I've been thinking about getting used to and unknowingly loving Dottore as a pest that always comes back.
You tried to poison 25 and he drank it on purpose to challenge himself to find a cure and he did it in 4 hours. Failed.
You blew up his piano once and you failed.
You tried to hypnotize him into falling off a cliff and he played along and floated back up because disappointing you would be fun.
You put glue in the shampoo of his youngest segment. Definitely not your proudest moment but he tried to get you to eat a bug. Success, but it didn't count for much.
You tried infecting him with elezar and he just showed you old notes from that messed up clinic.
At one point you glued on an academiya graduation outfit to one of his old photos just to taunt him. He made you throw it into an incinerator.
Failed to eliminate him with a gun. Failed to keep him sealed in an old puzzle. Failed to get rid of him even when the rest of his clones were deleted. Failed to get rid of him when he disappeared and you hoped he was on some other planet entirely. Failed when he rewrote himself as a diety, he still came back after that fight to taunt you.
You just got used to failing and to saying 'hello again' more than you said goodbye to him despite the attempts.
So now, when he fails instead of you, when he doesn't come back from the fire and the ashes - you have a 'hello again' on your tongue that has no place anymore.
Warnings: Afab!reader, doomed relationship, there's an angsty twist to it but thats not really the main focus here, gender roles, femdom, strap-ons, face fucking with toy, deep throating, rimming, anal sex, mentions of pregnancy/breeding
A/N: When I tell you it took everything I had not to make reader call her daddy. 🤣
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Diplomatic relations. That’s what they call it behind the polite smiles demanded of all who inhabited a polite society simply for the sake of saving face. To keep things respectable. Even when, in truth, it was more like a welcomingly convenient excuse to justify these little closed door meetings under the pretty guise of political cooperation.
These exchanges were anything but pretty, though.
With an easy motion of practiced grace, you lift the teacup and its saucer to about chest level where you pause to incline your head at the perfect angle, indicating your gratitude. Every subdued gesture, every painstakingly intentional movement in your body is controlled and precisely executed. Every pause meticulously timed down to the very second. The ritual was just as important as the performance itself.
You take your polite sip, and across from you the lady Lord Arlecchino now inclines her head a fraction of an inch to signal her approval. She is every bit as familiar with this show and dance as you are. Both equally aware that a long list of requirements must first be met before any real moves could be made on the chess board of the dainty tea table that stands between you and your opponent. It was a laughably flimsy embattlement, all things considered.
“I trust that it is to your liking, my lady?” She asks of you in the same tone she customarily spoke in when official business was at hand. Not necessarily curt, but straight and to the point. There was no room for softness or empty platitudes in these discussions.
“It’s wonderful, my lord.” You say, gently setting the fragile cup and its matching saucer down on the table again. “Just as it always is. Thank you for hosting me here at your home today. It was a great honor to receive your personal invitation in the mail.”
Breaking eye contact with you, Arlecchino slowly glances down at the cup placed in front of her. She pauses as if in consideration before sedately bringing her hand up to curl long, powerful fingers around the curve of the delicate handle. The way she seems to caress the porcelain as if in idle thought does not escape your notice but neither does it fool you. Not even for one moment.
“I can assure you that the pleasure is all mine. As I’m certain you must know, I would have much preferred to spare you the unnecessary journey and come to you instead but I’m afraid that just wasn’t possible this time. I am glad your travels were without incident and you arrived safely though.” Another coordinated pause as she lifts her cup to the midpoint where she brings those curiously patterned eyes up to fix upon you again. “How are things back in Fontaine?”
“Everything was well enough when I left. No buildings on fire or bridges falling apart. Not to my knowledge, at least. The Iudex makes for a rather competent head of state, doesn’t he?”
Arlecchino does not smile, but the crimson red in her gaze does reflect a particular sort of twinkle as she takes her sip. You watch each other over the rim and when she slowly sets it back down you can see a faint smudge of pale, nearly nude pink staining the pure white surface.
“I should certainly think so. He’s had plenty of time to prepare for the job while playing second fiddle all this time. I’m glad he seems to have finally found his true calling in life.”
You allow yourself a small, tittering laugh. “Oh, but there’s no need to tease poor Monsieur Neuvillette, is there? He is trying his best, you know.”
“His best,” Arlecchino archly intones, the inflection so soft and subtle that anyone who was not intimately familiar with the Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers would have likely missed it. “Is making it more difficult for us to receive imports from Fontaine simply because the Iudex wants to overregulate shipping procedures. Even putting aside the needs of the House of the Hearth, there are going to be plenty of other Snezhnayan’s who will be rightfully upset when they can no longer afford to buy their thé de luxe at a reasonable price. And I do not think we want that … do we?”
Your smile slips into a sober press of painted lips. “Of course not, my lord. Those of us overseeing port operations have felt the blowback for these regulation changes as well.”
She shifts slightly in her chair, as if this rigorously scripted verbal volley was inching towards an uncomfortable topic now. But this, too, is only another facet of the opening act. Little more than manufactured conflict to set the tone for the rest of this farcical stage drama.
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly but I’m not sure how much stock to actually put in that, particularly not when you are merely filling the role of liaison for your aging lord father. Scone?”
A barely noticeable thread of tension curls through your body. “Yes, please. That sounds lovely.”
Still playing at the ever gracious host, just as her role would dictate she does, Arlecchino holds out one inhuman claw over the table. You pass her the little crumpet plate and she takes up the petite pair of tongs from the center dish in the other, starting to portion out a serving of various cakes and biscuits that both of you know you’re not going to eat.
“How is he doing, by the way?”
“He’s ‘hanging in there’, as the common saying goes.”
The conversation is dry. Noncommittal. She doesn’t actually care and neither do you actually want to talk about it.
“Thank you.” Taking the small plate from her outstretched hand, you set it in front of you without ever touching a single scone or even looking at them for that matter. “And you are not wrong to say that, of course. My duties are indeed more on the administrative end, my lord, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to interact with merchants or crew. As you’re well aware my insights lean towards the intimate side of things. That is why you went to the trouble of fostering this relationship with me … isn’t that right?”
At this Arlecchino graces you with a rather brusque laugh. “I would say I fostered this relationship for a variety of different reasons. It was hardly any trouble though. On the contrary, you are exceptionally easy to get along with and your servile temperament helps a great deal with that.”
You stop long enough to draw in a slow breath that seems to make your lungs ache. The tension running through your body gradually starts to become more obvious now as it swells within your chest, inside your fluttering stomach, like helium filling a flimsy rubber balloon.
“I’d imagine,” she finishes, pinning you in place with a pointedly damning look. “Your title of lady can be owed to that agreeable disposition of yours. I’m sure it is just one of the many perks someone in your position gets to enjoy when growing up amongst the genteel upper classes and being trained for a certain kind of polite obedience.”
Fingers twisting in the cloth napkin on your lap, you nudge your chin up the mere half a centimeter to look her in the eye. “Is that what you would call it? Polite?”
“Do you disagree with that? What would you call it then, Mon chaton?”
A burning sear of static electricity sparks to life deep within your body at the casually spoken pet name. It makes you feel ten times hotter than you did just a moment ago. She was starting to close in now and would soon have you pinned on the chessboard with no choice but to surrender your queen to her plundering invasion. You’d barely even put up the pretense of a real fight this time.
And yet you can’t quite seem to keep the excitement at that prospect from your voice when you speak next.
“I wouldn’t exactly say it’s inaccurate, per se. But I also have to wonder how any part of this could be considered polite or proper by anyone’s estimation. Especially when I know for a fact that you did not invite me all the way to Snezhnaya just to engage in respectability politics.”
Her stoic mouth tugging into the faintest hint of a smirk, Arlecchino tips her head to one side as if in genuine question. “Then why do you think I extended this invitation, my dear? Please, enlighten me.”
She wants you to say it, and both of you know full well that by acquiescing to this demand she would have your king in check.
There is no hesitation. “It is your wish to hear me screaming your name again … isn’t it, Lord Arlecchino? Just like the last time we met like this.”
Easing back into her seat with a low creak from the lovingly crafted wood, she hesitates only to draw a clipped breath in through her nose. There is no exhale though. Not yet.
“Is that why you decided to come all this way? Hoping I would degrade you like a common whore when we are supposed to be talking business instead.”
You sit up a little straighter. As if your spine hadn’t already been ramrod straight in growing anticipation. “You know it is when our private dealings are much too incriminating for me to justify the risk of being found out. For all of his amenable traits, I do not imagine the Iudex would look very kindly on the special treatment I give to the shipments slated for the House of the Hearth.”
She huffs another quiet laugh at that, giving her head a slow shake now. “But of course. Occasionally it does slip my mind just how ruled by their baser urges young girls such as yourself tend to be. Then I should consider it a compliment, I suppose, that you would allow your pretty cunt to compel you to make the long journey here simply on my account. I only pray that it will be worth the time and mora you’ve invested into this trip.”
Letting that hang over the tea table like a heavy blanketing shroud, Arlecchino simply regards you in silent contemplation for a drawn out, tension filled moment. It seems to stretch on for an eternity when her expression gives nothing away. Her body language is unreadable. She’s as much the no nonsense, unfalteringly ruthless enforcer one would expect a Harbinger to be, and you subtly squeeze your thighs together underneath the draped tablecloth at having that condemning stare leveled on you.
“That being said, it is not usually in my nature to leave a lady such as yourself disappointed when in my presence. You shall get that which you desire, rest assured. And should I assume you’ve come prepared, Mon chaton? Did you arrive here today ready to present yourself to me the way that I like?”
You swallow hard around the ball of nerves wedged inside your throat. “Yes, my lord. Of course I did.”
Finally releasing that tersely held breath, Arlecchino sedately uncrosses her legs and moves to stand up with a subdued scrape of the chair against the floor.
“Oh? We’ll see about that.”
The ensuing click of sharp heels on the hardwood seems only to emphasize the danger in her casually slow approach around the table. Her attention stays fixed on you the whole time, much like a hungry wolf sizing up a helpless doe it’s come across by pure happenstance in the middle of some cold, snow covered dark wood. It inspires a chilly shudder in you that wreaks havoc on your nerves just as a bolt of lightning striking true might leave behind only ash and charred remains in its wake. You are just as helpless too, and your insides start to dance in a heated, knotted twisting as you sit there, stiff as a board, when she steps up next to you.
One infernally clawed hand reaches out to slip under your chin, tilting your head back by the smallest margin. Not to make you look at her but to correct the posture you’d started to slip into with the onset of your arousal. And you stare straight ahead at the now vacant seat across from you as she drops those dangerous fingers to feel along the column of your neck, vulnerable and bared naked to the sharp rending of her fangs.
Save, of course, for the dainty chain necklace with its little lock charm which she now lifts from your throat as if in idle consideration.
“This looks good on you.” She comments rather offhandedly. “Just as I suspected it would. You wear my jewelry so well, little love.”
Letting the petite chain slide from her grasp, Arlecchino then directs her hand lower still to brush over the womanly swell of your chest. You suck in a sharp breath at the contact but make no attempt to speak or move away from her touch. Even if you’d wanted to shy from it you seem almost frozen in place, as if you’ve sprouted roots that anchor you to the spot.
Yet your eager heart swells exponentially when she closes those long digits around the vivacious curve of one breast in a slow motion squeeze to pinch it tight. Her palm is broad and coarse, easily swallowing up the majority of your tit in her hold. But she lingers there for only a brief moment before gradually loosening her fingers so she can reach across and do the same on the opposite side.
When she squeezes the other she does so with enough force behind the gesture to make you hiss a brief sound, wincing slightly at the discomfort that emanates out from under her hand. Still, you put up no struggle or protest. Not even when Arlecchino then drags her sharply pointed nails back up to play along the frilled edge of your low cut bodice. It shows off much more cleavage than what was generally thought appropriate by Fontaine’s standards but it was how she liked to see you dressed when in her private company like this.
And she takes advantage of that low hemline, just as you’d known she would, to slip a single finger inside. Her hot to the touch skin brushes against yours when she tugs the material down, forcing it over the full swell. Ever so slowly, your tit is freed from the confines of the dress and you can’t help the whimper that bubbles to life when you feel the tentatively coiled nipple touch the air.
Arlecchino ignores it for the moment, though, leaving it to sadly stiffen in a hopeful little pucker while she directs her attention to the other side, repeating the process. Soon enough both of your breasts are hanging out of the tight material which pushes them up in a jut of fleshy abundance where the garment bunches underneath. Still, she does not pay any mind to either of your poor teats and the inherent humiliation in that nearly sets you on fire. To be exposed in such a manner only to then be summarily dismissed …
“Be a dear and lift your skirts for me.” She croons, not touching you now but standing so very close that you vaguely feel the body heat rolling off of her. “Show me how well you’ve followed my instructions.”
A shuddering breath escapes your parted lips as you comply with this order, reaching down to gather fistfuls of the bulky, ruffled dress so you can pull it up around your waist. Fresh gooseflesh erupts along your thrumming body as your thighs are exposed, nude save for the stockings and the garterbelt holding them up. It is immediately clear that you are not wearing panties or even any modesty preserving bloomers, but you still spread your legs out wide atop the chair to bear your cunt to her assessment.
Just as you’d hoped she would, Arlecchino hums a soft sound of approval at the shameless display and your heartrate jumps another eager notch to send it skipping across your ribcage. Bending at the waist in a controlled motion, the Knave reaches between the tawdry spread of your pudgy thighs to lightly brush over your slit, toying with the curls there. She does not seem surprised when her fingertips come back damp.
“Isn’t that sweet? You’re already this wet for me and I’ve barely done anything to you yet. It really is a shame that I will have to neglect this poor little cunt of yours, just like always. Although it does make me wonder why you keep coming back for more when you know what awaits you when you come to me like this.”
She sends you a slow look then, tilting her face just so to glance at the profile of your face. Even then you simply continue to stare straight ahead with your body held rigidly stiff, braced for the pin to drop. Waiting for her to deliver the killing blow and put you in checkmate.
“Do you really like my cock that much, little girl?”
A quietly pained groan. “… yes, my lord.”
Arlecchino says nothing more as she runs her fingers through the soft hairs padding your cunt one last time before straightening up to stand over you again.
Silently turning in place, the Harbinger saunters away from the chair to step behind you and out of sight. You listen to the pointed clack of her heels retreat a ways, obediently keeping your skirt hiked around the middle with your tits out, while you eagerly await her return to your side. The sound of a drawer sliding open soon reaches your ears and you surmise that she must have left that much thought about toy, the one which so often kept you awake at night, safely tucked away in the decorative bureau along the wall. She always made sure to come prepared, too. Just in case she found you needy and wanting. And she usually did.
Knowing what’s coming sends such an intense throb of arousal coursing through your body that you almost find yourself closing your legs, struck by the urge to squeeze them together again. But she had not granted you the freedom to move or alter the position she’d left you in, so you shudderingly maintain the wide v even when your pussy gives a dull, muted pang of frustration.
A short moment later Arlecchino shuffles back up into the same space she’d vacated where she proceeds to palm the top of your head, manually turning your neck to bring you face to face with the finely curved piece now jutting out from the open front of her pants. Everything else about her appearance is exactly the same, not a single article removed or loosened. But her slacks have been left to gape around the thick rubber shaft she’s strapped to herself for this purpose. That it is a deep, dark crimson red only further adds to her cock’s artificial appearance. And yet it is so mouth wateringly thick, heavy where it bobs faintly in the space between you and her; gouged with thick, aggressive veins and a meaty bulbous head that you knew would stretch you and fill you up just right — you can’t help the heated gasp that rattles inside your chest.
“Is this what you came here for, Mon chaton?”
“O - ohh … yes, my lord. Yes.”
“I see. Then why don’t you show me just how much you really want it, hm?”
You don’t even hesitate to act on that go ahead, swooping in to take the fat tip in your mouth. The hand on top of your head comes along for the ride, but Arlecchino neither pushes or pulls, or tugs at you, merely letting her fingers pet over your hair while you slobber all over her fake cock. It is hardly the polite behavior of a well to-do lady, but neither are your naked tits or the equally naked cunt between your legs.
She is tall enough, especially with those deadly heels on, that you’re able to keep your posture perfectly erect and straight — just the way she likes it — even as you lean into your work, dragging your clinging lips up and down the wide shaft. The unique flavor of rubber briefly invades your taste buds but it is quickly lost under the churning mess of bubbling spit you work up into a frothing lather along its length. That inorganic quality is not nearly enough to dissuade you though, and you coquettishly roll your eyes skyward to look into the lady’s face as you service her.
Even as Arlecchino’s expression remains just as stoic and unreadable as ever, you can tell she’s pleased with you by the slightest softening at the corner of her eyes. The brief tug at her mouth. She does not truly smile though, but instead tilts her head to better observe your efforts from a different angle. Your stomach flips and somersaults when you’re once again struck by how terribly handsome she is.
