems to be in a rush to go somewhere.
he finds out two things in the five minutes he sprints after mydei: one, that running after him puts all of his other workouts to shame, and two, the place that he's so keen on going to is a chocolate store.
phainon stops in his tracks immediately, skidding on the wooden rooftop he was running on.
he takes the moment to catch his breath, huffs of air escaping his lips as he wonders what insane titan possessed mydeimos "health nut" the undying, who refused to drink sparkling water a week ago, to willingly step into and out of a sweets store of all places.
hurriedly, he pulls out his teleslate.
Phainon: He just walked out with like two boxes of chocolates
Castorice: are you sure that's the same mydei
Phainon: Trust me, I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it either
Aglaea: Chocolates? Is he alright?
Tribbie: maybe he's just feeling sad ☹️ get better mydei!
Castorice: we're rooting for you, mydei!
unless it's to check up on his people and buy local cuisines and ingredients from kremnos, mydei rarely lets his presence made known in public, especially in the local markets where citizens are constantly crowding the booths.
that's why the second alarm bell rings when he not only confidently enters the market, but peruses the selection carefully.
mydei walks around, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes intense like a man on a mission as he glances over flowers, rings, stuffed dromas, and golden scarabs, before stopping at a second-rate shop.
phainon doesn't mean to assume, he really doesn't, but the shop looks unkempt at best, and suspicious at worst — a ratted purple tent covering the objects inside, the market is too open for him to move and find a different view, so he stays planted, crouching lower out of mydei's field of vision.
he watches with bated breath as an elderly man comes out, greeting mydei with a smile. the warrior gives him a polite one in return, bending down to whisper something in the man's ear.
phainon's too far away to hear the conversation, but the elder visibly stiffens when mydei speaks to him, immediately rushing back into the shop to grab a small box, and placing it into mydei's open palms.
mydei's gleeful smile almost looks evil when he clasps onto the box, patting the trembling man on the shoulder before heading on his way right back out.
for the second time, phainon reaches for his teleslate.
Phainon: I think he just robbed someone in the market
Aglaea: What?
Castorice: what
Tribbie: WHAT
Phainon: Should I confirm with the man or keep following him?
Aglaea: Keep following him. I'll send someone to the market, keep us updated.
Castorice: we're rooting for you, phainon!
putting the teleslate back in his pocket, he sighs, getting rather weary of mydei's incessant energy.
it's his duty as a chrysos heir to make sure another one isn't doing anything suspicious, though, so he'll honor it, even if it means stalking the man through the holy city until it's sunset.
he follows mydei right up to the edges of okhema, and the final alarm bell rings when he turns around, his eyes scanning everything on ground level as if to make sure there's no one to follow him, before slinking off into a back alley.
phainon thinks he might be going crazy. there's no way mydei of all people would be doing something shady, and much less illegal, would he?
a squeal echoes off the walls of the dark alleyway, interrupting his doubts.
he jumps into action imediately, jumping over a planter pot or two to get to the cry for help faster, his breath quickening as he sees a figure standing close to the heir. phainon automatically reaches for his claymore, his fingers itching and ready to protect an innocent before he hears the figure laugh.
it's a familiar laugh, he realizes, it's you, the regular he often sees at the baths.
he inches closer, peeking his head down past the rooftop, finding mydei opening the box of chocolates for you, an uncharacteristically soft smile playing on his features.
"mydei," you frown, "i thought we said we didn't want to do anything special for valentines."
"i wanted to surprise you," he inches it closer to you, "don't be foolish, take a bite."
"i can't!" a small whine enters your protest, "I didn't get you anything, how could i—?"
"take it," he insists. he drops his voice lower, a softer question escaping his lips, "for me?"
you feel your face heat up at the request. how could you say no to a face like that?
you pluck a chocolate heart from the box, pointing to it's twin that lives on the other side with your pinky finger, gesturing for mydei to pick it up. "c'mon, loverboy. only if you do too."
he rolls his eyes, picking up the heart.
phainon stares in abject horror as you feed the man the chocolate, pushing the sugar against his lips as he does the same to you. you end the exchange with another excited squeal, flinging yourself haphazardly into mydei's arms — he stumbles back just a little bit, small bars of chocolate littering the streets as he stabilizes himself against the stone, one arm wrapped around yours.
phainon's teleslate buzzes (has it been buzzing this entire time?), and he gets momentarily distracted from the scene below him to find castorice sending in another message.
Tribbie: i just checked with the man, he gave him a gift for his child! i think it was handmade by mydei, and he was refining it or something
Aglaea: Oh, that's quite sweet, actually.
Castorice: aww that's so cute!
Aglaea: Any news, Phainon?
Tribbie: i think he's ignoring us ☹️
Aglaea: He wouldn't dare.
Castorice: phainon, are you there?
he moves to respond, before glancing down at you once more. you're still hugging mydei, your face buried into his chest as you mumble something under your breath. the problem isn't you, no, but the man you have your arms wrapped around making direct eye-contact with phainon.
his eyes flicker from phainon's to yours, before he delicately pushes you off his body, his expression morphing into a kinder one.
"i still have another present for you," he presses a tender kiss to your forehead, "let's leave all the single people here and go somewhere else."
"hm, what people—?"
"ugly ones." he grabs your hand, cocking his head farther down the alleyway, "c'mon, there's a way out back this way."
you agree easily, following him without a care in the world — you don't really care where you go with mydei, as long as you get to be with him.
unbeknownst to you, mydei looks back to phainon —a rival, but a friend and confidant nonetheless, someone he could always rely on in the heat of battle — with a shit-eating grin on his face, the type of smug look that only a mother (and you, apparently) could love.
single, and ugly.
phainon's eye twitches.
Phainon: It's an imposter. I'll bring you his head, Aglaea.
the teleslate buzzes once more while he readies his claymore to demolish the man that can't be more than a few blocks down — the man probably laughing his ass off with you, and doing other couple stuff that phainon couldn't even dream about.
as far as he's concerned, though, love dies today.
Castorice: we're rooting for you, phainon!
i am so tired goodnight ueueueue will be dreaming about my phainon/mydei polycule 🙏🙏🙏
(switch Zandik x dom/switch female reader, Akademiya-era enemies-to-lovers explicit smut)
Explicit | ~ 13.4k words
Tags: explicit sexual content, CONSENSUAL rough sex, desk sex, semi-public sex, biting, marking and slapping, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, creampie, dry humping, both parties are inexperienced, switch Zandik (top/bottom dynamics leaning more towards bottom), power play, aftercare, cuddling, minor mentions of blood (biting)
Quick Summary: You and Zandik hate each other—rivalry at the Akademiya.
One stormy night you find him in your secret abandoned lecture hall. Insults fly, it turns physical (slap, shove, bite), then explodes into rough, desperate, first-time sex on the desk.
Clumsy, intense, both virgins losing control—grinding, overstimulation, him whimpering/crying. Ends with soft cuddling, kisses, and admitting the hate isn't just hate anymore.
Pre-expulsion Zandik (softer take), is probably OCC—depending on your own characterisation
Author’s Note: This is my first time writing a smut—therefore, it might be repetitive or just bad in general.
The Akademiya always felt like a prison.
Even in the small hours, when the great lanterns were dimmed to amber flickers and the corridors echoed only with the soft drip of condensation from high ceilings, the building breathed. It breathed through the rustle of turning pages, the scratch of quills on vellum, the occasional stifled cough of some scholar who had forgotten what sunlight felt like. It breathed through the weight of centuries of knowledge hoarded behind locked doors and sealed scrolls, knowledge that was never meant to be touched by mortal hands and yet was touched anyway—because mortals always touch what they’re told not to.
You had learned early that silence was safer than speech.
You moved through the marble halls like a ghost in scholar’s robes—head up, steps measured, eyes sliding past faces without ever landing. No one spoke to you unless they had no choice. No one liked you. You were weird, distant, sharp-tongued when cornered, the kind of person who made others feel small simply by existing near them. They called it arrogance… and you didn't really care.
You hated them all.
Not with loud, dramatic fury. Not with shouting or curses. Your hatred was quiet, constant, low-burning. It lived in the way your fingers tightened around your quill when someone dared sit too close in a lecture hall. It lived in the way your lips pressed thin when a professor praised mediocrity. It lived in the way you walked the Akademiya’s corridors alone at night, seeking out forgotten rooms where the silence almost felt like mercy.
Lecture Hall 7-C was one of those rooms.
Tucked behind the Rtawahist wing, small with a few windows on the wall, it had been declared off-limits years ago after some student’s reckless experiment left scorch marks on the floor and a lingering smell of burnt ozone. The lock had been broken for months—perhaps longer—and no one bothered to repair it. You had discovered it by accident one sleepless night and claimed it without asking permission, the way you claimed most things—quietly, stubbornly, as though the world owed you at least one place that didn’t ask questions.
Tonight the storm outside was apocalyptic. Rain hammered the domes in furious sheets. You’d just finished your shift at some random stall in Bazaar—you were absolutely exhausted, but you simply can’t rest when there’s so many assignments and upcoming exams. Wind screamed through ancient stone. You were soaked through by the time you reached the corridor—clothes heavy and clinging, water dripping in icy tracks down your spine, between your breasts, pooling cold in the hollows of your collarbones. Every step squelched. Your heartbeat was louder than the thunder.