“Good girl. Get me ready to take you. Considering how very eager that virgin cunt of yours is, this likely wouldn’t even be necessary if I could have you the way I really want. Such a pity.”
Her fingers tighten around the curve of your skull with that utterance, just enough to grip, allowing her to guide you now through the motion of deeper strokes that take her even further into your mouth. The bluntly rounded head bumps at the back of your throat, abusing your tonsils, but the gathering excess of foamy saliva helps smooth the glide. You still gag, very faintly. She seems to like that though.
“There. You’re going to make some unworthy man a very happy husband someday, you know. I wonder if you’ll feel so inclined to tell him where you’ve learned all these filthy little tricks despite your innocence still being very much intact?”
Settling her pelvis into a lower slouch now, Arlecchino starts to nudge her hips forward to meet the downward plunge of your mouth. Softly at first, merely rocking into the motion to shove her cock right up to the opening of your windpipe, not quite breaching yet. Both of you know she could, not if she really wanted but when. She’d trained you well up til’ now, and your fingers tighten on the bulk of your skirts so hard they begin to ache in protest. Even your full, fleshy tits start to shift with the increase in momentum too, even for as slight as it may be, and you groan a muffled sound around the weighty girth in your mouth at the sensation of stiff nipples cutting hard points up from your body.
How you longed for her to reach down and play with them, tweak them, pinch and tug at the delicate buds until you couldn’t help but squirm for her. But Arlecchino only has use for your mouth right now, and your poor teats can only sadly ache in their neglect just as much as your thrumming cunt does.
Especially when she is every bit as merciless with her strap as ever, gradually picking up the pace until she’s fully fucking into your mouth. The stilted motion drags at the bubbling mess along your tongue to pull it towards the front where it eventually starts to drip out and run down your chin, splattering onto your chest. Your pussy throbs in longing to feel that same hard cock thrust between your thighs, spearing into the deepest, darkest recesses of your body even when you know that can’t happen. Not with her. Never with her, no matter how much you might want it more than anything else in this world. At least not until your chastity was properly taken by the man you would eventually wed some day.
That heartwrenching thought almost gets the better of you but Arlecchino is exceptionally talented at distracting you from your worries and woes. The first time she slips down your throat is sudden and unexpected, coming abruptly between the continuous onslaught of shallow thrusts. She applies just enough force behind her hips to dip down into your neck, making you jerk in place, before immediately withdrawing to continue that precise glide over your tongue. You roughly try to swallow around the twinge in your windpipe but there’s too much pooling spit, no time to truly recover when your mouth is still being plundered and claimed.
And then she does it again, just as suddenly, except this time you’re somewhat better prepared for it to happen. Instead of stopping at the palpitating entrance of your throat she just keeps coming, feeding her unforgiving length down into your neck up to the first third. It lingers there for the span of a single heartbeat, ensuring you feel the tight stretch, before retreating once more to leave you dizzily gasping in your chair. There was close to nothing you wouldn’t give to have her do the same thing to your cunt.
“Mmm. I must admit that this particular talent of yours is especially impressive. Not many girls can take me like that. I’m sure if the rest of the Court of Fontaine knew what you could do with that pretty mouth of yours, you would quickly find an endless line of suitors knocking down your door every morning. And you have to know how good you look when you’re choking on cock, darling. I don’t doubt for one second that there would be plenty of gentlemen willing to pay the hefty price of your dowry just to have you all to themselves.”
Her clawed hand shifts further back then to cup the curve of your skull, using that to leverage you into her when she shoves her hips forward again. Mercilessly, she forces you down onto that rich red phallus, making you take her straight to the halfway point where she merely holds you for a drawn out moment, watching you helplessly wretch around the intrusion blocking your throat. Your eyes start to water and your chest feels unbearably tight from the lack of oxygen, but you make no move to pull away or stop her from treating you in this unequivocally demeaning manner. You simply take it, feeling your slit turn ever more slippery and sticky, until she finally tugs you back to slip free of that tight clutch again.
The sheets of fast cooling spit that dribble from your mouth are truly obscene now, coating your chin, your neck and the lifted swell of your tits, yet you don’t dare to release the raised hem of your skirts and wipe it away. So you just sit with it, blinking at the moisture in your eyes, trying not to cough too badly, as Arlecchino caresses over your hair as if in doting approval.
“The one thing you can take solace in,” she murmurs softly, almost affectionately. “Is that you do not have to worry too much about having to debase yourself like this for any potential husbands in the future. There aren’t many men out there who are as big as me.”
And you believe that, fully and without question. Even putting aside that hers was fake which gave her the advantage of being able to choose the size, you didn’t imagine that there were many unclaimed bachelors who would be this well endowed. Not any that would suit your fancy, anyway.
“Stand. I want you to kneel on the chair.”
It takes you a second longer than it should to shake off your disoriented daze enough to heed her command, gingerly moving now to find your feet. Carefully, you climb up onto the cushioned seat with one hand braced on the table to steady your balance, poised on your knees. Trying to keep your skirts held up with the other doesn’t work out very well but it doesn’t truly matter, because Arlecchino steps behind you again to grab the bulk of the flouncy fabric and flip it up around your waist.
Shuddering at the caress of cool air on your bare bottom as much as the sharp nailed hand that comes up to palm the back of your head, you readily submit to her will when she presses forward to make you lean over the forgotten platter of scones. You only remember it’s there at all, in fact, when one of your tight nipples brushes the flaky outer edge of one to send unexpectedly pleasant shockwaves dancing through your tensely held body.
But before you can follow through on the thought to move it out of the way, Arlecchino’s hand retreats to deliver a sharp swat to one side of your ass. The brief sting makes you squeak almost as much as the sensation of chubby cheeks recoiling from the force does. Heaving a deeply wounded groan, you turn your head to glance back at the Harbinger in time to watch her hand swing again, catching the other side this time.
Using both sets of fingers then, she grabs two pinching palmfulls of your ass, taking the chance to simply knead the abundant flesh and make you really want what was coming next. Then her nails dig in, leaving behind the most glorious burning sensation where they sink into the meat of you, pulling your cheeks wide apart and bearing you fully to her hungry gaze.
Your pussy weeps between the press of your thighs, eternally destined to be ignored, while you feel your puckering ass hole give a muted twitch at the stretch to the skin around it. Arlecchino allows herself a brief moment to simply admire you, drinking in the sight as she softly coos and murmurs hushed words of praise for your benefit.
Then, startling another yelp out of your mouth, she swoops down to press her lips right up against that tightly wrinkled entrance. The kisses she offers it are wet and sloppy with the intention of coating your back entrance in a healthy sheen of spit, and the sensation of it almost instantly has your toes curling in their delicate little slippers. Seething a hushed sound, you stiffly push up on your braced hands to hover over the tea table so you can better arch your back for her, eagerly presenting your ass.
She keeps you spread with the nearly painful grip she has on your cheeks while she works that vulnerable little hole over, just as merciless and decisive in this as she is with everything else. Alternating between lapping at it with her tongue, poking and prodding at the weak center to encourage it to open up, and then sealing her mouth around it to suckle the muscle into a raised state … it comes very close to driving you insane.
But all you can do is whimper and whine as Arlecchino eats your ass out until you can feel the rim beginning to puff up and slacken. She’s trained your body in this manner quite well too, and it responds to her beautifully. It seems to take no time at all before she’s got that fleshy pucker swollen enough under her ministrations to concentrate her attack on the center wrinkle. The tip of her tongue carefully pushes right in on that utterly defenseless spot and you moan, shuddering all over, when you’re invaded by that hot, sticky appendage as it dips just inside the weakening entrance to your body.
Your pussy positively drools all over the insides of your thighs while she tongue fucks you, coaxing your ass to open up more, to relent more, to submit to her conquering campaign, more and more, and more. Even if you’d wanted to fight it, if you’d had so much as a passing thought to call an end to this sordid affair, there was simply no way you could get your limbs to cooperate that much when it felt so very good. Enough to almost make you sob.
“Oh - oouhh … my lord, please — mmm, please put it in! I don’t want to wait any longer …”
Upon swirling her tongue around the loosening grip of your ass hole one last time, Arlecchino pulls back just enough to lap at the meaty little pucker instead, flicking back and forth over it. Back and forth, up and down. Then she abruptly seals her lips around it to give the slackened muscle a sharp, noisy slurp as she angles her head away.
“Do you truly think you’re ready to take me already, Mon chaton? Or is it simply that you like when I barely prep you first? Is that it?”
“The — oohhh, the latter, my lord … the latter. I want to feel the way you stretch me out. I want you to make me take you, even if I am not ready yet.”
At that she huffs a quiet laugh that almost seems to border on bemused disbelief. “Very well. Then that is how you shall have it, my sweet. But don’t forget later on that I tried to show you some amount of chivalrous consideration.”
Straightening to her full height behind you, Arlecchino gives your upturned ass one more sharp slap to make it bounce from the force before she shifts to come up alongside you now. One of her hands finds your head again, threading through the hair and closing down at the root so she can yank you where she wants. She uses it like a leash, in fact, and you automatically open your mouth wide to accept her cock when she points you at it again.
“That’s it, girl.” She slowly starts to slide in, stretching your lips around her thick girth. “Get me nice and wet for that tight ass of yours now.”
There’s no mistaking the tense edge in her voice, as slight as it may be, and that spurns you on, encouraging you to slobber enthusiastically all over her shaft. You swirl your tongue to coat the firm rubber in saliva, pulling up more from the back of your throat to make sure it’s nice and sticky for your hole. You’re practically out of your mind with it as you work her over, eyes rolling back slightly when she starts to thrust again.
In and out. In and out. Long, drawn out strokes that send her skittering towards the back of your throat. The gesture is so intentional, so powerfully executed that it’s not hard at all to imagine how it might feel to have her moving inside your cunt like that.
And while you’re sucking her off, Arlecchino’s unoccupied hand curls down to finally — finally, find the heavy weight of your tits where she idly toys with them for you. Caressing lightly over the plump, hanging swell of one breast as if to draw attention to its size, its shape, before directing her fingers lower still to tweak the nipple. You’re so worked up that that alone is nearly enough to send you tripping over the edge, right then and there.
But it comes as no surprise that she’s quick to take away that source of your pleasure, knowing full well how much you enjoyed having your teats pinched and pulled. Instead, she brings that hand up to your head too where she firmly presses, holding you in place, while she angles her hips forward on a slow, steady, yet no less forceful glide.
Straight to the back of your throat where she seems to slip straight in, filling the length of your neck when she just keeps feeding her cock deeper and deeper into you. She gives you no other choice than to take her down to the base this time, thoroughly blocking your airway as your nose is forced right up to her pelvis. Eyes rolling back in earnest now, you weakly jolt and wretch around the intrusion, fighting to keep your gag reflex in check, which you somehow manage to pull off even when it is no small feat. She really was bigger than most men could even dream of being.
“Oh, what a very good girl you are, darling. You look devastating when you’re choking on me like that.”
Issuing a wistful, faintly shuddering sigh, Arlecchino’s pelvis slowly starts to ease back. She keeps your head firmly locked in place to stop you from jerking off it too fast though, still mindful of your comfort even now. Even when you’ve requested the exact opposite of her. As a result you have to simply process each and every individual inch of that hefty cock as it gradually escapes the sleeve of your throat. The flood of thick, clinging saliva that follows after her nearly chokes you as much as her toy did, and you sputter a half smothered sound once it slips all the way out.
Leaving you to weakly cough for air, the Knave moves behind you again where she grabs another handful of one ass cheek, spreading it wide to expose your waiting hole. She needs to use her other fist to guide her cock to your entrance where she immediately starts to sink in at such a staggered pace it has you fisting the tablecloth in a death grip. No further delay. No buildup or petting to ease you into it. She simply gives you exactly what you asked for.
The puffed up rim has no choice but to relent when she centers her attack directly on the vulnerable wrinkle like that, and her bulbous head seems to rapidly force the muscle into a wide stretch until it pops past that initial barrier with relative ease, effectively plugging you up just inside. Leaving it wedged like that for a moment, Arlecchino brings her newly freed hand up to dig into the opposite cheek and pull it wide, further loosening the clench of your back entrance for her.
Then she starts to sink in even deeper, using the weight behind her hips to feed more of her strap into your hungry ass hole. The searing burn of penetration, the eye watering pressure on your guts is felt immediately and in no uncertain terms. Every single nerve ending in your body seems to light up like a firework, and you hold the air in your lungs as you eagerly bear down on that seeking cock, encouraging your tight passage to open up more for her.
And it does. She’s taken you enough times in this arguably demeaning manner that your ass is accustomed to being wedged open around her impressive girth, readily welcoming her in with tiny little throbbing pulses that gradually pull her even deeper. You take the first third of it with relative ease but by the midpoint your pulpy, squeezing insides start to put up some amount of resistance.
Pausing there to give you a moment to relax into it and adjust, Arlecchino issues a low, vaguely faltering exhale as one of her gripping palms now slides up over the curve of your ass. She gives the lovehandles at your waist a tight, plainly possessive squeeze before raking higher up your back to press just under your shoulder.
“Brace one of your knees on top of the table, little love. Be a doll and open yourself up to me, hm?”
You groan a harried sound at that, distantly wondering how you were possibly going to manage that when she was already this deep inside you. When you were already thoroughly impaled upon that hard, unrelentingly demanding cock.
But you carefully move to obey, too eager not to as you slowly get one of your legs out from under you so you can angle it up onto the edge of the tea table. This shift forces you into something of a half realized stretch, the muscles in your thighs straining slightly in such a shameful, unladylike position, and yet you see the wisdom in it all the same. Being poised like that puts enough pressure on your insides that you can now better relax the muscles inside your internal sleeve, and you rattle out a drunken sound of pleasure when she begins to nudge her hips back only enough to execute the first thrust.
And as she pushes back in on you a single, measly heartbeat later, her rigid length sinks even further into your guts. Groaning a truly delighted sound, you stiffly arch your spine to jut your ass up for her, giving her an even more effective angle at which to spear up into your body at the stilted pace she quickly falls into.
You can feel your widened hole clinging to the shaft, tugging with it on every back stroke, readily pulling her in again each time she rocks into you. The blinding rush of it is nearly enough to have you wailing your pleasure for the entire house to hear, especially when she gradually speeds up and the force soon has your heavy tits bouncing for her. The near rapturous, searingly hot delight that spreads throughout the intense stretch of your ass is nearly overwhelming in its potency.
“Ooooughn, feels so good, my lord … oooh, blessed Hydro Archon, you’re filling me up so good, Lord Arlecchino! Ahhn!”
The clawed hand still resting along your ass gives you another sharp slap to make you jolt, insides pulsing around that unforgiving length with the resulting squeeze.
“Oh, but you know I don’t like to hear you screaming for another woman while I’m having you like this. Is that your way of asking me to go harder?”
Before you can so much as draw a single breath to respond she abruptly yanks herself back, drawing the tip of her cock straight to the throbbing rim of your hole where it comes very close to slipping out. It does not, though, and you blurt some mindless animal noise when she slams back in now that your guts are nice and loosened for her. The resulting sharp clap! of her pelvis smacking against your upturned ass sounds almost deafeningly loud in the otherwise still and silent parlor.
Jostled forward by the force of that soul rending thrust, you let your head hang between your shoulders, moaning a terribly heated sound as she sets in to truly fuck you. That punishing rhythm — clap! clap! clap! — gradually speeds up until the Knave is drilling up into your guts so energetically it makes little starbursts erupt before your very eyes. Your pussy is a hot, drippy mess just below where she shoves herself deep inside your body, her piece so very large that you can almost delude yourself into thinking you feel it moving on the other side of that thin internal wall.
You want nothing more than to snake your hand down and rub your aching clit raw until you find that glorious release, but Arlecchino has expressly prohibited you from touching there. Her command was as good as any tightly locked chastity belt, one you didn’t even think to question or protest, and all you can do is take the pounding in your ass without complaint. Praying that the increasingly hot burn of friction would send you free falling into oblivion soon.
And when that grueling staccato set by her powerfully flexing hips quickly starts to overwhelm, when you gingerly try to ease yourself forward to lessen the intense stab of her up into your ass, she just grabs you around the waist with both hands to yank you back on it.
“Do not run from me after asking to have it like this, Mon chaton. You will take what I decide to give you in whatever manner I deem fit. Is that understood?”
“Yuh - yes, my — ahhhn! Mmm, m - my lord!”
Cooing a soft word of approval, at complete and total odds with the castigating force at which she seems to split your ass in half, Arlecchino leaves one pinching hold where it grips onto your lovehandles while the other comes up to hook over your shoulder. Using the extra leverage, she pulls you back to meet every single one of her pleasantly hard thrusts, snapping you to and fro with nothing more than the power behind her hips.
The fine china on the table rattles and clatters as a result but neither of you pay it any mind. You’re panting much too hard, blood pounding deafeningly in your ears, and you almost don’t even notice it.
“You truly are quite lucky, you know.” She murmurs behind you, almost getting lost in the dire bleating pouring from your mouth too. Not even close to being out of breath from the physical exertion of this act but there is now a certain tightness in her voice that makes it sound like she’s inching towards it. “If I were a man I would have taken you to the marriage bed a long time ago. I can only imagine I would have had you knocked up at least twice by now. Who knows. We might even be expecting a third on the way.”
A truly frazzled sound escapes you at the thought, the promise in those low, threateningly uttered words. It almost drives you out of your mind with wanting.
Arlecchino must pick up on it too, the heightened response to that simple statement of fact, because she somehow manages to drill into you even harder, faster. And she keeps talking, telling you what you clearly want to hear and maybe some unintentional truths as well.
“Don’t doubt for even a moment that I wouldn’t keep you heavy and round with my children. One. Right. After. Another.” Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! “I imagine you’d start to beg me to take you like this. Just so you can have a rare break from being bred rather than the reverse that you are currently plagued with. It wouldn’t do you any good though. I’d empty myself into you every single day, little love, all to ensure that you are forever, really, truly, mine.”
She emphasizes that with a sharply administered, possessive smack across the bouncing cheek of your ass, making you wail in wordless delight.
“All to keep you at home, right where you belong. Safe and sound, and properly owned. There would be none of this foolish business of filling in for your lord father at the docks. You’d be lucky if I ever let you leave this house. But why would you need to? I can provide everything for you and have it hand delivered right to our doorstep. How does that saying go again? Barefoot and pregnant, is it?”
A mirthless, darkly tinged laugh filters up behind you to send prickling goosebumps racing over your flushed skin. You can feel the pressure in you starting to swell, doubling and then tripling as your wide open ass hole hotly pulses around her pistoning cock. It really was too much. Not only were you going to cum, it felt like you were going to swoon into a faint and pass out.
“L - luh - lord Arlecchi — ooughn! Please! Ahhn!”
“Oh, just imagine it, Mon chaton. We would both get what we want then, wouldn’t we? You, a husband who does not bore you to death, while I get for myself the loveliest little wife. I’m sure your aging father would be quite pleased with that outcome too, especially where the children are concerned. You’d get to make me a real father. Wouldn’t that make you happy?”
You try to scream the word yes because it would, more than anything else. But all that comes out is a shattering shriek of pure, unfiltered ecstasy when you suddenly cum, hard and fast. Your pussy squeezes so tight it physically hurts, pulsing in time with the deep, deep throbbing in your ass. Even as you judder and shake through your explosive release, wailing your pleasure for the entire nation to hear, she just continues to relentlessly fuck you through it. Encouraging your guts to keep contracting, to milk the orgasm for everything it’s worth, until you can’t quite stand it anymore and your inebriated cries start to turn tender.
Only then does Arlecchino finally slow the motion of her hips, giving your still pulsing ass a few final, slow motion thrusts before coming to a complete halt. She stays like that for just a moment longer, pressed up against you with her hands locked so tight around your much softer frame that you think you can feel the bruises blooming to life beneath her fingertips. Distant and dreamy, like an afterthought to the addictively potent cocktail of adrenaline and dopamine surging through your system. The sound of her mildly labored panting seems to echo in the space between your ears on an endless loop while you work to calm your own … but something told you her lack of breath was not due to the effort of fucking you.
At length, she finally clears her throat with a soft little cough before moving to slide out of you. Slow and steady, to give your ass a chance to close in the wake of her departure and so as not to pull at the stretched out sleeve. Finally slipping free of the loose grip of your puckering hole, she eases back to give you some modicum of space while her palms stay braced along your hips to help steady you.
“My lady –”
The sentence abruptly stops. Relative silence reclaims the room again for an uncomfortably prolonged beat that is colored with tense uncertainty before she begins to speak again, her tone noticeably more controlled and guarded now. Whatever she’d started to say was gone, and what she’d already said was locked up tight again.
“I hope you will forgive me for speaking so crassly to you, my lady.” She says, right back to the usual Arlecchino. Not curt, exactly, but sober and straight to the point. Shuttered. “As much as it shames me to admit it, I seem to have allowed myself to get a little too caught up in the moment. I pray I did not accidentally hurt you. Are you alright?”
You don’t quite know what to say so you settle on slowly nodding your head in agreement, trying to make any sense of it in your mind. If she truly felt that way then why continue to play these stupid games, hiding behind excuses and flimsy justifications? She was a Fatui Harbinger, second only to the Tsaritsa herself. If she truly desired it, then did she not have the power to —
“I’m glad to hear that. Please give me just a moment to fetch a cool rag so I can help you get cleaned up and dressed. With your needs now met, we should probably get back to the topic at hand.”
Arlecchino pulls away from you then, utterly distanced from you and the things she’d spoken of as she retreats out into the hall where she closes the door behind her with a soft click. As always there is no room for pillow talk or after sex cuddling in this farce of a relationship hidden behind the veneer of business relations.
But there could be. You certainly wanted that and you now knew she wanted it too. And yet the ritual itself was still just as important as the performance. The finer details didn’t matter, not really. Both of you would continue to play your parts down to the letter until the final curtain call inevitably fell. For now and forever more.
To make her a real father, eh? If only something like that were truly possible, if Arlecchino could actually give you the polite little children that were expected in a polite society to come out of a politely contented wife, then perhaps you could be a kept woman and not borrowed.
Maybe wasn’t enough to fulfill the social contract though.
A Trade Well Made: Orc x Witch!Reader | 18+ Content
A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the late post, I recently took a big step forward to improve my mental health and needed a day or two to recover (one step closer to destroying my agoraphobia!) - anyway, enjoy!
TWs: Power Imbalance, a couple that's WAY too into each other in front of reader (very deep making out and implied horniness that doesn't involve reader, think Gomez and Morticia when they're at the charity auction and start making out), if there's anything else I missed, please let me know!
“Oh come on! You can’t tell me you’re out of Orc semen!” The Mechs marched you out of the Mages Tower, their enchanted parts clanking and clinking with each heavy step they took.
You twisted and turned in their grip, “that’s fucking bullshit! You perverts have it somewhere! Where are your succubi?! Don’t you summon them just to collect all species fluids?!” You shouted back.
The Mechs stopped at the threshold as the wooden doors swung open in front of you. “Get off me-!”
“(Y/N) of the Guild of Crones,” the Mechs monotone voices deafened you. “You are hereby banned from the Mages House - Welcoming All spell-casters of any and all kind.” In sync, they reeled back, peeling you back with them.
Forcfully, they lunged forward, their grip on you loosening as you were sent flying. You hit the muddied ground with a splat, sliding along in the muck. The dull earthy flavour flooded your tongue, engulfed your nostrils as you pushed yourself onto your elbows.
Wiping your face, you wheeled around, scrambling to your gain some footing on the uneven earth. “Hey! Wait-“
The Mechs clasped their hands around the doors edge, and yanked them inward, slamming them shut. The iron rings thunked off the heavy wood.
You slumped onto your heels, hands flopping into your lap as you stared indignantly at the tower doors in front of you.
“Bullshit.” You spat, throwing your hands forward. Mud flew from your fingers as you ran your lips across your arm. “Fucking bullshit!” More dirt from your arms smeared across your face.
You got to your feet, slipping and sliding in the sludge beneath you. Once you were stable, you closed your eyes and did your best to clear your mind. You begged that your incantation might work; for once in your life please work. And with a flick of your wrist, you envisioned your clothes clean and fresh, smelling slightly of citrus and vanilla.
You popped one eye open, looking down at your clothes. Still covered in mud.
“Fuckin’- agh.” You seized your face and recoiled at your cold and slimy hands. Why had you expected that to work? You’re not a witch. Or at least, a traditional one. Most Witches and Mages you know or know of, have a natural affinity for magik; but not you.
You had a little bit of magik in your veins, but it was too weak for you to use in any meaningful way - bringing shame on your mothers side of the family. Your mother was a Witch, your Grandmother was too, and your Great-Grandmother before her. All of them had natural magikal abilities.
But not you - your grandmother always said it was down to your father, a, (she would shiver in discomfort) a ‘normie.’
Don’t get it twisted, you loved your father, but in comparison to your mother’s side of the family, he was… lame. He was very plain faced and by all means, a very… well, plain person. He ran a shop on your childhood farm, raised cattle, sowed seeds in fields and did what any parent did: parent you.
Though you were raised well and had a very relaxed childhood, it cost you any kind of approval from your mothers side of the family. Your mother and grandmother were the only ones who spoke to you; but even then your grandmother always looked down her stereotypical crone hooked nose at you.
Even when you tried to learn to make potions and cast spells using jars and sigils, she would snark at you from her hunched over figure. “It would have taken me an hour to do that spell!” She’d point her rickety cane at you, “it takes you a week! Oh how I wish your mother had married a Mage, that Anthony boy was so nice, if only your mother hadn’t been so liberal with her friends!”
While your mother had the decency to put on a kind face, mask her disappointment in her spawn with honeyed words and forced smiles, you could tell that she regretted her decision to marry your father by the way she would look at your dad with an empty, fish eyed gaze and a deep, long sip from a glass of wine as he talked about the sales of his mushrooms.
So, you worked harder and harder, hoping to make at least one of them proud. Your father would be proud of you regardless as he continuously reminded you. “But sweetheart, you’re perfect as you are!” He’d simper to you.
“I know dad,” you’d reply, head down and over a small cauldron.
“But that’s so hard! Why don’t you come and help me check out the fields?!” He would offer.
“No dad! I have to finish this potion by nightfall otherwise I’ll get an explosive liquid rather than a sleeping draft for Mr and Mrs Babylon!”
On the upside, at least you were good at potions. Some magik users really struggle with potion making, your mother did, so there was a hope for you after all.
It was just unfortunate that your Grandmother was famous for her perfect potion concoctions. She was famed far and wide, ‘back in her day’, as she would remind you constantly.
And one day, you got fed up of the old crone and set off to come up with the best potions the magikal world had ever seen, to put your Grandmother to shame. That would shut her up, you were sure.
However, that requires practice and ingredients. As you travelled across towns, you would help out anyone you could using your limited ability.
Most people were very kind and generous in their payment and tips. Sometimes, you’d even get some rare ingredient in return for your help.
Which is what led you to your current predicament: You’d got a request from a very horny couple. Through out your whole consultation with them, they had their hands all over each other, with (who you could only assume to be) the dominant partner sliding their hand up their other half’s leg, growing dangerously closer and closer to their crotch.
“So, we would like an aphrodisiac.” They had explained. “We’ve done everything under the sun!” Their partner had added, “but now we want to know how long-“
You stopped listening beyond that point as they started to get a little too involved with each other by clinking their teeth together and biting each others lips. Burying your head behind your parchment and quill (and doing your best to make sure they got their ‘privacy’), making a list of all the ingredients you would need:
Honey
Lavender and Rose petals
Pink wax for sealing the bottle
Sugar
And the most virile and strongest spend from the most dominant Monster in the area. Depending on what effect you’re going for, you either use Minotaur seed for sexual appetite, Fae spend for that looser, more relaxed feeling or Orc semen for a boost for stamina.
You didn’t even consider the first two options, given how the couple were acting. But the Orc semen sounded just right. And there was only one place to get that sort of thing: Either directly from the source, or from the Mages Tower.
Now, you had briefly considered getting it yourself, but (to zero surprise) actually explaining the process to someone, sounds horrendously off-putting. And you’re sure Orcs wouldn’t want their spend being used in some aphrodisiac potion of yours that’s going to be drank by some horny couple.
Which then led you to the Mages Tower, getting into a fight with the elderly mage who sat at the front desk when they told you they couldn’t help you, and then being thrown out by the Mechs. To now, sitting in a puddle of mud.
Sighing, you began to trudge back to the Inn you were staying at. Your boots squelched with each step you took, seemingly making the the sun above sink lower and lower in the sky as you walked.
You would have to find another way to what you needed. But you sure as Hell weren’t going to be asking an Orc for it - the last thing you needed was to be clobbered for asking for their seed and not even using it for what it was supposed to be used for.
By nightfall, you were just entering the town you were staying at. Night walkers had finally emerged from their places of residence, and now prowled the streets for their next payment, alongside more unfriendly types that leered over you as you passed by.
You ignored them, keeping your gaze straight and locked on the Inn on the other side of town. Given your current physical state, you were more than sure you wouldn’t become the target for anything unpleasant.
When you finally did reach the Inn, all the mud on your boots had dried up, cracking on your skin and skirts as you moved.
The Inn’s door creaked open as you walked in. You did your best to wipe off the dirt on your boots, but before you could even swipe your foot across the entrance mat, the owner of the Inn had rushed over to you. “No! No!” She snapped. “Out!”
You stared at her, hardly daring to believe she was being serious. “What?! But I need a wash!” You protested.
“I’ll give you water outside! Just don’t track mud in through my Inn!” And before you knew it, you were being shoved hard in the back, and out of the Inn.
The Innkeeper kept a firm grip on your wrist as she guided you around the back. “There’s already someone behind the back,” she explained. “So you’ll have to deal with it.”
You wanted to twist out of her reach and protest, but before you knew it, you were face to face with your shower mate, where your jaw damn near dropped to the floor.
It was like the world was paying a cruel trick on you. Half dressed, and untying the laces of his britches, was a tall, lean but muscular Orc. Grime was smeared across his face, arms and chest.
He froze at the sight of you and the Innkeeper, but she paid him no mind.
“I can’t exactly separate you two by sex, so you’ll just have to bear each other.” And without waiting for a reply, the Innkeeper vanished.
The two of you stood in silence, staring at each other as if you’d never seen the opposite sex before.
You couldn’t stop your eyes from trailing down from his face to his thick neck, down his strong shoulders at the thick collar bones that held his rippling muscles. How is it that someone covered in grime can look so good?
“So,” his voice snapped you out of your hypnotised trance. He had resumed the undoing of the laces around his britches. “What happened to you?”
“Hm? Oh!” Face burning, you tore your cloak off. It clattered with it’s many pockets full of vials of herbs and liquids as you laid it on a wheel barrel where a large tunic and great sword were rested. “I- um…” you couldn’t tell him you were a witch… or trying to be. He would probably point and laugh at you like a lot of others did when you explained your predicament - and be even more creeped out when he inevitably asked what you were looking for. However… maybe a half truth could work. “I got kicked out of my house and landed in a puddle.”
To your surprise, the Orc huffed out a laugh. The corners of his lips turned upward as he hooked his meaty fingers around the hips of his trousers and slid them off. “What were you kicked out for?” He threw them to the side, where they landed beside you in the wheel barrel. You dodged them, turning your back on the wheel barrel, and did a double take at the size of the dick that swung between his legs.
Though soft, you hadn’t ever seen a bigger cock in your life. In the darkness, you could faintly make out veins pulsing in the Orcs shaft. You hastily looked away, hoisting your leg up on the edge of the wheel barrel and beginning to fiddle with the laces of your boots.
“Uh,” your face burned. Shit. You shouldn’t have been looking at him like that, and now you would have to come up with another lie. You hadn’t thought too far ahead. Half truths are great… right up until you needed to make up the ‘half’ part of the truth. “I’d rather not talk about it.” You took your boot by it’s heel and pulled it off, signalling the end to the topic. “What about you?” You asked.
Hoisting up your skirts, you began to remove your muddied stockings as the Orc replied. “I got into a fight.” The sound of heavily padded footfalls came from behind you, followed by the sloshing of water.
You turned to look at the sound and squeaked, whipping back around to continue undoing your garments. Naked Orc - forgot about the naked Orc with the massive cock. He had opened a barrel next to the back of the Inn, taken a silver can beside the back door and started to douse himself in the water. Droplets of water raced down the Orcs muscular figure and soaked his long dark hair.
A faint throbbing had started between your thighs, as you stammered out, “h-how’d the fight happen?” You busied yourself by tugging at the laces of your other boot, taking that one off and then removing your stockings.
“Some assholes from the Mages tower.” He replied after a moment. “They wanted to buy my satchel off me - I’ve got loads of herbs and spices to trade from the South East, they cost a pretty penny. But like Hell am I going to just give them to those bozos.”
“Yeah, fuck those guys!” You whipped around a little too quickly. He held a steel pale in his hand, dripping with water as furrowed his brows at you, confused by your enthusiasm. “Uh…” your eyes slid down to his cock and then up to his face again. Whipping back around again, you hastily added. “Y-You’re not even going to try covering up?!” You went to go and start undoing the top of your dress, but paused.