You pushed the heavy door open.
And stopped.
The lantern was already lit.
Low, flickering, throwing long shadows across the scarred wooden desk at the front. Papers lay scattered—dense diagrams of ruin guard neural matrices, equations in sharp, slanted scripts you knew too well. Ink stained the edges. A broken quill rested forgotten in the middle of it all.
A certain cyan-blue haired maniac sat there—exactly as he always did in your worst nightmares—sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair loose and damp from the humidity, strands curling and clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. He was writing furiously, the scratch of a seemingly new quill loud in the quiet room.
You slammed the door shut behind you with unexpected force.
Maybe too roughly…
The sound cracked like a whip.
He didn’t startle at all, you hadn’t expected him to. He simply stopped writing. Leisurely—agonizingly—he lifted his head.
Crimson eyes met yours.
And something inside your chest tore open all over again.
You remembered the first time you truly started hating his guts—not the academic irritation you wore like the greatest armor, but the kind of hate that clawed inside your ribs, made your pulse roar in your ears, made every breath taste like rust and agony.
It had been a few months earlier, in Seminar Room 4-B…
The seminar was one of the late ones—the kind held after most students had already fled to their depressing dorms or the library’s restricted stacks. The topic was “Post-Cataclysm knowledge curation,” which everyone knew was Akademiya-speak for “why we hide half the things we dig up.”
Professor Sadeghi was explaining—again—why certain Khaenri’ahn schematics had been sealed rather than studied openly.
“…the risk of misinterpretation outweighs the benefit of unrestricted access,” he said, turning to wipe chalk dust from his long sleeve. “Some knowledge is better left contextualized by those with the proper training and restraint.”
Zandik, slouched in the front row with one ankle crossed over his knee, let out a single, quiet scoff—just loud enough to carry to the back.
He didn’t raise his hand. He never did.
“‘Proper training and restraint,’” he drawled, spinning a golden quill between his fingers. “That’s a polite way of saying the sages are terrified of anything that proves the gods aren’t the only ones who can build gods. You don’t bury knowledge because it’s dangerous. You bury it because it’s embarrassing. One working automaton core in the right hands and the whole divine monopoly starts to look like a very expensive bluff.”
Several students shifted, some rolled their eyes and exchanged glances. The professor’s mouth thinned, but before he could speak—
You felt it snap.
You never spoke in class. Never. You sat in the back row, arms folded, head buried in your notes, invisible by choice. Talking meant attention. Attention meant vulnerability. You’d spent years perfecting silence.
But something about Zandik’s tone that day—that lazy, self-satisfied certainty, like he alone had been brave enough to see the truth—finally made your blood simmer past the point of restraint.
You leaned forward just enough for your voice to carry.
“And you think handing out forbidden power like candy is brave?” Your tone was flat, mildly uninterested, but loud enough to make heads turn. “Khaenri’ah didn’t fall because the gods were jealous. They fell because they treated creation like a game with no rules and no consequences. You sit there romanticizing their ambition like it was noble instead of reckless. It wasn’t progress. It was hubris with better tools.”
The room went still.
Zandik stopped spinning the quill. He turned his head slowly—not dramatically, just enough to look at you over his shoulder. Crimson eyes narrowed at you, but the corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like a predator acknowledging another predator.
“Hubris,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s what they call it when the losing side writes the history books. The gods didn’t punish Khaenri’ah for breaking rules. They punished them for proving the rules were never necessary.” He finally turned his whole body toward the back row, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair. “You’re not defending morality. You’re defending the comfort of never having to ask whether the leash you wear is actually for your protection—or theirs.”
The room was pin-drop silent.
Not even professor Sadeghi spoke.
“I’m defending the people who would die if idiots like you handed out god-killing weapons without a single thought for what comes after.” Your voice stayed level, but the edge was unmistakable. “You think destruction is freedom. I think it’s just the easiest way to feel powerful when you’re too scared to build anything that lasts.”
He simply uncrossed his legs and straightened his back against the chair—expression displeased and slightly irritated.
“Then build something,” he said quietly. “Stop hiding behind ‘consequences’ and actually make something that isn’t just another chain. Or are you afraid that if you tried, you’d discover you’re just as dependent on the gods’ approval as everyone else you pretend to look down on?”
“I don’t need the gods’ approval to know that power without restraint isn’t freedom—it’s chaos with better branding. You’re not fighting for liberation. You’re fighting for the right to be the new tyrant. And you hate that everyone can see it.”
Zandik’s smile vanished.
For a second something unguarded flashed in his eyes—not anger exactly, but something colder and sharper.
“Then see this,” he said, voice low enough that only the middle rows could hear clearly. “Every time someone like you decides some knowledge is ‘too dangerous’ to touch, you’re not protecting anyone. You’re just choosing which cage everyone else gets to live in. And you do it with that smug little certainty that makes you feel clean. But clean hands are just hands that never had to get dirty to survive.”
You straightened from the chair, smoothing your clothes as you stood. The chair scraped back as you stepped one row toward him. Every eye in the room followed you. Apparently, the class was getting a free show today.
His eyebrow lifted in amusement and he rose too—unhurried, almost graceful, mirroring your movements. The quill disappeared into his pocket and papers slid off his desk. The space between you had crackled. For one heartbeat you’d thought he might actually cross the room completely and grab you.
Instead he’d smirked—measured but sharp.
“I’d rather have clean hands than blood on them just to prove I’m not afraid,” you said. “You call it cowardice. I call it having something worth protecting. But you wouldn’t understand that. You’ve never had anything you were afraid to lose.”
“Keep telling yourself it’s safer to stay clean. One day you might even believe it.”
“Well, at least I don’t dress up sadism as enlightenment,” you said, voice low and venomous. “You talk about all this like it makes you superior, but all I see is a boy who’s so afraid of facts and failure that he’d rather cross the line than risk having to feel anything real. You’re not enlightened. You’re just broken.”
You closed the last gap—now only one desk stood between you.
He paused—eyes flicking over you as though he were searching for a label he hadn’t bothered to learn yet.
“Broken?” He laughed once—short, mirthless. “That’s rich coming from someone who sits in corners pretending silence makes them untouchable. You don’t speak because you’re afraid someone might actually look at you and see nothing underneath. At least I’m honest about what I want. You’re just a coward hiding behind morality because it’s easier than admitting you’re empty.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Your breath caught. For one dangerous second you almost lunged—fingers twitching, wanting to reach toward his collar so bad.
“Please. Keep pretending you’re above it all. Maybe they’ll see nothing underneath, but when someone decides to look past your ice—they will realize there’s something heretical and rotten beneath it.”
“And with all honesty that’s worse than nothing.”
A fractured laugh slipped from you as you held his gaze without blinking.
“Oh wait—maybe they already see it…” you whispered mockingly, nudging your head to the class.
The professor finally moved—stepping closer to you, hands raised, obviously trying to keep his voice respectful.
“Enough! Both of you—sit. Down.”
Zandik didn’t look away from you. Neither did you.
He leaned down and grinned at you like a maniac.
“You heard the professor. You should go back to your little corner—you’re smarter when you’re on a leash.” He spoke again—quieter, only for you.
The professor physically pushed between you, voice rising.
“I said enough!”
Zandik didn’t move at first. He held your stare for another long second—long enough for you to notice the muscle in his jaw flex and the faint pulse beneath his eye.
“Sit down right now! Or you're both getting suspended!”
He was the one who broke first—turning sharply on his heel. He made sure to bump you hard enough with his shoulder as he walked towards the door—the silk of his sleeve brushed against your own robe. He murmured something you couldn’t quite understand.
You just stood there and watched him walk out—spine straight, steps measured—and felt the familiar cold fury settle in your chest—the quiet rage that always stirred whenever he opened his mouth in lectures like the rest of the room was just delaying the inevitable moment he proved himself right.
He slammed the door shut like a sulking child pretending it was a grand exit.
You hated that part of you that wondered if he was right.
Since that day you were like heavy weapons aimed at each other—locked in a cold, relentless war of wits that played out in every corner of the Akademiya.
He’d claim your usual seat in the reading rooms just to watch you arrive and bristle. You’d “borrow” his meticulously organized notes during group sessions, only to return them later with your corrections scrawled in the same blood-red ink he loved to use on yours—each annotation more cutting than the last: “Lazy inference,” “Intellectually dishonest,” “Try again.”
You traded lethal stares across lecture halls and crowded corridors. He’d catch your eye from the far side of the room, chin tilted in that infuriating way, crimson stare unblinking and venomous.
You’d return it without hesitation—chin high, expression cold and irritated—until the air between you crackled so thickly that one of you finally looked away.
Neither of you would ever admit who blinked first. Neither of you ever escalated to formal complaints. This was personal—private. A duel fought with sharp remarks and stolen glances instead of blades.
You hated how his sabotage pushed you to work harder, think darker, cut deeper just to prove you were better. He hated it more—hated how your corrections exposed every weak spot he pretended didn’t exist, hated how he started anticipating your next move like a junkie waiting for the next hit.