If you did undress, he’d see you, bare and as you are. And then what would happen? You’d heard that some Orcs can smell womens arousal in the air; Luckily however, you were currently covered in mud and dirt - but if you took your dress off, then he might smell it and know what was going on with you, and then what would you do? If he said he was interested in you, then you would have no choice but to seize this chance to get what you needed; but you couldn’t keep from him what his spend would be used for, bad things happen when you use people in magik without their consent.
“Hm? Oh.” He spoke as if it were no big deal that he was just casually buck naked in front of a woman. “The way I see it,” the Orc said, finally. “There’s no point in it. The Innkeeper already said that we can’t be separated, so what’s the point in trying to hide from one another if we’re going to see each other anyway?”
Okay, fair enough. Maybe if he looked away then he wouldn’t be able to smell you? Or, at least wouldn’t be as tempted to offer to rail you into- “Well, would you at least look away when I’m-“ you gestured to your figure, still not looking at him. “Y’know.”
“Are you sure? I may be a mess, but you?” You felt his finger jab you in the back. “You’re filthy.”
It was hard to ignore the even harder pulse that throbbed through your core, and not to feel a trickle of irritation that flared in your stomach. “I can wash myself.” You declared.
“I agree, you probably can, but you won’t be able to wash your back.” The Orc reasoned. “And since we’re both here, we might as well help each other out. You wash my back, I’ll wash yours.”
Shit. You knew that’s not what he meant, he was simply offering to wash your back, doing you a favour - but the part of you that was led by your nethers watered at the idea, like a dog smelling a freshly cooked steak.
“… A kind offer,” you said, carefully. “But I’m afraid I can’t-” You looked over your shoulder to find the Orc with his back to you, hair pulled over his shoulder and out of the way.
You squinted into the darkness and found what he was pointing at. Turning to look at his back, you recoiled sharply. His green skin was covered in angry lashes of varying colour, from purple to bright blue and blood red. Though none of them bled, they were very clearly irritated; and painful. “Oh my God, what happened to you?!” You turned fully now, placing your hands on his skin and running your fingers across the strikes.
“I’ve got soap in the satchel in the wheel barrel.” The Orc waved his hand to his left.
You wasted no time in rushing to his bag and rifling through it until you came across a bar of soap. “You shouldn’t be using this,” you explained as you made your way to the barrel of water beside the Orc. Dipping your hands in, you rubbed the soap between your hands, allowing them to become sudsy. “What you really need is a salve or something like that. These wounds are magikal in nature; they’re not just going to heal with soap and water.” You mentally searched the inventory in your cloak, trying to remember if you’ve got any kind of medical herbs to counter act the spells that he’d been struck with.
“I’m not looking for a miracle cure,” the Orc replied. “I just need to make sure I won’t get an infection.”
“You’ll be getting worse than an infection, even if you do clean them out.” You sighed, annoyed. “These are nasty spells,” you stepped back to have another look at them. They were delayed reaction curses, the kind you only cast if you plan to horrify an enemy deep in the night, when everyone believes that they’re in the clear, safe and sound as they sleep in their beds.
You couldn’t tell exactly what kind of curses cast, but you knew that whatever they were, they weren’t going to be fun.
How could the Mages even think of doing something so ghastly? And over some stupid herbs and spices? “Assholes.” You gritted your teeth.
“I don’t think any of them were that serious. Human magik doesn’t work on Orcs.” Your green friend explained. “Would you please just wash them out and I’ll return the favour?” A tinge of exasperation entered his voice… but a tint of fear laid under it. Maybe it was his Orc bravado talking, didn’t want to seem weak. You let it slide, albeit with a little annoyance. Not wanting to get under the skin of the Orc, you obliged his request.
He didn’t complain once as you did your best to scrub his back. And to your surprise, he seemed to be right. The hues of colour on the Orcs back faded away as you washed. When you had a moment to observe the spell work, you ran your finger along the edge of the lash, taking the colour onto your pad and rubbing it between your fingers. Rather than piercing the Orcs skin, the spell had slid off his back and left powder behind rather than a curse.
You searched your mind again, looking for some kind of evidence that he was right. While on the surface, it seemed to be the Orcs assessment was correct, you couldn’t ignore the discomfort that told you something was off. This Orc was in denial, and deep in it’s bowels it seemed. While he may have been told human magik doesn’t affect Orcs, you could’ve sworn that curses didn’t pick and choose their species. It may have just been a white lie that Orcs told each other to comfort one another… and when the curse finally did kick in, that they were disposed of quietly and quickly to keep up the appearence that it didn’t work.
You didn’t know how that would work, but you weren’t going to push the Orc by asking about it.
“You seem to be awfully curious about them.” The Orc said.
You flinched. “Hm?”
“The magik cast and the Mages… Why are you so interested in them?”
“Well, they’re interesting people, aren’t they? And you should call out when someones being a jackass when you see it,” You replied, quickly. A slight tremor in your voice made your stomach curl. He couldn’t know you worked with magik, not after this experience he’s just had. “But anyone who says they’re not even a little interested in magik is a liar.”
“But you,” the Orc turned to look down at you. His figure loomed as he went on, “seem to know an awful lot about it.”
You swallowed, hard. “Um… well…” but as you stared up at the Orc, you realised it was no use. With a sigh, you stared at the ground. “I was at the Mages tower today. I needed some help with making a potion and they didn’t have what I needed. And then they kicked me out.”
You squeezed your eyes tightly closed, bracing yourself for a blow, an Orcs battle cry followed by some kind of physical torture that would be bound to last hours.
Instead, the Orc took a step back from you. He looked you over with scrutinising eyes. “But you’re,” he waved his hand. “Not a Mage?”
Here we go. You gritted your teeth. “No. I have little to no magikal abilities.” You scowled up at the Orc. “But I’m good at potion making.”
The Orc raised an eyebrow. “Are you now?” He asked. After a moment, he held his hand out and beckoned for you to give him the soap. You thrust it into his hand.
“How sure are you that those curses will kick in?” He asked. “And could a potion stop it?”
You stared at him, surprised that he’d read your mind. “If you’ve been struck with them, then there’s a 100% chance that they will… but it may only be after a few hours, how long ago were you hit? I can make a potion to counter act everything.”
“An hour or two ago.” The Orc said.
You started to answer that you could make a potion - it was easy, super easy for this kind of thing.
“I can do it,” you said, finally. “But I have one condition - I need some of your… um…” you watched as the Orcs face visibly tensed, clearly afraid of your payment demand. Your cheeks flared as you pushed through the embarrassment. “Spend.” Your eyes darted back down to between the Orcs legs.
Hi everyone!
So, in light of my recent polls, I wanted to let you all know that my Patreon price has gone down from £5 to £2!
Or, you can just buy this singular post for £3! (If doing this, please buy through website & not iOS store if using an Apple product.)
Weekly posts, varying week to week from EXCLUSIVE NSFW posts - both in 2nd person AND 3rd person POV!
Full access to my book catalogue - you'll gain access to all my work, including the spicy chapters. These stories are updated regularly unless stated otherwise.
A further and deeper look inside the Orc camps, where you can learn about Orcs lives, beliefs and social workings!
This link here will guide you to read the rest of this story!
poor puppy reader ft satoru gojo + suguru geto by @popcornpaws
making your life hell ft. ryomen sukuna by @yuri-min
honey pack ft. satoru gojo by @eraserbread
gordon ramsey ft. ryomen sukuna by @slntty
my boyfriend eating our boyfriend's ass ft. ryomen sukuna + toji fushiguro by @oksukuna
morning dew ft. toji fushiguro by @hangenism
opposites attract ft. ryomen sukuna by @dolcemisu
sukuna throwing out the pot we beat him with ft. ryomen sukuna by @yenayaps
crazy in love ft. ryomen sukuna by @sukunahs
written in the stars ft. ryomen sukuna by @starmapz
a wicked mind ft. ryomen sukuna by @liahcharms
the soulmate sprint ft. satoru gojo by @fukiouh
smaus
mr. no relationship satoru ft. satoru gojo by @sumuse
you hit different ft. ryomen sukuna by @sveraia
other fandoms
recovery time well spent ft. dick grayson by @honey-snail
i'm sorry ft. jason todd by @jtoddsbaby
art i loved
dragon sylus sleeping by @sunsetagain
math with toji by @itterhorns
sylus by @yeovv-r
nanami by @ariawins
valko by @serena-sketches
wolf gojo by @gaytoeyume
a/n: been a while since i've done any kind of recs, thought it'd be nice to do a short one! haven't had too much reading time the last few months tbh but always feel free to send what you're reading and enjoying my way (and if you wrote something i missed or you want me to read, tag me!!) <3 div is by @/mieluno
sometimes i remember how fucking perfect it would be to get full nelson-ed by true form sukuna. his upper arms hooking under your armpits as he clasps his hands behind your head, forcing your elbows up and chest forward. the stretch arching your back like a contortionist, tilting your pelvis at the perfect angle to receive his cock(s) which hit twice as deep. his lower left arm caressing your plump belly, drawing slow circles, while his lower right hand rubs against your folds ruthlessly. you’re just a ragdoll at this point, and escaping his death grip is literally impossible as he whispers nasty things in your ear.
anyway….yeah, um, i’m typing ts on the app as i fucking ovulate. do i write a longer version on this?
varka x f!reader. cw: alcohol mentioned. reader is a fashion designer.
“Do you need another drink?”
Kneeling before the Grandmaster himself, your voice while asking such a pointed question is as velvety as the ribbons that dangle from the displays affixed to the walls of your normally bustling atelier.
When he considers your voice, each lilting note wraps around the man as tightly as your measuring tape around his calf, his mind lost in the haze of this strange little…crush he has. While that particular term, crush, seems like such a juvenile word and feeling for a man of his age and stature, something better attributed to a newcomer to the Knights of Favonius, a blushing, mewling pup rather than the howling man that he is, it’s impossible to deny it’s the best one he can come up with.
You stir many complicated feelings in a man who has long deemed himself too busy for the frivolity of romance. Especially when you look up at him through your lashes with pearl topped pins sticking out from between your lips, ones you must have placed there with your opposite hand, the delicate fingers of your other still holding that measuring tape taut.
“Di’yo hear me?” you mumble, the obstruction in your mouth muffling your words.
The shop and streets outside it alike are quiet, Varka blessed to have been graciously gifted an after hours appointment, and therefore your full attention, while you work on repairing and altering the stack of trousers he placed down on your sewing table a few days prior. He stopped by The Cat’s Tail for two mugs of mead, purchased a bottle of wine from Angel’s Share to bring you as a show of his appreciation and sampled the entirety of another before leaving, and now he stands in your shop pleasantly buzzed and a victim to you whatever it is you’re doing down there.
Torturing him and enjoying it, it appears.
“Yes,” he responds finally, daring to look down at your position beneath him, face warming when he meets your eyes. “And you’re nice to ask but I had my fair share before I even stepped foot in here.”
You laugh though it catches in your throat and comes out as a strange choked sort of sound upon catching a better glimpse at him.
From below, you realize just how large he is in the small workshop at the back of the shop. Wearing nothing but a silk shirt adorned with flat, matte buttons (made by you, naturally) and this pair of unfortunate wool trousers he has insisted upon replicating because they’re his favorite (not made by you, obviously), he dwarfs everything in here. His arms are long, his muscles ripple and strain against the fabric of the shirt you lovingly made, his blonde hair flops over his eyes charmingly, boyishly almost, and you decide you need a distraction immediately.
Dropping the measuring tape, you reach for the pins in your mouth, holding one upward and silently instructing him to grab it from your fingers. He catches on quickly, thankfully, and pinches it. You continue the process until your mouth is empty, rising to stand like a woman caught in the act of something entirely impure and unforgivable.
You are a lady, your status in this city is everything to you and you will not be embarrassed by your own latent desires. Smoothing your skirts over your thighs and hips, you break eye contact with Varka and turn to fiddle with the bottle of wine he brought you.
“Are you certain you’ve had enough?"
Your question comes from over your shoulder and he shifts where he stands in response, his laugh an exhalation that makes you smile, grateful he cannot see it.
“Positive!”
You can tell he’s smiling in tandem which only makes you smile harder. In fact, you can feel it, the easy warmth he carries lights up a room, filling every corner of a room as small as this one.
“Why?” He finally prods in return, figuring two can play at this game. “Are you planning on sharing that fancy bottle I brought you?”
The unmistakable sound of a cork being pulled from the neck of a glass bottle answers his question in your place. Glasses clink, your body sways elegantly as you move and pour.
“You’ve done nothing but twitch and shift like a child since I began taking your measurements," you turn around, lifting a freshly poured glass of wine out to him. “So if it suits you, please sip until your nerves and muscles are settled.”
Accepting gratefully, he takes the small glass in his large hand, raising a brow.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
You giggle, holding the glass away from your mouth, stopping yourself just short of taking a sip.
“I’m trying to take your measurements to make the new trousers you requested, actually.”
While you tilt your glass toward your lips, he watches your every movement, his wits coming back to him just in time to prod a little further.
“Do you share a glass of wine with every person who buys pants from you?”
Finishing your sip, you look him up and down, making the split decision to be as unrepentant in your flirtation as he appears to be this evening. He’s commissioned you to look at him, after all. To touch and feel and create and drape and do whatever is necessary to clothe him in something besides his uniform and standard ware.
You’ve certainly had worse jobs in your life.
“Only the ones I like so consider yourself lucky,” you tease, humming in pleasure as the aftertaste of the finest wine in all of Mondstadt bursts across your tongue.
You’re a lady, that much is true, yet you’ve given Varka yet another little noise to think about after he’s departed.
You really are hellbent on torturing him, aren’t you?
thinking about cuddling with feofan and tracing his surgery scars....
you and me both anon 💔
Pantalone x reader | Scars
fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader
It starts innocently enough, your little idea. Curled against Feofan’s side, you run your fingers over his bare skin like you have all the time in the world to savor him. The room is warm, warm enough that he doesn’t mind your hands wandering under his clothes. His eyes are focused on some documents in his hands, documents you cannot be bothered to try to care about, no matter how impactful their contents might be for the people of Snezhnaya. But his eyes, oh, your lover’s eyes are so captivating.
Your hand lands on his cheek, a light, experimental contact. Feofan leans into the touch for a moment to acknowledge it, and allows you to proceed. So you do, slowly caressing his face. You wish the room was brighter, but it’s late, and the mood is much nicer like this even though you can’t appreciate the purples in his irises. Your thumb strokes the skin under his eyes. You wonder if this isn’t worse for his eyesight than a brighter light would be, and that thought is the first in the row of domino pieces that begin to fall.
He notices the split second of hesitation in your touch, again nudging his face into your touch to reassure you, to coax you to continue. You smooth your finger over the dark circles under his eyes. You wonder if the surgery somehow changed them, if at some point he was looking at the world with different eyes - the world saw him with different eyes. He never told you the details, not that you’ve asked.
You’ve never asked about any of them. It seems somewhat of a sore spot for Feofan. Of course, you could get all the information you want from an alternative source but it never felt right.
Still, your hand slips lower, towards his neck and the back of his head. He doesn’t seem to pay you much attention, but you know better than to assume that’s how it is just because that’s what it looks like. You push yourself closer to him and his hold on you also tightens. Maybe he thinks you’re just being clingier today, which you suppose you also are.
His hair runs between your fingers like silk. It’s a nice feeling, nicer than what you want to feel, what you search for. If it wasn’t for a particularly challenging exchange with the doctor, you might have never known to look for the scar on his skull where the doctor cut all the way to his brain. Though you abandon the plan before you find it. You wouldn’t be able to hide the tremor in your hands for too long.
Instead you rest them on his chest again, above his beating heart. He seems to approve, pulling you close enough to kiss the top of your head. The scars here you’re the most familiar with. The lung transplant that he couldn’t hide. Various other procedures, big and small, over the years. You can understand why he doesn’t want to remember them - remember the weakness of his failing body, the vulnerability that comes after, having to rely on others even if it’s just you and Dottore. For some inexplicable reason, however, you’re drawn to the scars on his body tonight.
His breath hitches when your fingers trace the remains of the incision on purpose. A long stroke across the mark.
“Careful,” he warns, but he doesn’t stop you or make any move to displace you from his side.
Knowing well it’s not what he meant, you run your fingers over the scar slower, your touch featherlight. He only sighs. You follow the scarred line across his torso, following the curve of his ribcage and sternum. You feel his skin turn into gooseflesh the longer you run your fingers over this line, rubbing small circles against it, fascinated by how it blends into his healthy skin.
And somehow, your hand finds his arm. You try to be cautious, really you do. But the moment your palm strokes across his forearm, the documents get dropped with a loud rustle and your wrist is held firmly in his hand.
“Careful,” he repeats. There’s a tinge of impatience in his voice.
“I will be,” you promise, tipping your head back to press a soothing kiss to his jaw, “I promise.”
“Of course, my love,” he hums, laying your hand back on his chest. You take the hint without protest.
But even as your hand slips under his robe to trace the smaller scar from a surgery he didn’t disclose to you, your eyes stray to his arm. They scars are faint, maybe you wouldn’t even guess what they are if you didn’t know. Yet that patch of skin that didn’t used to be there remains more sensitive than the rest of his arm.
His body is like a canvas, a masterpiece that’s been torn into pieces and meticulously stitched back together. You’d trace the scare with your lips too, but clearly he’s not in the mood today. Maybe you should just slowly introduce it some other time. You look at the faint marks on his forearm again. It’s tempting to give it the same love you give to the rest.
Even so, his comfort stands above all. He’s already being very benevolent by letting you map all the other scars. Though you feel that he’s enjoying himself too, a little.
Pantalone and reader who is Dottore's younger sibling. But the twist is that they're just a segment/organic replica of his sibling because they died hundreds of years ago, a result of the small part of Zandik who longs for kinship from those who he thinks loved him dearly. So basically!! They're immortal in a way!! Before Feofan becomes what he is today, when he first brought to the lab as he sat down the examination bed, waiting for the doctor until he felt eyes linger on him. In the dark of the lab, he saw a sharp glint of crimson directed towards him out of curiosity before turning away replaced with Zandik himself to tend to him.
Ooh!! Zandik’s sibling is an interesting idea!
Pantalone would think befriending 8 and 18, who up until now only new rejection and betrayal was difficult, but those faceless crimson eyes he sees only in the briefest flashes from the corner of his eye prove him wrong.
Zandiks never explain, pointedly refuse to elaborate when he asks whether the shadow sneaking around is yet another one of them. Nothing he does seem to help coercing the stalker out of their hiding, either. Yet the more he presses - as nonchalantly as he can, of course - the more aggravated the man and the segments grow. Truly a mystery.
But Feofan is a greedy, greedy man. And Zandiks' secrecy just makes him all the more curious. He won't give up that easily.
(I think Zandik would be so protective of them ever since childhood. If they’re to have any sort of relationship, they had to be chased from the village together, after all. And all the way since then he'd want to protect them - he's the heretic, he's the one the world takes issue with, and so he embraces the villanous role from the very start. He'd hide his sibling from the world - they’d get hurt simply due to the association. It's better if they stay hidden. And so by the time Pantalone comes along, they're only just learning to form social bonds and interact with anyone besides their brother, whom they've seen being mistreated their entire lives.)
Dottore x angel!reader | Equality
fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader
A/N: rq by @y4ss1e more men will come but for now at least dottore 🤍
What a torture. As quiet as you try to be so as to not distract the scholar from his research, you can’t stop the pained groan before it falls from your lips. Your lower back is stiff, sore, aching with the smallest movement. You just want to find a position that will feel comfortable.
His hand stops fidgeting with the buttons on his microscope as he extends his arm and rubs soothing circles over the area that brings you so much agony. He offered more painkillers, but experience taught you any more would make you loopy, and that’s not always a safe state to be in around him. Especially if he makes a breakthrough, or gets close to it, with the sample he just took.
You’re already exhausted as is. A familiar, although distant, feeling of floating envelops you. Still, you rest easy - he seems content like this.
“Haven’t you seen enough samples?” you ask in a whisper. Non-committal, expecting nothing of it.
“Not enough,” he responds regardless. Dottore leans back in his chair, the bright light of the lab catching on his mask. You’ve always wondered what he’s hiding underneath, what happened between his twenty-fifth and thirty-fifth year.
It’s not difficult to tell when he’s looking at you, maybe it’s your sixth sense, or maybe he makes it easy. You’ve observed that most people he comes to contact with get unsettled. You can understand that.
His hand lingers on the small of your back, not warm enough to provide relief, but a nice gesture nonetheless. Have you seen him gentle? You don’t think so. Then again, he seems awfully lonely. Who would he extend kindness to? Who, if he cannot even treat himself kindly?
“Is that why you decided to keep me?” you ask next. The world spins lazily, time swirls slowly, as slowly as the morning fog. Whether it’s the pain or the fading anesthesia making you hazy barely matters. You only hope you can remember this conversation tomorrow - given that he entertains you at all.
“Why would you stay?” he hums instead, delaying for some reason, “I’d hope an angel can easily break free from a mortal’s capture.”
You smile, shifting under the weight of his hand slightly, face twisting in pain. It’s worth it. You reach your hand toward him too, fingers stroking his cheek.
“Not all of us are powerful, and so very little remain,” you remind him, “Who else would attempt to guide you but us?”
He scoffs, something bitter flickers across his face. Yet his touch remains careful and he doesn’t move away from yours, nor does he slap your hand away.
“You’ve never once tried to guide me,” he points out. A challenge? He should already know you have no interest in antagonizing him.
“And you’ve kept me by your side,” you chuckle, “Opening your heart to the presence of another is a progress, too.”
He rolls his eyes, you’re sure of it. His body remains taut with tension but your answer seems to have calmed him down somewhat.
“Isn’t that a dangerous territory for you? From my understanding, angels are not safe from getting attached. The threat of it and the stakes are much higher for your kind, are they not?” he states, watching you with that curious look as he often does.
You nod, a fleeting smile on your lips. He’s learned a lot, long before you met it seems. You wonder how, why. It’s of little importance, however.
“Attachment isn’t wrong,” you murmur, “As long as I fulfill my duty.”
He seems to think about that.
“Duty, hm?” he considers, “I wonder what duty allows you to be a subject in my experiment.”
There shouldn’t be any harm in sharing, but with a man like Dottore it seems better to keep even mundane information to yourself for future use as a bargaining chip, no matter how weak.
“I sure hope, for the safety of my subject, that you’re not giving me a special treatment.”
Oh?
You tilt your head, now your turn to observe him. His face, what you can see of it, betrays nothing but a smirk. What emotions it’s supposed to convey, or hide, is an enigma like the man himself.
“That’s what binds you,” he says, lowly, lacking confidence, though you’d guess not because he’s unsure about the factuality of the statement - no, precisely because he knows what he’s saying is the truth, “Equality of feeling.”
It comes as a surprise that this is the point he makes. Your eyes narrow in suspicion. It doesn’t sound like he’s accusing you. But if that’s not the case, what is it?
“If that’s what you are worried about,” you lick your lips, “You don’t have to be.”
Dottore doesn’t seem offended as you feared he might be. Instead, he seems amused.
“I wonder,” he continues, “How do we fit into the grand plan of Heavens. The lot of us.”
“Oh,” you can’t hide your surprise - or intrigue - “Hmm… I suppose, well, it’s the soul that counts.”
“So we do not,” now the twist of his lips is unmistakably bitter.
“You matter to me,” you argue back, “Every one of you.”
“I suppose we have to,” he sighs, turning back towards the microscope. His face slips away from your touch, yet his hand remains on your back. “If you can’t pour your affection into a single person, you cannot detest a single person either.”
You pause. Carefully schooling your expression, you notice he himself pointedly turns his attention to whatever he sees through the device. His hand is warmer after soaking in your own body heat.
He’ll always give you answers to your questions in the end. What a lonely existence he leads, you think and smile, albeit sadly, that he’d conjure up that hypothesis.
Dottore x angel!reader | Equality
fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader
A/N: rq by @y4ss1e more men will come but for now at least dottore 🤍
What a torture. As quiet as you try to be so as to not distract the scholar from his research, you can’t stop the pained groan before it falls from your lips. Your lower back is stiff, sore, aching with the smallest movement. You just want to find a position that will feel comfortable.
His hand stops fidgeting with the buttons on his microscope as he extends his arm and rubs soothing circles over the area that brings you so much agony. He offered more painkillers, but experience taught you any more would make you loopy, and that’s not always a safe state to be in around him. Especially if he makes a breakthrough, or gets close to it, with the sample he just took.
You’re already exhausted as is. A familiar, although distant, feeling of floating envelops you. Still, you rest easy - he seems content like this.
“Haven’t you seen enough samples?” you ask in a whisper. Non-committal, expecting nothing of it.
“Not enough,” he responds regardless. Dottore leans back in his chair, the bright light of the lab catching on his mask. You’ve always wondered what he’s hiding underneath, what happened between his twenty-fifth and thirty-fifth year.
It’s not difficult to tell when he’s looking at you, maybe it’s your sixth sense, or maybe he makes it easy. You’ve observed that most people he comes to contact with get unsettled. You can understand that.
His hand lingers on the small of your back, not warm enough to provide relief, but a nice gesture nonetheless. Have you seen him gentle? You don’t think so. Then again, he seems awfully lonely. Who would he extend kindness to? Who, if he cannot even treat himself kindly?
“Is that why you decided to keep me?” you ask next. The world spins lazily, time swirls slowly, as slowly as the morning fog. Whether it’s the pain or the fading anesthesia making you hazy barely matters. You only hope you can remember this conversation tomorrow - given that he entertains you at all.
“Why would you stay?” he hums instead, delaying for some reason, “I’d hope an angel can easily break free from a mortal’s capture.”
You smile, shifting under the weight of his hand slightly, face twisting in pain. It’s worth it. You reach your hand toward him too, fingers stroking his cheek.
“Not all of us are powerful, and so very little remain,” you remind him, “Who else would attempt to guide you but us?”
He scoffs, something bitter flickers across his face. Yet his touch remains careful and he doesn’t move away from yours, nor does he slap your hand away.
“You’ve never once tried to guide me,” he points out. A challenge? He should already know you have no interest in antagonizing him.
“And you’ve kept me by your side,” you chuckle, “Opening your heart to the presence of another is a progress, too.”
He rolls his eyes, you’re sure of it. His body remains taut with tension but your answer seems to have calmed him down somewhat.
“Isn’t that a dangerous territory for you? From my understanding, angels are not safe from getting attached. The threat of it and the stakes are much higher for your kind, are they not?” he states, watching you with that curious look as he often does.
You nod, a fleeting smile on your lips. He’s learned a lot, long before you met it seems. You wonder how, why. It’s of little importance, however.
“Attachment isn’t wrong,” you murmur, “As long as I fulfill my duty.”
He seems to think about that.
“Duty, hm?” he considers, “I wonder what duty allows you to be a subject in my experiment.”
There shouldn’t be any harm in sharing, but with a man like Dottore it seems better to keep even mundane information to yourself for future use as a bargaining chip, no matter how weak.
“I sure hope, for the safety of my subject, that you’re not giving me a special treatment.”
Oh?
You tilt your head, now your turn to observe him. His face, what you can see of it, betrays nothing but a smirk. What emotions it’s supposed to convey, or hide, is an enigma like the man himself.
“That’s what binds you,” he says, lowly, lacking confidence, though you’d guess not because he’s unsure about the factuality of the statement - no, precisely because he knows what he’s saying is the truth, “Equality of feeling.”
It comes as a surprise that this is the point he makes. Your eyes narrow in suspicion. It doesn’t sound like he’s accusing you. But if that’s not the case, what is it?
“If that’s what you are worried about,” you lick your lips, “You don’t have to be.”
Dottore doesn’t seem offended as you feared he might be. Instead, he seems amused.
“I wonder,” he continues, “How do we fit into the grand plan of Heavens. The lot of us.”
“Oh,” you can’t hide your surprise - or intrigue - “Hmm… I suppose, well, it’s the soul that counts.”
“So we do not,” now the twist of his lips is unmistakably bitter.
“You matter to me,” you argue back, “Every one of you.”
“I suppose we have to,” he sighs, turning back towards the microscope. His face slips away from your touch, yet his hand remains on your back. “If you can’t pour your affection into a single person, you cannot detest a single person either.”
You pause. Carefully schooling your expression, you notice he himself pointedly turns his attention to whatever he sees through the device. His hand is warmer after soaking in your own body heat.
He’ll always give you answers to your questions in the end. What a lonely existence he leads, you think and smile, albeit sadly, that he’d conjure up that hypothesis.
Pairing: Victor Gideon x afab reader (third-person narration)
Summary: Gideon arranges a meeting with Connections accountant —general after failing to convince Zeno of approving his funding plan — heavy rain — accountant is not happy with the meeting — dinner ends abruptly — accountant has got a cold presumably — forced to spend the night in the Care Center — Victors late night visit — tension — "show me" — "I can show more"
TW: Swearing, reader does not express enthusiastic consent (dubcon)
"I thought the head finance department was off our backs until July." Bennet frowned reading the end of their weekly plan.
"Leave them to me," Gideon stretched his lips in an uncanny half-smile, which his colleague chose to ignore.
After all, who needed the details, if the doctor himself promised to take care of the annoying bastards. He could eat them alive for all Bennet cared; they’ve already costed him too many sleepless nights over endless reports.
“In that case, I’ll need their names to issue access passes,” he said, rising from his chair.
“There will be just one name,” Victors answer came out in an unsettlingly soft manner.
***
“Seventy-four, seventy-three,” she counted down from a hundred for the second time, clinging to the numbers to keep herself still. They were stuck before the locked gates of the Care Center. Her driver had no pass for some reason. She sat, gritting her teeth, watching the minutes vanish. The reports were waiting. Her temper was already slipping.
Heavy rain had started not long ago, it was one of the first vigorous spring showers, as if determined to soak the earth for the whole season ahead. She couldn’t see further than a few meters, and only distant lights, blurred by countless raindrops, allowed her to make out the outline of the Care Center.
The guard approached the car, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he called over the downpour. “Your driver’s pass… it still hasn’t come through.”
Her jaw tightened.
“If I'm not back in fifteen minutes — call the Coordinator,” she grunted to the driver, and swung the door open, letting the storm slam against her. Water soaked her hair and ran down her coat, but she didn’t care. She stepped out, shoes splashing in puddles, and strode toward the Care Center alone, each step fueled by burning irritation.
“Welcome, miss—”
“Where is dr. Gideon?” she cut the head nurse off with a sharp voice.
A soft melody drifted through the music room uninterrupted, though a few patients turned their heads toward the entrance as she stepped inside. Warm light pooled across the polished parquet. The refined stage of Rhodes Hills as always was filled with an indulgent calm that clashed with the rain she carried in with her.
Water slipped from her coat and shoes, gathering at her feet in small, dark pools that marred the perfect floor.
“Doctor awaits you in his office, just continue down that corridor—”
She didn’t need to hear the instructions again — she already knew the way to the Gideons office by heart. She grabbed the electronic access card that had been prepared for her and stormed down the first-floor hallway. The heavy rain outside had plastered her clothes to her body.
She realized, how cold she was, only after she finally closed the door behind her in Victors office. Bloody reptile. He sat near a tall oil-filled radiator, its cast-iron body worked with intricate patterns, more like a piece of antique decor than something meant to heat a room. The warmth gathered there, clinging to him, while the rest of the space remained stubbornly cold.
Her irritation prickled at the edges of her thoughts, but beneath it, a low, inescapable weight coiled in her chest, reminding her how far Victor Gideon had drifted from anything human.
“Gideon, I need a pass for my driver,” she forced the words out, holding back a sudden cough.
“Do you now?” His tinted glasses caught the reflection of a reading light as Victor turned his head toward her.
“You’re soaked, poor thing,” he said evenly, without haste. Victor held out a hand toward her, as if assessing whether she would take it. Yet there was something in the way he moved that made the gesture feel both inviting and slightly commanding.
“Looks like a towel would do you more good than a pass right now,” he added, the words smooth, almost casual, but carrying a quiet weight that made her pause.
Breathe. Don't let him take the lead.
“Gideon, one task at a time: the pass. Now.”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, but she felt them on her, unyielding, scanning every inch of her as if measuring her very presence. A single drop of rain slid down the back of her neck, a trifle in anyone else’s eyes, but not his. He noticed. The silence in the office stretched, heavy and tense, until it was broken by a sudden, wide smile that flickered across his face.
Victor lifted the intercom handset with a casual grace, as though the motion alone carried authority.
“Issue a pass for our guest’s driver immediately,” he said, his gaze lifting to meet hers. “And bring a towel.”
***
This was becoming ridiculous: Victor had outdone himself in his usual habit of ignoring her requests. She mentioned they didn’t have time for grand demonstrations, and the doctor immediately led her and her guard to the lab to show them “this promising new patient.” She asked for revised financial plans and got a pile of irrelevant paperwork detailing every last lightbulb in the Center. Finally, she tried to say goodbye, but Victor responded with an immediate invitation to dinner.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a proper meal than some gas station garbage?” he said, leading her down the corridor, his hand resting on her elbow in a grip that wasn’t forceful, yet carried enough strength to make escape unthinkable.
“A proper meal on our dime,” the guard muttered behind them.
“I don’t take that money out of your pocket personally,” Victor said, as if addressing the man behind him, yet he leaned so close to her ear that she couldn’t be sure who the words were meant for.