Neither of you had ever wasted a single breath on anything that wasn’t designed to wound, humiliate, or destroy.
Until tonight.
“What the fuck are you doing in my hall, you disgusting freak?”
You dropped your soaked bag with a wet slap against the stone floor. The sound echoed sharply in the small room. Scrolls spilled out in a messy arc, rolling and skidding across the tiles. One bumped against the leg of the desk and stopped.
He stared at you with that same mocking glint. His mouth curved in a faint smirk.
“Your hall?” he drawled, straightening his posture. “I wasn’t aware the sages had deeded you private property. Or is this another charming delusion you tell yourself so you can pretend you own anything at all?”
“I’ve been coming here for months. Alone. Because unlike you, I don’t need an audience of corpses to feel important.” You straightened, shoulders squared, chin tilted up. “Now I walk in and find the Akademiya’s favourite corpse-fucker squatting in my space like he owns the fucking place. Get out before I throw you out on your pathetic ass.”
Zandik paused completely. His quill still hovered above the page for half a second, then he set it down with careful precision—the soft clink of metal against wood cutting through the rain noise. He pushed his chair back slowly. The legs scraped across the stone with a low, grating sound.
He remained behind the desk, looking down at you across the scattered papers. Then he moved—stepping sideways around the corner of the desk. When he stopped, he was no longer separated from you by the wood. He stood directly in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. The lantern light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint sheen along his temple.
He tilted his head just slightly, sharp eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. A dangerous smile curled one corner of his mouth again.
“Hm… corpse-fucker.” He let the word roll off his tongue, tasting it as if he was trying to mock you for trying so hard. “That’s a new one… creative tonight, aren’t we?” He shifted his weight forward a fraction, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk beside him—fingers splayed, knuckles brushing the torn edge of a diagram.
“Careful—someone might think you’ve been thinking about me.”
You crossed the remaining distance in three sharp strides. Your wet shoes clicked against the stone. You stopped directly in front of him, so close that the front of your soaked shirt almost brushed his chest. Zandik was slightly taller—enough that you had to angle your head back to keep eye contact. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, fingers flexing once, twice.
“Thinking about you?” you hissed, voice low and venomous. “I have better things to do than poisoning my brain with such thoughts.”
You took another half a step closer—forcing him either to retreat or to hold his ground. He didn’t move back—technically there was nowhere to move. His shoulders squared instead, spine straightening, making the height difference more pronounced. The lantern light flickered across his face, catching the faint tension at the corner of his mouth and forehead.
“You’re a walking plague, Zandik.” You leaned in until your face was inches from his, voice dropping to a cutting whisper. “The kind of heretic they’ll burn in the desert once the sages finally get tired of your little games. And I’ll be there watching, laughing.”
Then you paused, letting the silence stretch between your faces for a moment.
“Anyways, they say a bunch of stuff about you around here. I’m surprised you haven’t heard that one yet.”
His smile withered, the edges sharpening into disdain. Halflidded eyes flicked down to your mouth for a fraction of a second—almost unnoticeable—before returning to yours. He exhaled through his nose, the sound subdued but deliberate. His free hand lifted halfway, then stopped—fingers curling loosely in the air between you before dropping back to his side.
He leaned down very slightly, bringing his face closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“Oh, I’ve heard them all,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, almost intimate, but every syllable carried a razor’s edge. “The question is… why do you remember them so clearly?”
He didn’t move any closer. He simply stood there—tall, still, unblinking—letting the words hang in the narrow space between your mouths while rain hammered the windows behind you both.
For the first time, you said nothing. You were already bored of his pathetic attempts to humiliate you. He clicked his tongue once, clearly displeased by your silence.
“I used to think your silence was arrogance. Now I realize it’s just cowardice with better posture. You don’t speak because you’re afraid the moment you open your mouth, everyone will realise how pathetic you actually are.”
Zandik’s words hung in the air for half a second, smug and stabbing, like he’d just dropped the winning move on a chessboard.
”You don’t even have anything smart to say.”
You didn’t flinch or even blink. You’d heard these insults more than enough.
You just looked at him—long enough for the silence to turn uncomfortable—and then spoke, voice flat and so cold it almost sounded bored.
“Zandik.”
You said his name like it tasted bad.
“I really don’t want to look at your dumb face right now. Or hear any more of your bullshit.” You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make the dismissal sting. “Can you just leave me alone and get the fuck out of here?”
You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.
The words landed just right—not loud or dramatic, but final.
“If I’m as awful as you say…”
He paused for a moment, gaze flickering over your face like he’s reading notes.
“…then we’re identical.”
“You were thrown away first.”
His words carried clinical boredom.
“At least I don’t pretend it didn’t shape me.”
Zandik stared straight at you, eyes unblinking, lips threatening to curve in a sour smirk. He knew precisely where to aim—exploiting every weak spot like he'd rehearsed this moment in his head.
The only sound in the tiny room was the rain hitting the windows, and the faint wet drip from your soaked clothes onto the stone floor. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking once under the skin. He didn’t blink. He didn’t say anything else. He simply watched you—intently, almost predatorily—like he was waiting to see which way you would break.
The words hit you like a rough slap—sharp enough to sting, but not enough to make you break.
You pushed him back before you could think better of it.
Both hands slammed into his chest with all the force you could muster. The impact jolted him backward. He staggered one step, hip clipping the edge of the desk with a dull thud. Papers scattered in a frantic cascade—some fluttering to the floor, others catching under his weight and tearing with dry, ripping sounds. His fingers splayed wide against the scarred wood, catching himself just before he went down completely. A bottle of tar-black ink tipped, dark liquid spilling across the edge of the surface in a slow, spreading stain that dripped onto the stone tiles below.
The room was completely still except for the rain and the faint wet plink of ink meeting the floor.
He stayed braced there for a heartbeat—chest heaving once, twice—then leisurely straightened, his eyes never leaving yours.
Before you could pull your hands back, his reflexes snapped. His slim hands shot out—fast and precise—closing around both your thin wrists in an iron grip. His fingers wrapped completely around the slender bones, thumbs pressing hard into the soft undersides. The hold was bruising, deliberate, digging in deep enough that you felt the ache bloom instantly under the skin. He yanked your arms forward slightly, forcing your body to follow the motion so you stayed close, chests almost touching.
You tried to wrench yourself free. Zandik was stronger—solid and unyielding—but you didn’t fight him head-on. Instead, you twisted your arms sharply, jerking your left shoulder back while rotating your wrist inward. The sudden torque forced his grip to shift. His fingers tightened instinctively, then slipped for just a second—long enough for you to tear your right hand free.
In that split second you swung. Your free hand cracked across his stupid face—open palm, full force, absolutely no hesitation.
The slap rang out like a gunshot, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and ceiling in a bright, echoing crack.
Zandik’s head snapped sideways. The motion was violent—curled strands of hair whipped across his face and fell into his bright eyes. A vivid red handprint instantly bloomed across the pale skin of his cheek—bright, angry, the edges already swelling. His lips parted on a sharp, involuntary inhale.
For a second he just stood there. You couldn’t quite read his expression.
He breathed hard—chest heaving tremulously—hair hanging in his face as per usual, obscuring half his expression. The dim lantern light caught the sheen of sweat along his brow and the faint tremor in the hand that still lazily gripped your other wrist. His head stayed turned to the side for a long, dragging moment, as though he were tasting the sting, cataloguing it.
Then—very slowly—he turned his face back toward you.
The handprint stood out starkly against his delicate skin. When his eyes met yours again, they were far darker than before—a hint of hesitation and uncertainty flickering in them as they bore daggers into your own.
He still didn’t let go of your wrist.
Not yet.
You analysed him for a few long, suspended moments. The lantern caught every small betrayal on his face. Colour had flooded his cheeks in uneven patches—first a faint pink at the apples, then a deeper, angrier red that crept upward like spilled wine. It climbed his throat, staining the pale skin there until the tendons stood out in sharp relief against the flush.
His lips had parted on an aborted breath—only slightly, just enough to show a thin sliver of his sharp teeth and the wet glint of his tongue behind them.
The stunned look in his eyes was unmistakable—wide, unfocused for the first time since you’d known him. His pupils had swallowed almost all of the red iris, leaving only a thin, trembling ring of dark colour. They flickered a few times, as though he were trying to refocus on your face but couldn’t quite manage it.
His chest rose and fell too fast—shallow, erratic pulls of air that made the tightly closed collar of his messy, cotton shirt flutter faintly with each inhale. His shoulders were rigid, arm still half-raised from holding your wrist, fingers now loose and spasming around it.
He looked dazed. Almost fragile in his shock—like something inside him had short-circuited and he didn’t know how to restart it.
And still he said nothing.
Not a word. Not a sound. Not even the low, mocking drawl he usually wielded like a blade. His throat worked once—a hard, visible swallow—but no sound came out.
For once, Zandik had nothing to say.
The silence was louder than any of his usual venom.
You don’t know why, but your gaze dropped—curious, lingering, almost trying to swallow him whole in the awkwardness of the moment.
It really only made things worse for both of you.
The front of his neat pants was visibly tented—painfully, shamelessly hard. The dark fabric pulled taut across the swollen length of him like it was trying to tear free. A small, but visible damp spot had already bloomed on the fabric, darkening the material in a slow, spreading stain that caught the lantern light and made it glisten.