***
She couldn’t bring herself to eat properly. Not that she was afraid Victor would poison them: after all, it was in his best interest to stay in the Connections’ good graces.
Every visit to his center was overwhelming. A grotesque labyrinth of halls beneath the main levels of the Center made it all too easy to get lost. Victor’s sporadic presentations, pausing and picking up at random points, were too inconsistent to follow.
And now it was a mountain of different reports resting next to her plate, that was making it impossible to relax.
Her gaze drifted between her plate and the stack of documents, as if she could force herself to focus on either, but it kept straying back to him. She didn’t mean to look, each time it felt involuntary. And each time, he caught it.
The lenses of his glasses glinted faintly as he turned toward her, the chandelier light catching on them at just the right angle. Not once did he miss her glance.
It happened again, and then again — until the repetition itself began to weigh on her, a quiet, inescapable pattern that left her increasingly uneasy, as though every glance only drew his attention tighter around her.
She set her fork down at last.
“We should be going,” she said, fighting new wave of cough growing tight around her throat. “I’ll take your reports with me to the head office.”
Victor stilled.
It lasted no more than a second, but it was enough — the ease slipping, something sharper settling back into place beneath it. When he smiled, it was gentle, almost apologetic, and all the more unsettling for it.
“I’m afraid some of these papers cannot leave my Center.”
Gideon’s words struck her low and sudden, like a blow that left her breathless.
“What do you think we are getting paid for, Gideon?” the guard intervened.
“I am paid to bring humanity to the new brink of evolution,” Victor blotted his lips with a napkin and turned to look at the man, “You two? To make my wildest fantasies come true.”
The guard was about to object, but she touched his shoulder taking over the initiative despite the pain coiling somewhere beneath her throat and her lungs.
“Victor, we are hired professionals, just as you are. We are getting paid to make sure, the Connections invest exclusively into the most promising projects. In your particular case, doctor, this means, we review your reports and decide, if we can help after you failed to impress Zeno with your upcoming funding requests—”
Her speech was cut short with a loud cough, echoing in every corner of the room. It tore out of her, sudden and deep, dragging something raw up from her lungs. The second spasm followed before she could catch her breath, each cough sharper and heavier, rattling through her ribs. Pain flared across her chest, spreading with every convulsion, as if the cough itself were breaking something loose inside her.
What followed was a silence so complete it seemed to ring in her ears. When she looked up, both her guard and Victor were watching her, concern written clearly across their faces, as if the moment had stripped something away from her.
“...Neither the papers nor you are leaving my clinic tonight,” the doctor concluded, not tearing his eyes from her.
***
They stopped outside her door. The corridor here was quieter than the rest of the facility: it was carpeted, dimly lit, insulated from the distant sounds of the main halls. It felt wrong in a different way than the rest of the Center: not clinical or public. Claimed by someone you should not trust.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, still embarrassed by the way the dinner ended.
“Don’t be,” the guards hand briefly settled on her shoulder. “I didn’t realize you were coming down with something.”
“It’s nothing serious,” she replied, a little too quickly. “Just a cold. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
He didn’t argue, but she could see it in his expression: he didn’t believe her. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Although they weren't his employees, Gideons` word was non-negotiable in these walls even for them.
“Still,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “we’ll stay the night. Doctor’s orders.”
A pause.
“Call me if you need anything.”
She nodded.
He gave her shoulder a light squeeze and stepped back, already turning toward his own door down the hall.
She watched him go, then slipped into her room.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
The room was spacious, carefully arranged, too refined for something meant to be temporary.
She stood there for a moment, not moving, the chill clinging stubbornly beneath her clothes.
A knock broke the stillness.
She turned, tension flickering back through her body before she could stop it.
When she opened the door and met a soft gaze of a nurse in the corridor. Without a word, she stepped inside, carrying a shallow basin filled with steaming water. A faint scent of oils, something herbal with a sharp medical undertone, spread through the room as she set it down.
“For you,” the nurse said. “Doctor Gideon’s instructions.”
Of course, he had arranged this little gesture of care. Of course, he had decided without asking what she needed, how she would spend the next hour, this night. It grated against her, that quiet, effortless authority, as if her time was simply another thing to be managed, allocated and absorbed into his design.
The nurse gave a small, polite nod and left as quietly as she had come.
She lingered by the door for a moment after the nurse left, listening to the silence settle back into place. Then, slowly, as if the effort of holding herself upright had finally become too much, she crossed the room and sank onto the sofa in front of the basin.
Her fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the cushion.
She should question this all. Pick it apart. Look for the angle, the reason, the purpose behind it. Because with him, there was always one. There had to be.
But the thought slipped, dulled at the edges before it could take shape.
She was too tired.
“Damn you,” she groaned, slowly taking off her shoes and rolling up the dress pants.
As much as it felt wrong to follow Victors orders, she couldn't deny a chance to finally properly warm up and relax.
She leaned back at last, letting her head fall against the back of the sofa. For a moment, she did nothing, just sat there, eyes half-closed.
The warmth of the water seeped slowly into her feet. It spread upward, softening the tension coiled in her body.
She let out a quiet breath and sank a little deeper into the cushions.
She awaited, that the clinic would never be quiet, but it seemed like Victors private wing was far enough from patients rooms. It felt like a small weakness, but she couldn’t help taking comfort in how calm it was here.
The silence in the room had settled so completely that the soft click of the door sounded unnaturally loud.
It opened.
There was only one person who could move like that: quiet enough to make his size feel wrong and unfitting.
Her back remained turned to the door, the sofa facing the opposite wall. For a moment, she thought she should turn, that she needed to see, but the impulse never made it into motion.
“Wanted to check on you,” Victors voice was all warm and friendly, as if she was a well-paying patient.
He froze over her, waiting for her to look up, but she didn't. The silence stretched and she was sitting completely still.
Then, without a word, Victor shifted. The faintest whisper of fabric and leather, and suddenly he was there, in front of her.
He had lowered himself on his knees. Now there was no avoiding his eyes, even though they were barely visible behind the glasses.
His hand slipped into the basin, the water breaking around his fingers, warmth shivering at the surface. Slowly, his grip closed around her ankle.
“So gentle,” Victor murmured, cradling her bare foot and carefully guiding it up from the basin, “So delicate.”
As the water drops ran down her warmed skin, all she could think about was the contrast: the warmth slipping away, replaced by the inhumanly cold, unyielding presence of his hands.
They were large. Larger than they had any right to be. She could feel the breadth of his palm even through the light pressure, the controlled strength in the way his fingers closed around her ankle, steadying her movements.
He was being gentle. That was the unsettling part.
Because it would take so little. A shift of pressure, a tightening of his grip and her bones would give way without resistance. The thought came uninvited, sharp and immediate, settling somewhere deep in her stomach.
“So—”, Victor started musing the next part.
“So easy to break?”
His head snapped up.
He looked straight at her, his long, searching, unblinking gaze was apparent even through his glasses. The air seemed to tighten between them, and she forgot how to breathe, her chest held still by something she couldn’t name.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he lifted her leg higher and rested it over his shoulder. The shift forced her forward, the angle awkward, almost painful, but she didn’t move — couldn’t. He leaned in, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between them.
“Break?” he murmured, so close she could feel the word against her skin. “Never.”
The last word lingered, stretched just enough to make it feel serpentary, just forced to sound like a human tongue.
She rarely got disgusted by herself, that was one of many skills, the Connections taught her: to close her eyes at all the disgusting things she enabled by approving their funding. She could run on for a long time, tinkering lies, playing with a smoke and mirrors in order to lull her own conscience to sleep.
Still not a single trick could help her at that moment: it was sickly disgusting, how desperately she needed this abomination of man to stay just where he was. He softly drifted away from her, even guiding her leg down from his shoulder and all she could think of was a desperate plea “please stay still, don't move away, just stay where you are”.
She sought his proximity, needed to see every tiniest detail of his grayish skin turning into monstrous scales through ever deepening wrinkles, craved his fingers staying locked around her ankle. As much as his nature pushed her away, something in this man drew her interest every time their paths crossed. On the outside she turned into a cold statue, but on the inside she fought every instinct of her body begging to reach back to him.
Too consumed by her own thoughts, she barely noticed him drying her feet with the towel he had brought, or the quiet scrape of the basin as he pushed it aside.
It was only when Victor produced a stethoscope and hooked his fingers beneath the hem of her blouse that she snapped back to herself, recoiling at once.
“I need to listen to your lungs,” Victor said, with a concerned expression. “That cough—”
“That cough is just a cold. I caught it a some time ago.” She cut him off, sharper than she had intended.
Victor paid it no mind.
“Let the doctor be the judge of that.”
She caught his wrist, her grip was not more than a silent plea. She could maintain the façade of a calm, competent professional only for so long. Now the strain was catching up with her, wearing her down, leaving her with neither the strength nor the clarity to face whatever he might uncover.
And despite the ease with which he could have brushed her aside, Victor paused.
“Fine,” he said after a moment. “How about a deal?”
He set the stethoscope down on the sofa and rested his hands lightly on her knees.
“I tell you anything you want. Anything that might make your work here easier. No deflections, no irrelevant paperwork.” A faint pause. “And afterward, you let me examine you.”
He waited, giving her time to consider. Whether he understood her reasoning or not, there was something in the way he watched her that suggested he could sense the hesitation taking hold.
“Alright,” she exhaled. “But no cheating.”
Her voice steadied.
“Will I find any new reports on the Elpis project in that pile?”
Victor shook his head slowly.
Her shoulders sank.
So he had failed with Zeno, reached a dead end — and now he was trying his luck with her. As if she could open a door Zeno had already refused to touch. But maybe?
Just maybe…
She could carve out another passage for Gideon.
“How's the parasite doing? You two get along?”
Victor reacted at the question with a surprising enthusiasm. Eagerly nodding, he let out a wide smile, lips barely covering a dark hole filled with little predatory glints of gold.
“Want to see, how well we get along?” the proximity between them turned electric, as he gently ascended over her.
Usually his skin was unnaturally cold. But not now, when her fingers brushed against his face, reaching for his glasses. Victors face seemed warm under her touch, his unblinking stare, finally not covered by a tint of glass seemed to grow brighter in comparison to when she saw his eyes on her previous visit.
Cradling his face, she turned him toward the light to study him, and he let her, yielding completely, as though something in him had given way to a reckless desperation.
Anything for a touch. For an approval. For a worship. This creature crawled so far from human, and still had some humane cravings?
His excitement grew to the point, when it became apparent: his hands softly snake up her thighs, his disfigured tongue showed between smiling lips briefly, taking more of her scents in. Her studying fingers slipped down his cheek, traced the outline of the lower lip and flowed down the hollow of the scar stretching behind the vest.
Victors exhale was loud and drawn out, masking a hungry groan, that she awoke, pausing over his vest. The space between them almost folded together.
Almost.
Because she stopped him. With her knee against his crotch.
“Shhh, sh-sh, I'll need to see more. If I am to convince them to give you more money, I need to at least report on your progress with the “Nemesis—y”. So either you show me something more than Zeno could read judging by the looks of your face, or…”
Victor froze, hovering over her, breathing deeply. But the gleam of gold in his eyes never went out, not even when he tried to hold back.
Ignoring her face running hot, she watched him undoing one clasp after another revealing his torso.
A scar ran from his throat downward, a rough line that bisected him with unsettling precision. It caught the light in a dull, uneven way, as though the skin there remembered something it was never meant to survive.
Her chest tightened.
She should have looked away.
Instead, her eyes lingered.
The skin around it only made it worse. It had a dull, ashen cast, stretched thin in places and uneven in others. Finer marks crossed it in erratic patterns: smaller scars, shallow ridges, faint lines that didn’t quite belong to age or injury alone. They broke the surface into irregular segments, subtle but unmistakable, catching the light in a way that felt wrong, almost scaled.
She could have stared for a longer time, but Victors another motion dragged her back to her senses.
Thick swallow and the faintest shift in his pose. As if he got tired standing on his knees. Fabric meeting leather meeting, brushing against each other in a light, yet consistent plea.
“Beautiful,” she said, her voice coming out muffled by all the tension in her body, “I mean, it heals well.”
Her fingers twitched with the impulse before she could stop them. She ran her fingers hesitantly over the skin of his collarbone, pushing aside the edge of his vest.
Another shift in his pose: this one more apparent. She thought, she felt something with her knees, but couldn't concentrate on the sensation, because Victor dipped his head closer to her. Licked his lips.
“I can show much more,” his pupils were blown wide, “so much more…”
She slowly shook her head, not breaking their eye contact.
“No need. This is… I can work with this.”
Victor chuckled. The voice shuddered through her body. Somehow her own attempt to finish whatever was happening saddened her in the first place. Yet another light friction between his hips and her knees felt like the last drop.
She didn't have any right or freedom to give in. Not to this creature, erasing the border between human and something so much worse. Not to this man, drawing her closer with the most subtle gestures.
Yet she turned her face into his neck. There were no kisses exchanged as he kept mowing in soft, but overwhelming waves. No words spilled each other besides her “beautiful” repeated in Victors ear, as his desperation and hunger grew.
He didn't pick up the pace much: unlike others, growing more hectic reaching their finish, he just let his body tense and coil around her. With a guttural, but somehow — soft growl, he fell apart before her. Waves of pleasure almost visible as they run up his body.
She tried to not concentrate too much on how his body felt on hers, so that there would be nothing to remember later. But she couldn't ignore, how inhumanly soft his cheek felt against hers. So when he tried to pull away, her hand darted to the back of his neck, fingers clasped around in a desperate attempt to keep him in place.
Maybe, he didn't interpret her intentions right, maybe — unlike her, he did read into her desires. Either way she felt his lips leaving a long kiss on her neck. Hot breath still lingered on her neck as he descended lower. Another silent caress. An unspoken “thank you”. And another one.
Until he rested his head on her chest. Minutes passed in the silent proximity that felt treacherously good. She relaxed. She couldn't find a reason behind his touch getting so comforting.
“Your lungs shouldn’t sound like that,” murmured Victor, but she already drifted to sleep.
A thousand little lies — just enough to lull her into something like sleep. Smoke and mirrors, carefully arranged to keep her attention fixed elsewhere, away from the one thing she had no intention of examining too closely.
She had told herself it was him.
That whatever was wrong with this place, whatever felt off, distorted, inhuman — it all began and ended with Victor. That he was the exception. The aberration. The thing that had gone too far.
It was easier that way.
All it had given her, in the end, was a tangle of conflicting feelings — revulsion that refused to settle, curiosity that refused to fade, something else she didn’t dare name.
Her thoughts drifted, growing slower.
It wasn’t his fault.
The realization came quietly, almost gently, and that made it worse.
No one in Connections stayed untouched. Not for long. Piece by piece, compromise by compromise, they all edged toward the same place: toward something colder, something less… human.
She had just been careful not to look at herself for too long.
Sleep took her before she could follow that thought any further.
notes. angst if you squint?? generally the genshin men being shitty.
word count. 1.8k
kamisato ayato
He cares about the pristinity of your relationship far too much. How the two of you look, what you wear, how you appear in public, the pet names he calls you, what you say to him, all that jazz. He has a reputation to uphold—a firm one—and he will not let you be the crack in that image.
In private, he's as sweet as honey. You get to see the other side of him. The softer, less cunning one—the one that teases you gently, pulls you by the waist, looks at you, really looks at you. That version of him feels like a reward almost. As though you've earned something other people haven't.
It’s kind of like a trap.
Because in public, he has you at a distance. Your relationship is controlled, measured down to the last detail before it's ever shown to the world. His gaze rarely wanders to you unless it's for a performance he's rehearsed far too many times in his head. That flower he twirls between his fingers, that slow smile before he hands it to you—you think it's romantic. But, in actuality, his political opponents are standing to the side, and he knows exactly where they are. And more importantly, what to do to keep up the image everyone has of him.
After a while, the line between private and public stops existing. You can't tell anymore. Were those words for you, or for a chorus of blurred faces that you can’t be bothered to memorise? Was that touch yours, or staged?
It's hard enough to be part of the Kamisato clan. Harder still when you can't tell if your husband loves you, or if he's simply very, very good at making you believe he does.
He probably does love you, for what it's worth.
kaeya alberich
Kaeya thinks you're a good fuck. But that seems to be all he thinks of you.
He's an attentive guy, don’t get me wrong. You know he listens to you. Knows exactly what you like, exactly when to pull back and when to push, exactly how to make you feel like the only person in the room. His fingers trace over your body, your jaw, tips your chin up to face him. He kisses you, soft and languid, breath heating over you.
The conversations are good too, when you have them. He’s charming and quick and interested in the things you say. He makes you blush, makes you trip over your words on purpose. You can tell he loves it, the way his eye lingers just a half second too long on the colour climbing up your cheeks.
He files away the little things you tell him and brings them back up later at the exact moment you'd least expect, some offhand thing you said three weeks ago dropped so casually into conversation that it almost doesn't register. Almost. You feel known when he does that, warm in a way that makes you stop questioning what, exactly, he sees when he looks at you.
The thing is, Kaeya moves through his life like it's a solo endeavour with a rotating company, and you are the company. A welcome one, clearly—he wouldn't keep coming back if you weren't—but company nonetheless. There's no real sense that he factors you into anything, no weight of another person present in the way he makes decisions or fills his days. You don't come up with his plans because you're not really part of them. You exist in the spaces he allows, the ones he opens up just enough to let you feel like you belong there, and then closes again without ceremony when he's done.
And another annoying thing is that he doesn’t seem to care when other guys flirt with you. At Angel’s Share, when men talk you up, you know that Kaeya sees them. But it’s always just a flicker of his eyes and he’s back to laughing along with someone else. Like the moment wasn't worth the energy it would've taken to hold onto.
He only ever reaches for you in the dark, fingertips at the small of your back, his voice dropped low enough that it feels like it only belongs to the two of you—and in those moments you think, you really think, that this means something to him. That you mean something to him.
But the mornings roll around all too casually. Either you’re greeted with a dip in the bed, or an eager-to-leave Kaeya pulling up his pants. “I’ll see you around,” He says with a small smirk, and he kisses you. But it’s firm and empty, like plastic pressing against your skin. And then he’s gone.
He has this talent for making you feel wanted without ever once making you feel chosen.
alhaitham
The problem with Al-Haitham is that he's usually right, and he knows it, and those two things combined make him genuinely insufferable to have a relationship with.
He's not unkind about it. That's what you'd tell someone if they asked, that's the first thing you'd reach for— he's not unkind—because he isn't, and it feels important to say that before anything else, like you owe him the caveat. He doesn't talk over you or wave you off. He lets you speak.
He just also happens to have already formed his conclusion by the time you're halfway through your second sentence, and everything after that is him being polite enough to let you finish.
He is, unfortunately, not listening to understand you, but to solve you. And god does it get annoying when you have to listen to him rattle off like this is a debate he ought to win. You bring him something that's been sitting with you and he takes it apart with the kind of efficiency that would be impressive if it didn't make you want to scream. Offer you the solution before you've even asked for one. Clean, logical, correct, and completely beside the point.
You look at him and you think, that's not what I meant, and when you try to explain what you did mean he listens again, with that same careful attention, and then explains, dryly, why his interpretation is the more reasonable one.
And the worst part is you can't even argue with his reasoning. You just know, somewhere he doesn't have access to, that he's wrong anyway.
It gets exhausting. You're not talking to him anymore so much as presenting a case, and you are so, so tired of losing arguments you never wanted to have in the first place.
kaedehara kazuha
Kazuha loves you. He also loves the road, the sea, the particular way light hits water at a certain hour, the feeling of wind that doesn't belong to any one place, and the freedom to go wherever that wind takes him. In no particular order.
He doesn't see this as a problem, which is sort of the whole issue.
You know he can be a good lover. The type of boyfriend to make every conversation precious. I mean, the guy basically looks and speaks of you like you’re poetry, what’s not to love? But then somewhere between that and actually being your partner, something doesn't quite connect.
He’s with you the way he is with everything else in his life. Kazuha loves you one moment and then forgets about you. He is so comfortable with the idea of impermanence that he has assumed that you must be too. Sure, it was romantic at first. This untethered soul that flitted from one place to the next. But that also meant that Kazuha was untethered to you as well.
He doesn't ask, he tells, and he does it with such complete calm that there's no real foothold for an argument. It's just a fact he's delivering. He's going. He'll be back. He says it like that covers it, like the shape of what he's describing is perfectly reasonable, and the worst part is that by his own logic it is. He's not abandoning you, per se, he'd hate that word for it. He just needs to move, and you are, unfortunately, a fixed point.
So you're alone for a while, and it's not dramatic, it's just your life with a person-shaped gap in it. You manage fine. And then he comes back, easy and unbothered, like he stepped out for an hour, sets something down on the table that he picked up somewhere along the way, starts talking, and the time just folds back into itself like it was never there. He doesn't address it. Doesn't seem to think there's anything to address. You watch him settle back in with no friction whatsoever and you think, not for the first time, that it must be genuinely nice to move through the world like that.
It would just be nicer if he occasionally remembered that you don't.
wanderer
He takes everything personally. You could mention something completely unrelated to him and watch it land anyway, watch him decide what it means about how you feel about him specifically. You mention you didn't sleep well and somehow by the end of the conversation he's asking "Do you not want to be here?" like those two things exist on the same plane.
"What? That's not what I meant at all."
"Right. So you just didn't sleep because you were thinking about something else then."
You're not even sure how you got here. You were just tired. Now you're defending yourself against an accusation you never made, and the worst part is watching him sit there completely calm about it, like he's already decided what you actually meant and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
You learn to be careful with your words around him, which is its own kind of exhausting because you shouldn't have to manage someone else's insecurities, but here you are, pre-editing sentences before they leave your mouth. Sometimes you just don't mention things at all. It's easier.
When it does blow over, he doesn't circle back. Doesn't apologise, doesn't acknowledge the mess he made. He just resumes normally like nothing happened, and if you try to address it later—
"Can we talk about earlier?"
"About what?"
"When you—"
"I thought we were past this."
The look he gives you is almost pitying, like you're the one being unreasonable by still having feelings about it. It’s the type of face you’d like to sucker punch.
You learn the shape of his silences, the ones with teeth in them, and you learn to wait them out without trying to fix it because trying to fix it only makes it worse.
It's not even that he's cruel about it, really. That's what makes it stick with you. He's just so thoroughly convinced that everything circles back to him that you eventually stop trying to convince him otherwise.
You start accepting that certain conversations are just not going to happen, that you're going to have to carry some things alone because the moment you mention them they become about whatever he's decided about himself that day. And some nights you think about just not bothering anymore, about keeping everything close and small so there's nothing to accidentally weaponise against you.
Second part of me being self indulgent! This time with guys!
This is kinda fun to do so if you'd like something like this with a character you like inbox is always open!
How would they act when they're in love? (Kaeya, Baizhu, Itto, Alhaitham, Ifa)
Reader is: gender neutral
Kaeya
A constant contradiction.
There is a lot he had to unpack. Maybe a little bit too much. It was overwhelming to a point where he suspected that he had it bad for you, more so than he thought.
You were close, that was for sure. He trusted you more than himself sometimes. Whatever was between you two felt far more vulnerable than he was comfortable with.
One thing you can expect for certain is that he's going to pretend a lot. Pretend he doesn't care, pretend he's not taking you seriously. Just anything to not allow himself get too attached.
He'd joke around, acting like a dramatic lover. Declaring how much he had missed you even if you talked an hour ago. Another times he'd find himself jealous whenever someone was getting too close to you- but he knew not to cause a scene.
Yet he'd distance himself from you. Despite yearning for you he didn't exactly indulge the thought of you being actually close. He wasn't sure what was holding him back. Maybe the voice in the back of his head telling him that you're better off without him, or maybe something else he wasn't aware of.
Still, no matter the nature of your relationship you made him happy. So even if sometimes he acted odd at the end of the day you felt how much he cared.
He always paid great attention to everything you said and some of his small gestures were incredibly romantic, but he'd purposefully ruin the moment when he'd be losing his ground and falling for you even deeper. Not until he was sure he'd be right to chase after it all.
Baizhu
Making excuses to see you.
Baizhu was never one to focus too much on relationships. He was constantly busy so it made sense he didn't search for a partner.
Lucky- or unlucky depending on how you look at it- for him, you found him first. And you were a constant reminder that he does actually crave a bit of romance every once in a while.
With his teasing nature your casual conversations were mixed with slight comments that were awfully easy to overlook. That was just how he wanted to play it. He got some thoughts out of his system and that was enough to share his affections, for now.
When you're away he sometimes he wonders how your day went, sometimes though when his mind was still at work mode he wondered if you were in good health and thinking if he should check on you when he has time.
Soon he found himself turning those thoughts into reality. Not often enough that he wasn't at the pharmacy when he was needed, but he would often excuse small visits.
Slowly it looked like he was nagging... But at some point his excuses were so ridiculous you knew that he just wanted to spend time with you so you enabled that to some degree. He made sure to respect the boundaries you've set.
This whole situation was ridiculous to Changsheng and the second you were out of earshot she'd complain about whatever you two had going on. Pointing out everything he said and explaining to him in detail how him thinking you'd fall for any of these lies were a direct insult to your intelligence- he laughed her complaints off and moved on like she hasn't spoken a word.
Itto
His brain is the last to catch up...
Itto never gave much thought to what exactly he thinks about you. When you met things just clicked and he didn't question how great you'd get along.
Relationship with you- as a great buddy of course- just felt natural. So it wasn't any weird that he felt like time with you was ever so more special.
It also wasn't weird at all that he wanted to impress you, nor that every time you needed help he'd move the mountains if you needed it- he'd do it for all his friends!
His heart raced when you called him cool, he couldn't stand being away from you, and when your hand did as like as brush against his, it felt like his face was at a competition with his horns as to what's more red.
What it would get for him to notice... Was if he got teased by the boys about his obvious crushing. Without thinking he'd confirm it, cause why wouldn't he love someone so great!?
And that flustered moment was when everything clicked. After his realization he felt like everything suddenly started making sense.
From that point on he'd instead try to figure out a great grand gesture he could do for you to express his feelings. But while he was thinking about it he changed the tracks a little and thought more what YOU would like, not what he feels like would be cool to do for the sake of it.
Alhaitham
It's a natural part of human experience.
He never thought much about romance. It wasn't like he was completely uninterested, but he always knew he wasn't going to chase looking for it like some people might.
His happiness never depended on wether or not someone would return his affections, thought of being rejected wasn't something he was afraid of either.
Although... Some of his views on the matter changed once he slowly started to realize that he might be interested in you. He definitely would be disappointed if you were not to return his feelings, but it wouldn't be the end of the world either.
Looking forward to spending time with anyone wasn't something he'd expect to be feeling so strongly. Luckily the new development was hardly a nuisance to him.
He had plenty of free time, so adjusting his schedule to yours was reasonable. Even just to share a quick meal together, or a small conversation about your day.
Usually he found smalltalk bothersome, but it coming from you felt more interesting. Probably because the topics you chose were usually of his interest as well.
Yet in the end he didn't make big deal out of his feelings for you. To him it was a simple case of asking you out officially. Time or place didn't matter to him as much as the message he had, so he wouldn't be wasting much time before making his move even if it would lack romantic atmosphere.
Ifa
A recharge he desperately needed.
Ever since the war came to an end, his workload sure was doubled, sometimes feels like it tripled even. As a caring friend, you checked on him everyday. Sometimes bringing him some food or snacks, and other times just offering some human company (no offense to Cacucu).
He wasn't much the kind of person to neglect himself like that. But after everything that happened he just wanted to make sure people and saurians don't grin and bear it. So of course he couldn't ignore those in need.
You lost the count of how many times you heard "You're a lifesaver bro" or something among those lines. It was true too, you were his hero every day.
Okay... Maybe it was more than that. He knew that he liked you. With the way Cacucu sometimes was laughing he suspected his saurian companion knew too.
So he wouldn't be surprised if you knew too. He wasn't ashamed of it so it's not like he'd freak out. Okay, maybe a little bit. But that's because you're a great bro-
And here was his main issue. He'd normally approach you and maybe ask you out but he wanted to avoid calling you in that dude-bro language in that context.
In the end he would be sometimes a little awkward around you, but that would be just because he'd try to get these words out of his vocabulary when addressing you. So each time he called you that way, he decided to let his confession wait for a better day...
— Victor Gideon x Fem!Reader (Resident Evil Requiem)
GIF by raiponces
Dr. Victor Gideon x Fem!Patient!Reader
Fandom: Resident Evil (Requiem)
Word Count: 8,2k
Part I I Part II
Synopsis: You’ve been a patient at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center for months now, and despite their constant “treatment”, you never seem to improve. When a fellow patient points out that the center's director seems to have an eye out for you, you fail to notice ... Until he makes it clear just how much he knows about you.
Content Warnings: Explicit 18+, Fem!Reader but not explicitly described, Victor Gideon is a warning on his own, creepy behavior, emotional manipulation, mental health issues, implied self-harm behavior, mentions of suicide attempt, doctor/patient power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics, non-consensual touching, non-consensual sniffing, kinda dub-con?, dk if this qualifies as Stockholm Syndrome or not, implied disordered eating, emotional detachment, mentions of childhood neglect, institutional trauma, periods (its not really a warning, but blood is blood), probably innacurate medicinal stuff, dark humor
A/N: Sorry it took me a while to get it out, I did a lot of edits and revisions before I got semi-content with it. Will probably edit some things later. While Dr. Gideon isn't overly present in this chapter, the next one will probably lean heavily into the dub-con area.
This is not a love story.
Raccoon City was crawling with monsters. Hungry beasts with bloodied wounds and shattered teeth, moaning and clawing their way to anything that moved. They ate, and ravaged, and consumed anything with a beating heart under their skin, and you could only watch and run.
Sometimes, you can still hear them when you close your eyes at night. For the longest time, you avoided sleeping in an effort to keep the noises at bay, to the point where you began to hallucinate.
There was no one around to find or help you in the city. No wayward cop with a sense of duty, not even a civilian. They were all dead, or had long since abandoned ship.
Somehow, by some miracle, you managed to find your way out of the city before the entire thing blew up. By the time someone found you, you were covered with crusted blood and remnants of debris that had yet to completely dust off you. Some of the blood on you was yours, the rest … you didn't know.
Your dad was dead. You had seen him die and watched as the undead monster had torn open his body while he was still conscious enough to scream out his last breath.
After that, you were alone.
You had nothing.
When you got out of the city, someone found you, and you were brought to a hospital.
People swarmed around you, asking you questions you couldn't answer, touching you — whether to see the degree of the damage done to you or not, you didn't know. Their words were reduced to static in your ears, and for the longest time, you felt like you had disappeared among the masses. Like you were a wraith passing through their bodies, immaterial, until you found yourself in what looked to be a doctor's office.
The man sitting across from you was wearing a white coat — similar to the kind your father wore the few times you were awake long enough to spot him returning home. With the glasses perched above the ridge of his nose, you thought he looked smart.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, and the touch of concern in his words made you think that he would understand. Maybe he would believe your story when others didn't.
How were you feeling?
Scared.
Exhausted.
Hungry.
" ... Fine," you replied shortly, holding a cup of something warm in your hands. Chocolate, you thought it was. Or maybe tea? You didn't much care for tea.
"That's good," the doctor said, and procured a clipboard of sorts atop the desk. "Now, can you tell me what it was that you saw?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you just endured something quite scary for a little girl such as yourself." He clicked his pen and prepared to write something. "Sometimes, when we see something scary, the mind tends to make up stuff to make it … easier to understand. Do you see what I'm talking about?"
" … I guess?" You fidgeted in your seat. Your shoulder still hurt, even after they washed it and wrapped it up in bandages. "There were dead people."
The doctor wrote something down. "Dead people?"
"On the roads, and in buildings. They were … getting up."
The man stopped to look at you — not with pity or concern, but with something more … analytical.
"Getting up, you say?"
You nodded, and your stomach churned as you thought back on it. Despite attempting your best to forget about it and think of something else, you couldn't keep the image of blood from reentering your head. Reliving its own existence.
Your dad had once given you a thorough lecture on the intricacies of human anatomy, including where the organs were and what their functions entailed. You had seen the same organs get ripped out of him — like stuffing from out of a teddy bear.
Swallowing a ball of saliva that had gathered in your mouth, you did your best to stay calm and continue. You couldn't cry as much as you wanted to. If you did, then you wouldn't stop, and then the doctor wouldn't listen to you. Nobody would listen to you if you made too much noise, that's what your dad always said whenever you cried about something "minimal".
"Emotions are a weakness. If you let people see too much, they'll use it against you. So, stop crying."
"They were getting up, and … they were eating people. Some of them were making weird noises, like dogs. One of my neighbors had a dog who made a sound like that once when it was hungry. But this wasn't a dog. It was people."
The doctor didn't say anything, but he didn't stop looking at you. It felt like he was becoming nervous about what you said, not because it was a lie, but because he didn't know what to make of the truth.
Then, he began to chuckle. Not a self-assured chuckle, but a nervous one.
"I understand why you might think that." His pitiful attempt at a joke reminded you of one of your classmates — Jeremy Evans. He was the class clown and would always make bad jokes and pull pranks in front of the teacher to make the other kids laugh.
But you didn't laugh at the doctor. It wasn't funny. Why was he laughing?
"But it's true!"