Something dark and vicious surged through you, an viciously gentle, molten heat that poured down your spine and coiled tight in your belly until it throbbed there like a second heartbeat, insistent and obscene. Your mouth turned bone-dry in an instant, tongue sticking to the roof as though all moisture had been stolen, while your pulse hammered so fiercely behind your eyes that it blurred the edges of the faint light and made every shadow flicker in time with your blood.
And there he was—arrogant, brilliant, untouchable Zandik—now reduced to this: lips parted on helpless pants, the bright handprint you left glowing angrily across his pale skin… the front of his pants strained shamelessly, the thick, swollen outline of his cock pressing upward with every rough breath, the head so engorged it bulged against the seam.
Your thighs clenched together hard.
You hated it—hated how badly you wanted to ruin him, to grind him down until that sharp tongue could only whimper your name, until those clever eyes rolled back and nothing remained but this helpless need. And you hated even more that you wanted to be the one who did it, the only one, the first and the last.
But beneath all the heat and the hate, confusion clawed at you. You hated him. He hated you. That had always been the only truth you allowed between you—cutting words, cold glares, mutual contempt sharpened to a blade. So why was he hard right now? Why was the guy who dissected your every argument and mocked every single one of your hypotheses standing here with his cock throbbing in front of you? Was this real, or just another cruel way to humiliate you by making you want something you could never truly have?
Your mind spun, caught between the urge to shove him away forever, run away and never see him again—and the darker, louder impulse to push him further, to see how much more that trembling need could bend before it broke completely.
You didn’t know what you should do or what was the right thing to do.
You only knew that walking away now felt impossible.
And you hated that most of all.
Eventually, your gaze dragged itself back up to his face.
He was still, the composure he'd worn like armor was long gone. His eyes were fixed on you—half-lidded, the usual sharp calculation was replaced by something raw and unsteady, like he'd been caught mid-thought and couldn't quite reassemble the mask. The embarrassment had probably deepened as you were staring at his erection, uneven scarlet that betrayed every effort he was making to stay calm.
He didn't move to cover himself, didn't drop his hand to adjust or hide. Instead, his fingers still wrapped around your other wrist tightened—just a fraction—enough to keep you anchored in place without bruising, thumb pressing absently against the tender spot where your pulse hammered fastest. The hold felt almost desperate, like he needed the contact to steady himself more than to control you.
A single bead of sweat traced a dragging path from his temple down the side of his face, catching the dim glow before disappearing into the damp collar of his shirt. He swallowed once—visibly, throat working—and his lips parted as though he meant to speak, but nothing came out except another jagged exhale.
He looked caught.
Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the fact that he'd let you see this—let you see him wanting, vulnerable, without a single barbed word left to hide behind.
His thumb moved once—unhurried, almost unconscious—tracing a small circle over the racing pulse at your wrist, as though reminding himself you were still real, still here, and still not pulling away.
You just exhaled sharply before finally grabbing the front of his shirt with both fists and yanking him down toward you.
Your clumsy mouths crashed together roughly.
It wasn’t gentle or tentative, it was teeth, fury and months of swallowed words finally exploding outward. You bit his plush lower lip hard enough to taste copper—he flinched at first, then didn’t hesitate—quickly responding by forcing your mouth open wider, tongue pushing past your teeth like he was trying to claim territory. You tasted black coffee and the faint metallic edge of blood on his sharp tongue.
His hands flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling painfully in your wet hair, angling you exactly how he wanted. You pushed back just as hard, tongue sliding against his, fighting for dominance, swallowing every lewd sound he tried to muffle. The kiss was wet, messy, desperate—noses bumping, breaths stolen, lips bruising.
Neither of you knew how to stop.
And it seemed like neither of you wanted to.
When you finally broke apart it was only because air had become a necessity. Both of you were gasping, foreheads pressed together, spit-slick mouths inches apart.
You stood still for a precious moment, breathing in each other’s ragged exhales.
Once you realised what just happened you lowered your hands from his chest, pads of your fingers trailing reluctantly down the soft cotton until they fell away completely. A tiny, unwelcome flicker of insecurity washed over you—small but sharp enough to make your stomach twist and your next breath come out uneven. You took a half-step backward, trying to create even a sliver of space to think, to regain control.
But he didn’t want to let you go so soon.
His grip dropped and locked on your hips—firm, almost possessive—fingers digging into the wet fabric like he was anchoring himself to you. The moment you shifted your weight to retreat once more, he reacted.
Fast and forceful.
His hands tightened, knuckles blanching white against the dark, clinging material of your shorts. With a sudden, powerful twist of his lean torso he tried to spin you around—intent clear: reverse your positions, shove you back, slam you down against the desk so he could pin you beneath him instead. His breath came in short, hot bursts against the side of your neck, warm and unsteady, the heat of his body pressing closer as he leaned in with the motion. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart through his chest, the slight tremor in his fingers that betrayed how tightly he was holding himself together.
The air between you felt suffocating, too small, too thick.
You were both breathing too hard for the quiet room.
However, his actions only encouraged your previous lewd ideas.
Your right leg snapped back, hooking behind his knee with precise, ruthless speed. You yanked hard—heel catching the back of his joint—and at the same moment shoved forward with both hands flat against his chest. The sudden counterweight threw off his balance completely.
Zandik’s unfocused eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Then he went down.
Hard.
His back hit the wooden desk with a solid, jarring thud that rattled the wood and sent the lantern wobbling violently—the flame flared bright for an instant before settling. The remaining papers scattered in every direction—some fluttering to the floor to meet the rest, others tearing with sharp, dry rips beneath his shoulders and spine. The impact forced a short, choked grunt from his dry throat, his head snapping back against the surface before he caught himself.
Maybe a solid crack to the skull would do him some good. Maybe then he’d stop being such an unrelenting asshole.
Before he could recover—before he could even draw a full breath—you moved.
You planted one knee on the edge of the desk for leverage, swung your other leg over his hips in a swift, decisive arc, and dropped your full weight down onto him. Your trembling thighs clamped tight around his lower waist, knees digging into the wood on either side of his hips. You braced both palms flat against his chest, fingers splaying over smooth cotton and racing heartbeat, pinning him firmly beneath you.
If you were completely honest—you had no idea what you were doing, but it seemed to work anyway.
He bucked once—instinctive, reflexive—hips raising upward in a futile attempt to dislodge you. The motion only ground him harder against you, the thick, straining heat of him trapped between your bodies through soaked layers of clothing. His hands flew to your thighs, shuddering fingers clamping down in a bruising grip, but he didn’t push you off—he pulled, almost involuntarily, anchoring you tighter against him.
You leaned forward slowly, letting more of your weight settle onto his pelvis until every inch of him was pressed flush against your core. Your hair—still dripping from the rain—fell forward in wet strands, brushing his flushed cheeks and the vivid red handprint that still burned across his ethereal face.
He searched your face, lips swollen and parted.
For a few seconds you just looked at each other, repeating that same action for the millionth time tonight as if desperately trying to say something without words.
Only the rain hammering the windows and the frantic thud of his heart against your palms filled the silence.
Until his eyes narrowed and his sharp but strained voice echoed in the dim room.
“Get off me,” he gasped immediately, voice cracking, hands gripping your thighs tighter—but he didn't push you away, instead he gripped hard, fingers digging into the muscle like he was afraid you’d disappear. “Get the fuck off me, you insane—”
You stayed still for a few moments—taken aback—searching his expression, trying to decide if he really meant what he’d just said.
After you realized he was just a stubborn mess, you shifted—grounded down—painfully slow, dragging the soaked heat of your core along the hard bulge through layers and layers of fabric. The friction was obscene. His hips jerked up involuntarily again, chasing the pressure even as he kept pathetically snarling.
“Get off—ah—fuck—get off me—”
You did it again, harder, undulating your hips in filthy circles. The wooden desk creaked. His precise fingers kept digging in the flesh of your thighs, pulling you down harder against him and directing your hips just the right way even while his mouth kept lying to both of you.
“I said—”
You leaned down, letting more strands of your hair brush across his flushed cheek as your mouth found the side of his neck. Your lips grazed the smooth skin first—soft, almost teasing—then your sharp teeth sank in, not gently, but hard enough to bruise. You sucked, drawing the tender flesh between your lips, tasting salt, rain and the faint metallic edge of his pulse. A dark, blooming mark formed almost instantly under your mouth.
Zandik made a sound you’d never heard from him before—a high, helpless whimper that cracked in the middle like glass. His head tipped back against the desk with a dull thud, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing frantically and his slightly curled cyan-blue hair spilled on the flat wooden surface.
You could feel everything.
Every desperate twitch. Every frantic pulse. The blunt head of him catching on the seam of your own bottoms, nudging your clit through the fabric with each sloppy roll until your breath hitched and your thighs trembled around his hips. Neither of you had ever done this before—never touched anyone like this, never been touched—and the raw newness of it made every sensation burn brighter.
You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that Zandik was underneath you—on the wooden table. In the lecture room… that the two of you were engaged in something so undeniably lewd—especially with someone you’d convinced yourself you despise.
You were both clumsy in the best way—too eager, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to find any kind of rhythm that wasn’t pure instinct.
You kept moving.
The fabric between you grew hotter, clinging obscenely—his pre-cum soaking through in steady pulses, mixing with your own arousal until the material was dark and plastered to both of you. Every roll pulled another fractured sound from his throat—soft, shattered whimpers that climbed higher each time, gasps that broke into your name like a curse and a prayer, little choked sobs he couldn’t swallow back.
His eyes were glassy and half-lidded, lashes clumped with moisture, and sweat beaded along his hairline. His lips stayed parted, breath coming in quick, ragged pants that matched the frantic thrust of his hips whenever you ground down particularly hard.
Oh how you’ll tease him for this—he won’t live through it.
“I hate you,” he gasped, voice cracking. “I hate how much I—”
You cut him off with another sharp, erratic move, watching him close his eyes shut..
“Come on,” you whispered against his ear, voice cruel and sweet at once. “Come in your pants like the desperate animal you are. Show me how little control you actually have.”
He was leaking steadily—thick, hot pulses that made the wet spot bloom wider and wider across the front of his pants. You could feel the head of him swelling even more, throbbing against you with every pass, so sensitive that even the drag of wet cotton was almost too much.
When he came it was sudden and devastating.
A choked, animal sob tore out of his throat—raw and higher than you’d ever imagined he could sound. His whole body arched violently off the desk, spine bowing and head thrown back. His hips chased in erratic, helpless spasms, canting up into you as warmth flooded the front of his bottoms in thick, pulsing waves. You felt every spurt—hot, heavy, soaking through the fabric in rhythmic gushes that seeped against your own core, the heat of it searing through your clothes and making your own untouched body clench hard in response.
You didn’t stop.
You kept circling your hips—slower now, more deliberate—milking every last pulse and every shudder, until his quivering hips stuttered to a halt and he collapsed beneath you, chest heaving violently, ribs punching against your palms. Hot tears slipped silently from the corners of his eyes, tracking down his temples and disappearing into his sweaty hair. His hands—still clamped on your thighs—flexed once, twice, then went limp, fingers trembling against your skin. His slender fingers just rested on top of your thighs—not digging and grabbing like sharp daggers anymore. They’d left visible marks on your pale skin, threatening to bruise.
He lay there panting, wrecked, and flushed to the roots of his silky cyan-blue hair, cock still twitching weakly beneath the soaked mess of his ruined pants.
Your hand drifted from the steady rise of his heavy chest, fingers shaking slightly as they reached his face. You brushed your thumb along his wet cheek, wiping away the glistening tears clinging to his smooth skin, one glacial stroke at a time. Your hand was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat still rolling off him, and for a moment you waited—half-expecting him to pull away.
Surprisingly, he didn't. He stayed still beneath your touch, inhaling desperately, jaw tight—as if he didn’t know how to react or what to do with this either.
You stayed perfectly still and looked at him for a few minutes, breathing just as hard, feeling the aftershocks ripple through both of you while your hand lingered hesitantly on his cheek.
The rain kept pounding relentlessly against the windows. If you weren’t so busy watching Zandik fall apart beneath you, you might have wondered how you’d get back home.
Neither of you dared to speak.
Not yet.
You just watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his flushed face slowly began to lose some of its frantic crimson colour. Your own thighs trembled from the effort, core aching fiercely.
When he finally came back to his senses—when the last aftershock had rolled through his body and his spine unhurriedly settled completely back down against the scarred surface of the desk—you shifted your weight back slightly, not lifting off him completely but easing away just enough to break the full, unrelenting press of your core against his soaked lap. The sudden loss of contact made him suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
You braced both hands firmly on his knees for balance, fingers curling deeply into the tense, rippling muscle there. Then—patiently and carefully—you pushed his legs apart, feeling the initial resistance of his thighs for half a heartbeat before they gave way beneath your palms and parted wider. His knees fell open until you could slide down to sit between them. Your hips now cradled intimately in the open V of his spread legs. The position forced his knees to bend slightly and kept his feet planted flat against the edge of the desk.
Zandik propped himself up on his elbows, the movement stiff and careful as though every muscle in his body still ached from the overwhelming intensity that had just torn through him. His head tilted back just enough to keep his dark, heavy-lidded eyes—pupils dilated to thin black rims—locked on yours without interruption, curiosity spilling from his gaze. Strands of sweat-damp hair still clung stubbornly to his forehead and temples, and his chest heaved in ragged, audible surges, ribs pressing visibly against the thin fabric of his shirt with every shallow tug.
He didn’t speak—didn’t even try to close his legs. He simply watched you.
And waited patiently.
You held his gaze steadily, never once looking away, and then—without breaking eye contact—you slid one hand forward until your palm settled warmly over the front of his trousers, right where the thick, still-hard length of him strained painfully against the ruined fabric. Even through the soaked layers you could feel the relentless heat pouring off him, the stubborn, insistent pulse that hadn’t faded in the slightest, the material clinging so tightly to every ridge and curve that your fingers could trace the exact shape of him without effort.
You didn’t move your hand yet. You simply rested it there—warm, steady, measured pressure—watching his face the entire time, searching every flicker of expression for the smallest sign of withdrawal, any hint that he wanted you to stop. His eyes fluttered once, and then a sharp, shaky exhale punched out of him—half groan, half plea—as his hips gave a tiny, helpless twitch upward into your palm before he could stop himself. His lashes lowered for a fleeting second before lifting again, eyes locking back onto yours with an intensity that felt almost desperate.
Still, no words passed between you. Just the uneven pulls of air, the subtle tremor running through his body, and the way his fingers flexed and curled against the desk as though he were fighting every instinct to reach for you.
Consent—silent, unmistakable, given entirely through the way he held your gaze and let you stay.
Your other hand joined the first, moving with careful intent to the fastenings of his bottoms. The ties were already half-undone from earlier frantic moments, and you loosened them fully with slow, deliberate pulls, the wet cord sliding slickly through your fingers. The fabric was sticky and warm, clinging stubbornly to his skin in dark, obscene patches where his release had soaked through completely. You peeled the ruined material down his thighs inch by careful inch—watching the way the waistband dragged over the sharp jut of his hips and caught briefly on the swollen, flushed head of his cock, forcing you to tug a little harder until the elastic of his undergarments finally slipped past the sensitive tip.
His cock sprang free with a wet, unmistakable slap against his lower stomach—flushed an angry dark pink at the base and deepening at the engorged head, the entire shaft glistening thickly with his own release. Pearly streaks of cum painted long, uneven lines along the length, highlighting a few wider veins and pooling in the slit where a fresh bead was already welling up and sliding down the sensitive underside. The skin looked exquisitely hypersensitive—shiny, twitching with every heartbeat—and when the cool air of the room finally hit him, he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, his faint abs contracted hard beneath sweat-slick skin, the ripple of muscle clearly visible under the hem of his shirt.
Zandik was breathing through his mouth now—short, ragged pulls that never failed to fill the silence between you. His eyes never once left yours, shadowed and pleading in a way you had never seen before, utterly unguarded and raw.
You stayed perfectly still for a heartbeat, letting your palm hover just above him, allowing him to feel the radiant heat of your hand without any actual contact, giving him one final moment to pull back if he needed to.
Then you lowered it until your fingers wrapped loosely around the thick base. You dragged your thumb lazily over the sensitive head, smearing the sticky mixture of cum and pre-cum in a lazy circle. His whole body jolted—a strangled, short sound catching in his throat as the sensation hit him all at once.
“Too much?” you asked—whispered with a faint smirk growing on your face, voice raspy, almost mocking.
He couldn’t answer—only shook his head frantically.
You did it again—slow, dragging swipes over the slit, watching every jitter of his hips and every flutter of his long lashes.
His hands—still unsteady—reached to your thighs, then slid up your hips again, hesitating at the hem of your shirt.
“Can I…?” His voice wavered. “Can I take this off? I want to see you.”
You didn’t speak, as shock and a tiny bit of shyness flashed over you. You simply lifted your arms a fraction, hand leaving his sticky and pulsating cock. A rough, unsteady huff punched past his plump lips at the loss of friction.
His fingers gathered the hem of your shirt first—still damp from rain and sweat—and began to lift it with agonizing slowness. The fabric dragged over your stomach, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. Zandik watched every inch reveal like it was sacred—the dip of your navel, the soft curve beneath your ribs, the way your breasts lifted slightly as you breathed.
The man loved your anatomy.
You could see it in his eyes.
When the shirt reached your shoulders he paused—thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the lacy bra—before finally pulling it over your head. Your hair tumbled messily free and he let the shirt drop somewhere behind you.
His hands returned immediately.
He traced the straps of your bra with reverent fingertips—first one, then the other—before sliding them down your slim shoulders. His breathing was loud in the hushed room. He reached behind you, fingers fumbling for a moment with the clasp—you almost laughed at his clumsy hands. When it finally gave out, the bra loosened. He didn’t yank it away, instead he drew the cups down slowly, baring you inch by inch. He put the bra carefully aside, not wanting to ruin something that fit you so perfectly.
Your nipples hardened instantly in the cool air. Zandik stared—openly, then brushed the soft pad of one thumb over the sensitive peak, so lightly it was almost torture. Air flooded your lungs in a single, unsteady surge. He did it again—in no hurry, watching your face the entire time.
Next came your shorts.
He undid the zipper and hooked his fingers into the waistband, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above your hip bones. He tugged downward with punishing restraint—watching the way the fabric clung briefly to your damp thighs before sliding free. You lifted your hips to help. He peeled them down your legs, past your knees, until they dropped off the edge of the desk.
Only your panties remained.
They were soaked through—dark, clinging to every fold. His hands shook harder now. He traced the lacy waistband first—fingertips sliding beneath the elastic, not pulling yet, just feeling. Then he hooked his fingers under the sides and began to drag them down. The fabric peeled away from your skin with a silken, wet sound. Cool air hit your slick folds and you shivered.
You were bare above him now.
His curious gaze devoured you—every curve, every tremble, the glistening evidence of your arousal between your thighs. He was amazed, but couldn’t find the right words or courage to say it out loud.
He tilted his head back to stare up at you, dazed, leaning in for a kiss. It was gentler than before, but the silent contest between you lingered in every touch. His hands slid back to grip your hips, thumbs tracing the soft crease at the top of your thighs.
Once he pulled away from the sloppy kiss, he shifted.
Two fingers traced the silky outer folds first—gathering wetness, learning the shape of you by feel. You hissed at the contact which made him freeze.
“Hm, already too much?” he mimicked your question from before, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“No.” You shook your head, hips canting forward instinctively.
He swallowed hard. Then he pressed again—firmer this time—sliding one long slim finger inside you slowly, watching your face the entire time. The stretch made you gasp. He paused, letting you adjust, letting your walls flutter and grip around the intrusion. He searched for your clit for a few moments. That stupid erotic book—labeled as “human anatomy”—that he’d read by accident finally came in handy. His thumb found your clit after a few fumbling passes, circling tentatively at first, then with more confidence when your hips grinded against his hand and a soft, involuntary sound escaped you.
“Like this?” he murmured, curling the finger inside you experimentally, searching.
You wouldn't have been surprised if he started taking actual notes in the middle of it.
“Y-yeah…” your voice stuttered, breaking your precious pride.
When the pad of his finger finally brushed that perfect spot inside you, your whole body jolted—spine arching slightly, a choked moan tearing from your throat as electric pleasure lanced straight through your core. His eyes widened slightly, dark pupils flaring with sudden fascination, like he’d just discovered a hidden mechanism in one of his machines. He watched your face, cataloguing every micro-twitch of your expression—then did the motion again, deliberate and drawn-out, curling his finger with careful precision to stroke that same place over and over.
The wet sounds were loud in the still room—obscene, slick, unmistakable—your arousal coating his knuckles, dripping down the inside of your thighs. His inexperience showed in the slight hesitation between movements, the way he kept glancing up at your face to read every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breathing, every tiny shift of your hips.
However, Zandik learned fast.
He added a second finger, stretching you further, the slow burn of it making your walls flutter and grip around him greedily. He crooked both fingers again and again, dragging against that spot with steady, relentless pressure while his thumb went back to your clit and continued pressing and circling firmly—occasionally dipping lower to gather more of your slick and spread it in deliberate, slippery passes over the swollen bud until your thigh quivered uncontrollably around his other hand that held you steady.
Your delicate, slick walls clenched hard around his fingers the second he started thrusting faster.
“Fuck—fuck, it’s so tight,” he rasped, voice wrecked and shaking. “Shit, I can feel you squeezing my fingers—gods, do that again—”
You rolled your eyes, the sudden urge to slap him again flashing through your mind. But you were smarter than that—you had a better idea.
Your sly hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around his almost forgotten cock again—hot, velvet-slick with his earlier release, throbbing angrily against your palm. He’d interrupt you earlier and now was just the right time to continue. You started stroking—savoring every inch, firm pulls from base to tip, letting your palm coaxed along the full length while your thumb swiped over the flushed, oversensitive head on every upstroke, spreading the fresh bead of pre-cum that welled up immediately and making the slick glide even wetter.
Zandik convulsed once, violently, a high, choked curse ripping out of him. You really enjoyed how vocal he was.
“W-wait—too much, too much—” his hips lurched upward into your fist before he could stop himself, thighs jittering uncontrollably on either side of you as the sudden stimulation crashed through his already oversensitive nerves.
He was so raw-nerved that even the lightest drag of your fingers along his shaft made him groan—soft, helpless sounds that climbed higher and more desperate with every agonizing stroke. His light abs contracted hard, visible ripples rolling under sweat-slick skin, and his free hand dug into your plush thigh, nails scraping your skin.
“Oh gods—fuck—”
Still, Zandik made sure to crook his fingers again and again. Your thighs continued hitching uncontrollably around his wrist, muscles jumping and shaking with every precise stroke, and you rocked your hips down onto his hand harder, chasing that rising heat. Your nails dug deep into his shoulders—in order to hold yourself steady—until you felt your nails press sharply into the muscle beneath the soft fabric.
“Your hand—it’s so good—ah—” He kept pumping his fingers into you even as his voice fractured into desperate, ragged fragments, cursing between every uneven breath. “Keep going, please—please—gods—”
You didn’t speed up. You kept the rhythm languid and merciless—long, firm strokes that let your palm glide along every throbbing inch of him, letting him feel every ridge of your fingers, every painful twist of your wrist at the tip where he was most tender. His hips jerked up into your hand like he couldn’t decide whether to chase the pleasure or escape the overwhelming, almost painful sensitivity.
His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time—stunned and glistening at the corners with unshed tears that clung heavily to his dark lashes again, cheeks flushed a deep. He looked utterly undone. The sharp, brilliant mind that used to glare at you in the hallways, as if plotting how to murder you and cut you into pieces, was gone. Every argument, every defense, reduced to nothing but brutal sensation and desperate need.
When you came it was sudden and overwhelming—your silky walls clenching hard around his fingers in tight, rhythmic spasms as a broken moan tore from your throat, and you leaned forward to hold yourself up with one hand onto his chest. You continued stroking him, as your forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, breath hot and uneven against his skin, voice cracking on his name.
“Z—Zandik—”
The sound of you saying his name—frayed, needy, unguarded—snapped something inside him.
He groaned your name in return—low, shattered, almost a sob—and then his hips rutted pleadingly upward into your slowing hand as his own release crashed through him at the exact same moment yours still rippled through your body. His cock pulsed violently in your grip, thick spurts of cum spilling hot and heavy over your fingers and onto his stomach in erratic, uncontrollable waves. His whole body bowed beneath you—spine arching off the desk, a high, wrecked moan escaped him, the kind of sound he would never forgive himself for making later.
He didn’t pull his fingers out immediately. He kept his fingers inside you through the aftershocks, moving cautiously, gently, letting you ride the fading waves until your breathing gradually steadied, and your walls stopped fluttering so desperately.
Instinctively, desperately, he buried his face in the side of your neck—nose pressing hard against your pulse point, lips parting against your skin as he tried to muffle the pathetic, trembling noises spilling out of him. He started kissing there—open-mouthed, frantic little presses at first, then sharper, teeth grazing the tender skin before he bit down—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to give himself something to focus on besides the humiliating sounds he couldn’t stop making as he came apart again.
He knew—gods, he knew—you would tease him mercilessly for this later. For the whimpers, for the way his voice cracked on your name, for the way he shook and spilled like he had absolutely no control left at all. So he hid his face deeper in the curve of your neck, biting again—gentler this time, almost pleading—lips brushing over the faint marks he left as if he could erase the evidence of how completely you’d unraveled him.
You felt every pulse of him against your palm, and every hot, wet stripe of his release coating your fingers and dripping down your wrist. When your hand slipped free, you just… stared. The warm, sticky mess covering your palm left you frozen, unsure what to do with it.
You just stayed exactly where you were—pressing your forehead to the crook of his neck, his face still buried against the side of yours. Neither of you moved to separate. The only sounds were the rain and the ragged, shared rhythm of your breathing.
Something shifted in the tension.
His arms—still faltering—slid up your back. Slowly at first, almost hesitant, palms spreading wide over your spine like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast. You felt the same urge at the same moment—your own arms wrapped around his shuddering shoulders, pulling him in tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt and the warm skin underneath. The hug wasn’t gentle. It was desperate—chests crushed together, hearts hammering against each other, his face still hidden in the curve of your neck and yours in his. You clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, and he clung back just as hard.
It felt like surrender.
It felt like war.
But the hug didn’t loosen.
If anything, it deepened.
His warm cheek slid along yours, stubble catching faintly on your skin. Your nose brushed the smooth spot beneath his ear.
You could feel the way his fingers flexed and unflexed against your back like he was trying to memorize the texture of your spine—petal-soft pads dragging slow circles along the skin. Your own hands had slid up to cradle the nape of his neck, thumb resting in the dip where skull met spine, feeling the fine tremor that ran through him every time he exhaled against your throat.
Minutes passed like that.
The lantern flame flickered lower, casting long, wavering shadows across scattered papers and torn notes.
Eventually one of his hands moved.
It drifted upward—achingly gentle, almost reverent—until his fingertips ghosted along the line of your jaw, tracing the curve without quite touching. You felt the question in the hesitation of his fingers, in the way his breath hitched when you turned your face just enough to let his thumb brush the corner of your mouth.
You answered by tilting your head and closing the last fraction of distance.
The kiss was nothing like the earlier ones.
No teeth or violence. Just lips meeting—gentle, measured, almost frightened. You tasted salt—his tears, your sweat, the faint metallic edge that clung to him. Neither of you pushed for more. You simply stayed there, lips brushing and letting the contact speak when words were still too dangerous.
His hand slid into your hair—gently—fingers threading through damp strands until his palm cradled the back of your skull. Yours mirrored the motion, cupping the side of his face, thumb resting along the sharp line of his cheekbone. The handprint you’d left earlier was still warm under your touch, slightly swollen. You brushed over it gently, almost apologetically, and felt him shiver.
When the kiss finally parted it was only far enough for foreheads to rest together again.
His voice came out barely above a whisper, fragile and unsteady. “I don’t… know what we’re doing.”
You swallowed. Your own voice wasn’t much steadier. “Me neither.”
A long silence.
Then—hesitant, like he was testing the weight of the words—he murmured against your lips.
“I don’t want to stop.”
You felt the truth of it in the way his fingers tightened in your hair, and in the way his hips shifted—just slightly—enough to show you that he was hard again against your thigh, that your own body was still slick and aching and open.
You exhaled shakily.
“Neither do I.”
Lightning flickered once—pale violet through the narrow panes—throwing jagged shadows across his bare shoulders and the scattered notebooks beneath you both. Thunder followed seconds later, low and rolling, vibrating the stone floor under the desk.
Without a word, your hands slid downward—slow, deliberate—until your fingertips found the first button at his throat. You popped it open. The tiny sound was startlingly clear in the quiet between thunderclaps.
“You’re still wearing too much,” you murmured against the corner of his mouth, voice low, almost teasing but undercut with something softer.
“Feels unfair.” The second button slipped free.
He let out a breathy, ragged laugh that vibrated through his ribs into yours. “Unfair?” His hands flexed on your waist. “You’ve already stripped me of everything else tonight. Dignity included.”
“True…” You answered, popping another button, then the next. The fabric parted, revealing the sharp hollow at the base of his throat.
He didn’t pull away, just watched you through half-lowered lashes.
You dragged your knuckles down the newly exposed skin—warm, slightly tacky with drying sweat. “You smell like ink, rain and sweat. Oh… and coffee. Always coffee.”
He huffed another half-swallowed laugh.“You’ve catalogued me that thoroughly?”
“Hard not to when you’re always leaning too close during seminars.” You popped open the remaining buttons. The shirt fell open completely. Pale skin gleamed under the dim light, dusted with faint freckles across his collarbones like scattered ink drops. You pushed the sleeves off his shoulders. He shrugged once, letting the cotton slide down his arms in a whisper. It landed somewhere behind him with a muffled crumple.
Now he was completely bare, lean and sharply defined. A thin silver scar curved under his left pectoral, old and faded. You brushed your thumb over it.
“What’s this?” you said soothingly.
“Old mistake,” he replied, voice fainter now. “Don’t ask.”
Now nothing separated your chests but air and shared heat.
“You’re staring too much,” he murmured, voice still cracked from earlier, but quieter now—almost careful.
“So are you.” Your thumb brushed the edge of one nipple—it pebbled instantly under the touch. “You’ve been staring since the moment I walked in tonight.”
A ghost of his usual smirk flickered, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guilty.”
You met his eyes again—still dark-rimmed, still searching—and lifted your hips just enough to guide him. The head of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, slick from before. You sank down with agonizing patience, inch by careful inch, the stretch blooming into a deep, aching fullness that made your breath catch.
“A-ah… shit…” you yelped at the size and his hands rose to steady you, palms warm against your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in unsteady and unconscious arcs.
“Wait…slow…” The word came out rough, almost pleading. His fingers flexed against your skin. “Slow. Please… I’ve never… I want you to… feel and enjoy every second of this.”
You paused, suspended above him, searching his face. The usual sharpness was gone. What remained was something delicate, unguarded. You nodded once—small, certain—and eased down another painful inch. His head tipped back against the desk edge, throat working on a swallow as you took him deeper, millimeter by millimeter, until your hips finally met his and he was seated fully inside you.
A long, shared exhale.
For several seconds neither of you moved.
His hands roamed your lower back in slow, reverent strokes, palms mapping the knobs of your spine, the dip above your tailbone. You leaned forward and kissed him—soft, unhurried presses of lips that tasted like salt, rain and the faint copper ghost of earlier bites.
“Gods,” he whispered once you pulled away, eyes closing for a second. “You’re so warm inside. So tight… I can feel every little twitch.”
“So can I,” you breathed, circled once—lazyly and experimentally. “You’re throbbing—” You clenched around him.
He groaned, long and low. “Don’t do that again unless you want this over in twenty seconds.”
You smiled against his neck. “Tempting. But I want to feel you longer.”
When you finally started to move correctly, it was gentle at first—small lifts and lowers that dragged him along every inner ridge, drawing quiet, involuntary sounds from deep in his chest. His thumbs circled the jut of your hip bones in encouragement.
“Like this?” you whispered teasingly.
“Yes...” His voice was wrecked velvet. “Don’t stop.”
You didn’t. The rhythm built gradually—deeper rolls, a slight grind at the bottom of each descent that made his breath hitch every time your clit brushed the base of him. Lightning flashed again. For a split second the room turned stark white, illuminating the sweat beading along his temples, the way his lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks.
He was majestic and the only thing you wanted to focus on.
You twisted your hips in a teasing, filthy rhythm, pressing down just enough to make him feel every inch.
At first your own pleasure barely registered—all that mattered was him, especially the keening sound he tried to choke back when you tilted just right and dragged along him.
This wasn’t about you.
You wanted to ruin him.
You wanted to prove you could break him more thoroughly than he could ever break you—every controlled roll was a muted, vicious claim.
However, the longer you kept going, the harder it became to ignore the heat building low in your own belly. From the way his fingers dug into your hips like he was terrified you’d vanish—you could say you were winning, for now.
From the way your own control was fraying in small, traitorous ways, he sensed it wouldn’t last.
Your thighs began to burn from holding the pace. You quickened instinctively, chasing the coil tightening low in your belly, but the sheer size of him made every downward motion overwhelming. Your movements turned uneven—sloppy little bounces that lacked precision, hips stuttering as pleasure short-circuited coordination.
“H-hah… Zandik—” His name came out half-breath, half-plea.
Something shifted in his expression—dark, decisive.
In one fluid motion he sat up straighter, arms banding around your waist. Then he twisted—strong, controlled—and flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the desk with a soft thud—papers crinkled and slid. The lantern wobbled violently, flame flaring bright before settling—you really didn’t know how it still stayed on the table. Zandik followed immediately, knees bracketing your hips, caging you in with his body while staying buried deep.
You stared up at him like a lost deer—eyes stunned and wide, but you will let it slide just this time. His cock made it really hard for you to think… and move.
For a heartbeat he simply looked back at you—searching, waiting.
“You’re… infuriatingly pretty.” he said, voice low and edged with something close to resentment.
“S-shut up—” you tried to snap back before you looked away fast, cheeks burning hotter. Your swollen walls simply squeezed around his thick length, begging for friction—begging for him to move. From the corner of your eye you could see it clearly: he wasn’t going to keep fucking you until he got what he wanted. Of course—for a stupid moment you’d forgotten this was the same asshole you’d been bickering with for months nonstop.
He knew you’d give in—he could feel it. So without wasting another precious second, you rolled your eyes and let your stare settle on him again.
You reassured him by sliding your hands up his arms, nails lightly grazing skin, and pulling him down. “Please Zandik…” your voice echoed in his ears.
A low, almost feral sound rumbled in his chest.
He withdrew almost fully—slow enough that you felt every ridge—then drove back in with one deep, deliberate thrust. The new angle hit harder, deeper—your spine arched off the wood on instinct. He set a rhythm that was measured but relentless—long strokes that went over every sensitive place inside you, building heat without rushing the fall.
His mouth found your shoulder. Teeth grazed first—testing—then sank in with firm pressure, not breaking skin but marking. You gasped and he soothed the bite immediately with wet laps of his tongue.
“Mine,” he growled, voice wrecked and possessive. “Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking his head back so you could bite back the cord of muscle where his neck met his shoulder. “And you’re mine, Zandik. Don’t you dare forget it.”
That was how the two of you worked—every move one of you made, the other tried to escalate.
You held his gaze as you leaned in slowly, sucking until another purple bruise bloomed under your lips. He hissed, hips snapping forward harder in response, the desk creaking ominously. He pulled you away from his neck by a firm grip in your hair—fingers twisting just enough to sting without truly hurting—and you shot him an annoyed glare, lips parting to snap something sharp. Before a single word could escape, he thrust into you—rough, deep, deliberate—stealing your breath and scattering every half-formed retort into static.
He laughed—dark, breathless, the sound vibrating between you—then captured your lips in a bruising kiss. It was messy at first, desperate—tongues sliding, teeth clashing once in a flash of heat before the rhythm settled into something fiercer yet tender, like he was trying to devour you and cradle you at the same time.
One hand caught the back of your thigh, hitching it high around his waist—opening you wider, forcing you to take him even deeper. The new angle made your spine arch off the desk, papers crinkling beneath you like dry leaves. His other hand slid between your bodies without breaking the kiss—thumb finding your clit. He pressed firm, unyielding circles, the pressure steady and merciless, each pass sending sparks racing up your spine until your vision flickered white at the edges.
You moaned into his mouth—helpless, broken—and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.
“You like that?” he murmured once he pulled away from your summoning lips, looking down at your neck covered in perfect love bites. His voice was wrecked and sharp teeth threatened to bite again. “Like knowing everyone will see what I finally did to you?”
You grabbed him—nails raking down his scalp, tugging cyan strands so he can’t bury his head in your neck again.
Even if it burned to admit—yes, you absolutely loved it.
“Don’t. You had your fun.” You started, voice threatening to break “I c-can’t walk around the a—ah… Akademiya like that—”
Zandik looked at you with playful annoyance and his hand cupped your breast, rolling the peak between thumb and forefinger until you keened. You hooked your free leg around his lower back, heel digging into the dip above his ass, urging him impossibly deeper.
“Tell me—” His voice faltered mid-thrust. “Tell me this isn’t just hate.”
You met his gaze—eyes tearing up from the pleasure.
“It stopped being just hate the second you didn’t push me away after I slapped you.”
A raspy laugh escaped him, half-groan. “Gods, you’re impossible.”
“And you’re still inside me.”
He kissed your tear-stained cheek, then lifted again, forehead pressing to yours.
“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
The confession cracked something open.
The pace quickened—still controlled, but edged with urgency now. Every thrust drove the air from your lungs, every touch and grab of his hand sent lightning up your spine. You clenched around him involuntarily. Zandik cursed under his breath in response, rhythm faltering for the first time.
When you came it was sudden and shattering—walls clenching hard around him, thighs locking tight, a helpless moan tearing free as you arched beneath him. He followed almost immediately—deep, erratic pulses as his hot seed spilled inside you, hips twitching, a low, guttural moan escaped his lips.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead he collapsed forward—careful not to crush you—forehead resting between your soft breasts, arms sliding under your back to hold you close. You wrapped around him in return—legs still hooked, fingers carding slowly through sweat-damp hair again.
Rain drummed softer now. The lantern flame steadied.
After long minutes he tilted his head just enough to meet your eyes and stared.
“What?”
The word slipped out of you before you could stop it—soft, almost hesitant, hanging in the humid air between your faces. Your voice ripped apart just a little at the end, raw from everything. He lifted his head tentatively from between your breasts, forearms braced on either side of you so he could actually look. Cyan strands stuck to his forehead in damp curls. The dim light caught the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples and the sharp line of his jaw. He looked utterly beautiful like this.
For a long second he just drank you in—searching your face like he was trying to read something written in invisible ink across your cheekbones.
“What?” he echoed back, quieter, almost careful. One corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, more like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile yet.
“You’re heavy,” you said, poking his very visible ribs lightly. “And sticky.”
He huffed—half amusement, half embarrassment.
“You’re the one with your legs locked around me like a vice. I’m not going anywhere unless you let go first.”
“Then don’t.” Your voice softened without meaning to. Fingers traced the shell of his ear, then down the nape of his neck where sweat still clung. “Stay. Just like this. I like how you feel when you’re not trying to win.”
His arms tightened around you—almost reflexively.
“I wasn’t trying to win,” he murmured. “And why are you staring at me like I grew a second head?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky exhale. Your fingers tangled in his hair again. You tugged once—light, playful—to ground yourself.
“I’m staring because…” You trailed off, suddenly aware of how exposed the words felt. How close they were to something dangerous. Your thumb brushed the fading redness on his cheek. “Because you look… different. Like this.”
His brows drew together faintly. He shifted his weight—still buried inside you, the faint fullness making you both suck in a stifled breath at the same time—and leaned in until his forehead almost rested against yours again. Close enough that his lashes brushed yours when he blinked.
“Different how?” he asked—low and careful, like he was afraid the answer might cut.
You swallowed. The rain outside had completely faded away now—only other sounds were the slow, shared rhythm of your breathing and the occasional creak of the old desk beneath you.
“Like you’re not hiding,” you said finally. Your free hand slid up to cup the side of his face and he leaned into it instantly without thinking “I’ve spent months hating how untouchable you seemed. And now you’re letting me touch you. Holding on like you’re scared I’ll disappear if you let go.”
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat—long enough that you felt the faint tremor run through him again.
“I am,” he admitted, so quiet it was almost lost against your skin. “Scared, I mean.”
The confession landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through your chest.
You tightened your legs around his hips instinctively, keeping him close.
“Why?”
He exhaled through his nose—a shaky sound. When he opened his eyes again they were darker, wet at the corners in a way that made your throat close.
“I don’t know how to be without the armor… or how to do this.”
Your heart squeezed so hard it hurt.
You pulled him down until his full weight settled over you again—warm, solid, grounding. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders—fingers splayed wide across his back, feeling the faint ridges of old scars and the rapid thud of his heart against your own.
“I also don’t know.” you whispered into his hair.
He made a small, cracked sound against your neck—half laugh, half sob—and buried his face deeper, arms sliding under you to crush you closer. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll—you both hissed at the overstimulation, but neither of you moved to separate.
After a long minute he lifted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours—not a real kiss, just a graze. A question.
“Will you still hate me tomorrow?” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled—small, real—against his lips.
“I’ll hate you tomorrow if you give me a reason,” you said. “But right now? I think I’m too busy loving you to bother with hate.”
His laugh was soft, surprised, relieved. He kissed you properly then—deep and achingly tender—like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.
“Good,” he whispered once you pulled away for air.
“Because I’m not done loving you either.”
You stayed like that for a long moment—until your curious gaze drifted downward.
The scarred desk beneath you was a ruin.
His notebooks—those meticulously organized pages of equations, diagrams, and razor-sharp annotations—lay scattered and crumpled under your combined weight. Ink had already bled from the earlier spill, dark veins spreading across the paper, but now there was something else. The unmistakable slick sheen of your mingled fluids, dripping from where your bodies were still joined, pooling in small, obscene patches across his work. One page had torn at the corner, another was plastered to the wood, the elegant slanted handwriting now smeared and illegible beneath the glossy evidence of what you'd just done.
You let out a breathless laugh that pulled his attention back.
“Look at what you did,” you murmured, voice low and teasing as you tilted your head to meet his eyes again. “You ruined your precious notes. All that genius… drowned in us.”
Zandik followed your eyes. For a heartbeat his expression froze—pupils widening just a fraction as he took in the wreckage—the smeared ink, the wet trails glistening across his own handwriting.
Then—slowly—his lips curved.
Not the sharp, mocking smirk you were used to. Something softer, almost rueful, edged with a dark sort of pride.
He exhaled through his nose, a raspy huff that might have been a laugh.
“Worth it,” he said simply, voice sore. His thumb brushed the curve of your hip in a lazy, possessive arc. “I’ll rewrite them. Better this time.”
You raised an eyebrow, still smiling against his mouth.
“Bold of you to think you can focus long enough to rewrite anything after that.” You glanced back down at the mess, then up at him again, voice dropping to a wicked whisper. “All because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”
His laugh was low, surprised, almost choked. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Are you actually gonna attack me again—” he murmured, the word vibrating against your skin.
“Nevermind… I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
You laughed again—quiet, real—and let your head fall back against the table. He smiled at you and leaned to kiss your forehead gently.
The lantern flickered lower.
The faint raindrops slid down the windows—slowly, almost soothing.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel like a weapon.
It felt like a promise.
Thank you for reading. This is very rushed and honestly I kept forgetting what I wrote after every 2nd sentence lol. Well, there’s first time for everything, hopefully I’ll improve my writing soon.
Dottore for @pneumousia
Notes: Hope you enjoy a slice (non gore) of soft Dottore~
There was nowhere you'd rather be. That's what you kept telling yourself at least.
Dottore was draped across your body and snoring contently. You'd managed to push him around enough that he wasn't restricting your breathing too much.
When you'd made him aware of the date, it was as though The Doctor had become a completely different person. In hindsight you reasoned that he might never have had the chance to do anything this 'normal'.
So he'd thrown caution (and the day's paperwork) to the wind (the begrudging hands of Omega) and whisked you out of the heavily guarded base of operations. He'd taken you sledding, scoured Snezhnograd for places to get hot chocolate and a sweet treat without too many eyes lingering on you both.
Even taken you to several stores, insisting he get you at least a few gifts on this day where refusing them was impossible. It was tradition after all.
You would've thought he'd be utterly uninterested in such things, but by the end of the day he'd been grinning so much that he complained about his cheeks feeling sore.
The chilly air had worn you both out, few words had been spoken after returning home to your shared quarters. But it had been peaceful, not the usual silence after a horrid meeting or an experiment gone wrong. Gentle and warm while you'd snuggled closer on the couch.
There was nowhere you'd rather be as you drifted off to sleep as well.
let the show begin! @pneumousia - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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