"Now, little miss, think about it." He started sounding increasingly desperate. "Dead man don't just walk up and start eating people. It's preposterous. That means —"
"That it's absurd, but it's not!" Your father made sure that you always talked properly, and understood what "difficult" words meant. Back then, you didn't understand why you had to learn the definitions of words like that, but now you were glad to know them. You were starting to get angry. Why didn't these people believe in you? "I'm telling you the truth! One of those dead monsters … They ate my dad! They bit me!"
You pulled your shirt and bandages away to reveal the ugly gash on your shoulder, still bloodied, and still a reminder of what had happened. "LOOK AT ME!"
LOOK AT ME!
SEE ME!
I'M NOT LYING!
LISTEN TO ME!
PLEASE BELIEVE ME!
The doctor's face paled at the sight of the bite mark, and he scribbled down something probably stupid on that clipboard. Why was he writing? Who was he writing to? Why did he prefer to write rather than LOOK AT YOU?
"Now, listen to me, little miss. I know you're afraid—"
"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME!" You were crying, screaming, and throwing your hands up in the air. Tears stained your cheeks even when you didn't want them to. Dad hated it whenever you cried, but you couldn't do anything about it. The doctor had to believe you! You weren't lying! You even had a large bite mark covering the expanse of your shoulder, and still, he didn't listen. "THE DEAD WERE WALKING AND EATING PEOPLE! I SAW IT!"
You remember it all. Every moment of it. The way he looked at you like you were Cassandra in ancient Greece; doomed to speak of a truth that no one would believe, no matter how plausible your evidence was. You remember when several grown-ups wearing the same white clothes as him began to pile around you, holding you down, sticking you with something that forced you to submit to unconsciousness.
You remember when you realized that you were trapped.
No one would believe you, no matter how much you tried to tell them.
No one wanted to believe you.
The doctor claimed monsters didn't exist; only people did.
That fact didn't comfort you in the slightest.
──────────
You were a teenager: quick to anger and less inclined to forgive.
The staff's attempts to placate your behavior with sweet promises and empty threats might have worked for a time when you were younger, when the prospect of getting an ice cream in exchange for taking a few pills felt like a good deal.
They wanted to make you forget.
Tried to make you forget.
But you couldn't. No matter what kind of stuff they put in your body, or how many therapy sessions you were forced to attend, you couldn't forget what went down in Raccoon City. You wanted to, for a time, but it all went out the window when you realized they wanted you to forget to.
Like someone were telling them to keep you from making too much noise.
At some point, you stopped buying into their bullshit, and they were quick to figure that out when you slapped the medicine cup out of a nurse's hand when she attempted to give it to you. The medication messed with your mood, made you feel drowsy and sluggish, made you dream strange things that might have qualified as delirious.
So, you settled for a different approach altogether.
You managed to socialize with your fellow patients to some extent — enough to learn when to open your mouth and when to keep it shut through a trial of fire. You learned several tricks from them in an effort to evade the system's continuous attempts to keep you docile.
But it was a steep learning curve.
Some patients were easier to coexist with than others. Some were kind, and some were less easy to approach. Some were willing to teach you how to smoke a stolen cigarette and how to hide medication from the warden. Others decked you just for looking at them too long. None of you were friends.
However, with your increasing belligerence towards the institution's efforts came the staff's heightened persistence that you were unwell. That you were progressing into something they couldn't predict anymore; something wild and unmanageable.
More specialists were summoned, more contingencies were made in case you tried to pull something, and with that came a less lenient disposition towards you and your "tantrums". If you refused to cooperate, they had no qualms about taking … more drastic measures. You were a ward of the state, after all. No family or relative would come forth to claim ownership of you.
You tried to run away when you were fourteen, the first time. Smashed a window with a chair, climbed out without caring if the shards pierced your skin, and jumped. Unfortunately, you had miscalculated the length of the fall and ended up with the following: a broken leg for your efforts, an increased dose of sedatives administered by the greenhorned doctor on call at the time, who considered you a "danger to yourself and to others", and two weeks confined to a bed at the isolation ward with constant monitoring.
At first, you were willful and stubborn. You refused to give in to their demands regarding your behavior and lack of cooperation, no matter the consequences. You couldn't care less if you had to spend weeks isolated, nor did you bother to hide what you thought of them. You tried to run away, again and again, but somehow, they always managed to find you.
Nothing you did yielded any permanent results.
With time came a lack of urgency that gradually crept up on you like a shadow, and your escape attempts lessened over the years.
Your standard array of medication was adjusted probably ten times. Sometimes you hid them, and some times you just accepted defeat and swallowed them along with your resilience.
Until one night, you decided that the only way you could hope to leave was to do so on your own terms, and you got your hands on a pen.
The memories of the events are … blurry, like looking at an old video from a time when the quality wasn't as good as it is today. You remember a stinging pain in both your wrists, the feeling of soft tissue caving in under the ink-tip, and the warmth of blood covering your hands.
When you woke up and realized you were still alive, still monitored, and still confined, something just … clicked in your brain. It didn't matter what you did or said. Your anger was wasted on your situation, and so you settled on nothing at all.
Following that, you stopped resisting whatever they initiated.
You stopped fighting.
You stopped giving a shit.
The staff considered it progress.
You called it resignation.
You accepted that no one would take care of you in this life, and doubtfully the next. If the best thing you ever got to being taken care of was by your father, then what hope was there for a better alternative?
You were on your own, and so you settled on the fact that, no matter what you did or who was in your life, that's what you would always be doomed to be.
Alone.
──────────
Six months ago, you were seated by the window in your room when your doctor practically slammed the door open without a care for decorum or professionalism. "Rhodes Hill Center has approved your transfer!"
You hardly glanced at him, and yet, the relief on his face was palpable, even across the room. For the first time in the years since you were assigned to him, your doctor looked … happy. The happiest you had ever seen him, and with that joy accompanied a youthful addendum to his habitually sour face.
"Oh?"
"Yes!" If it were a professional gesture suiting the situation, he would've jumped and clapped his hands like a seal. "Dr. Victor Gideon accepted, and could have you over as soon as the admission papers are finished."
We? There was no we in this situation. It was they who called the shots, whether you agreed to or otherwise.
"Who's Dr. Gideon?" It didn't matter who he was, truth be told. Just another doctor, at another facility, with another treatment plan in mind. In the years you'd spent going from one place to the other, the names of every doctor assigned to your case became indistinguishable from one another.
"Dr. Gideon is an experienced doctor of high renown and the director of Rhodes Hill." Judging by the pleasure painted on his face, he looked about ready to propose a blowjob to the aforementioned doctor if only it meant that it would get you off his back.
He wasn't happy for you, you knew as much, but rather relieved that you were now someone else's problem to deal with. A bouncing ball, switching from one physician to the next. "I believe he will be a good fit for you, and Rhodes Hill is one of the best facilities in the county! You'll love it there!"
Sure you would. After all, you didn't have a choice.
"If you say so."
He rambled some more about the process as if you had any say or interest in it. Final assessments, documentation, and a meeting with the director himself.
You didn't bother to interrupt him, nor did you bother to object to the transfer. Given how you were now deemed "stable" and of no immediate threat to your own health or others, he assumed everything would go smoothly. Rhodes Hill, what little you knew of it, generally allowed free rein among its patients. Good food, too. Rehabilitation above treatment, if the brochures were to be believed.
The following day, you dressed in your finest clothing (you considered them casual at best, given that you weren't permitted to have vast access to other, fancier stuff), and waited outside your doctor's office with your few belongings stuffed in a small suitcase.
You heard your PCP's loud voice echoing from beyond the closed door of his office, rambling on about "stability" and "hopes of rehabilitation", and something along the lines of "previous difficulty". You'd heard the spiel before and were in no mood to barge in and speak your mind about the situation.
You didn't have much to speak of anyhow.
While you hadn't met the doctor himself, from the muffled sounds that served as a contrast to your PCP's loud exclamations, he was a calm type. Patient. Preferring to say little unless he deemed it necessary. You'd grown good at reading people with minimal evidence, based solely on how they spoke, dressed, and what words or silence did convey. It wasn't exactly like others were privy to these observations, either. Just you.
You glanced at the clock. It bordered three in the afternoon, and in maybe an hour or so, you would be out of here. Whether there was anything fortuitous awaiting you outside these walls or not, only time would tell, and you had long since lost the interest in prying for a better alternative.
The door to the office suddenly opened, and you looked up to see the tallest man you had ever laid eyes on.
Tall, a receding hairline, and a face marked with events you had no knowledge of. Unlike other doctors, he did not wear the standard white coat, nor did he immediately strike you as someone of standard doctorate stock.
Dr. Victor Gideon, in the flesh, you presumed.
When he looked down at where you were seated, you were immediately struck by how sharp his eyes were, despite the benevolent lens they shone through. Calculating, but not coldly so. Interested, but not solely clinical. In spite of his height, something told you he did not look down on you, not like other shrinks did.
How ... Odd.
"You must be my new charge." Not a question, but a settled fact. His voice was smooth around the edges. Calm, inviting, and somehow … inviting. Inviting in a way you were not familiar with.
He lowered his hand to you. "Dr. Victor Gideon, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
You stood up and took his hand. It was as large as the rest of him, and cold to the touch, but still a gentler touch. After giving him your name, he smiled.
"I believe you will find Rhodes Hill a pleasant change."
You tilted your head a little to the side. "Time will have to tell, won't it?"
"I believe so, yes. In fact, I believe we will discover a lot of new things." He let go of your hand. "I understand that you may be hesitant, but I promise you, I will ensure that you will be taken care of properly at the facility."
Hefty promise to make, you thought. Then again, what's another broken promise? Nothing you can't handle.
──────────
Following that day in Dr. Gideon's office, you enter a routine of sorts.
He continues to take regular samples of your blood, sometimes a few times a week, sometimes more, and sometimes less. Sometimes you feel so exsanguinated that you go through the rest of the day at the pace of a slug. You can handle dizziness, and the syncope tendencies, and the nausea. You don't bother complaining about it, but when he asks, you remain truthful to the deadpan degree.
So far, he hasn't done anything too overtly taxing to you.
Yet.
He still injects you with what he refers to as "medicine", but makes it transparent that it's something more than that. Whether it's traces of that virus, or something else, you can't tell. For the most part, whatever "medication" he administers is mild to your body. At worst, maybe you'll have a fever that goes away on its own. At best, you feel nothing at all.
You can handle blood work.
You can handle the injections.
The regularly scheduled EKGs.
You can handle it all. It's nothing you haven't been able to handle before, and this is no different this time. It's a merciful predicament compared to what else you've been exposed to in life, and so, you do what you've always done.
You endure.
Whatever test he takes and whatever outcome you produce, Dr. Gideon is satisfied.
And that satisfaction is conveyed through privileges. Special privileges.
The very next day following that little talk in his office, you were relocated to another room. A different room. A comfortable and tempting room that, for just a moment, makes you forget you were a patient. That's all you've ever been: a patient. Just for a moment, you weren't.
You were just a woman.
The room has a bathroom with an assortment of different soaps and hygiene products that aren't of any typical hospital brand you are familiar with. They smell … good. Not inherently antibacterial, acidic, or merciless against your hide. They are fragrant, smell good, and feel good against your bruised skin. The lotions hydrate you, and last longer than you've been used to.
The bed is soft, and the covers warm and alluring. You started to feel drowsy just by sitting on top of it the first time.
There's a bookshelf filled with different assortments of scientific journals, science fiction, and gothic horror. You're not sure you've ever had the time to read an entire book since you were a child, and now you're spoiled for choice.
If you feel exhausted - more so than what is typical - food will be delivered to your room by a nurse. Good food, mind you; distinguished from the kind already served downstairs to the other patients, which is already considered exemplary in comparison to other facilities. Premium ingredients, warm, delicious. Made with love.
Made specifically for you.
Chicken.
Beef.
Grains.
Whatever you desire, you shall have. You will be … satiated.
The nurse even informed you that, if you had any special requests, you just had to say the word and it would be taken care of. Food, clothing, entertainment, all you had to do was say the word, and it would be yours. You found it strange that the staff would so easily abide by whatever Dr. Gideon's words were without question, but given their near-sycophantic regard for him, it made sense.
They abide by him, and by extension, you.
While you know privileges like this could be abused, you like to think of yourself as a rather minimalist person at heart. What's the point of asking for more than you know you can be afforded? So, with that in mind, your only request thus far has been a cardigan to stave off the cold that so easily settles in your bones, and it was handed to you the next day.
Soft, long enough to cover your arms, and comfortable.
You make sure to keep it discreet from Selena.
Trips outside to the courtyard were also expanded upon. Ordinarily, patients would have to ask a member of staff to accompany them, and only at certain times of the day, in cases of escape attempts (though they were few). You, however, discovered that you were exempt from that principle.
You could venture outside whenever you pleased, with or without a member of staff. The primary reason why you had avoided venturing outside for the majority of your stay had to do with the fact that you preferred to be in the company of your own solace. You didn't want or need a nurse to keep tabs on you.
And now, whenever you want, you can enjoy your solace in peace.
Even if you're still in a cage, you have to admit, it's the most freedom you've ever been afforded.
Dr. Gideon didn't joke around when he said you would be provided for.
After all, what is the best kind of cage other than the kind you don't want to leave?
This is a comfortable cage.
You contemplate all of this while sitting on the bench outside, the skies already darkened as the winds pick up. It was sundown when you first found yourself here, and you didn't even realize that it was dusk until a gust of wind blew a few strands of your hair to the side. It's cold, yes, but with the approaching summer months, there's a tranquility to be found here. The air isn't warm, but it isn't chilly either - a perfect balance between what could be better and what could be worse.
You know of colder things.
It's peaceful here, enough to keep your mind occupied. Not to mention, you woke up with the mother of all stomach aches. Whether because of the abundance of food you were expected to indulge in, or the situation itself, or because of the many tests and examinations you've been "participating" in, you can't tell for certain.
Only that—
"It's … quiet here."
You glance to the opposite edge of the bench and find Martin sitting there, looking tense, but likely the calmest you've ever seen him since his admission. There's an IV stand standing next to him, connected to what you assume to be some concoction of saline.
Though you've never personally interacted with him, you've attended group sessions together, and observed enough to know that his mood - like Selena's - can switch drastically depending on the noises around him and the people. At best, he's mute and trying his best to stay invisible in the circles he's forced to attend. At worst, he's agitated, and while he has yet to act on any impulsive urges involving violence, you recall hearing him snapping vehemently at Eileen Zimmerson for singing too loudly … from several rooms away.
When did he even get here?
You return your attention to the view of the courtyard fountain up ahead. Given his aversion to racket, you think the best approach is the quiet one, so you elect not to say anything.
"You … are quiet," he remarks, barely the volume of a whisper, and slowly turns his head to look at you. "Everything else in here is … loud, but not you."
Coming from him, that's probably a compliment of the highest acclaim. Adding the fact that the man hardly speaks more than a word at a time at best, getting an entire sentence is … something to behold.
You glance at him from your peripheral vision. He looks tired, but you're not in any position to comment on that, given your own pale complexion. "Thanks."
Only then do you realize that there isn't a nurse with him. He's all alone, like you are.
"Everyone here is loud," he adds ruefully. "Always talking, shouting, crying, screaming. I don't like it."
You can only nod, even if you don't inherently share his sentiments. You don't mind noise, but your opinion hardly has any value as it is. However, while it's true that you have heard all of the aforementioned kinds of noise before, it's not too common at Rhodes Hill. Most of the patients seem content at this place, and if you exclude Selena's colorful mood swings, you can't say you've ever heard much screaming.
"Screaming?" you inquire.
Martin nods, and there's a tremor to his shoulders you're willing to bet has no correlation to the evening winds.
"They're always screaming, down in the blood wards. Calling, and wailing, and snarling, and …. hungry. They're always hungry." He inches closer to you on the bench, restricted only by the extension of the IV line. "Can't you hear them? Can't you hear them underneath? Begging for help that is too late?"
You can see the IV line stretch tightly to accommodate him as he slowly draws closer to you, his arm already stretched out to the point where you're expecting the cannula to snap out.
"You know this place is not a clinic, right? It's not." With his free arm, he lunges forward and grabs your wrist with bruising intensity, nails digging fiercely into the skin above your pulse warmer. "It's a slaughterhouse, you hear? Can you hear them? CAN YOU HEAR THEM? IT'S SOOO LOUD!"
Quick as you can, you yank your hand out of his grip and jump back off the bench, creating some semblance of a safe distance between you. The joint of your wrist screams with soreness, and as you look down to inspect it, you spot three deep scratches stretching across the skin. Already bleeding.
You look back at Martin, convinced he's going to abandon all restraint and launch after you.
But he stays put, panting like a dog. Defeated without having lost, or maybe he already has. "No," he whispers, more to himself than anyone else, as he settles back into a hunched position. The same kind he's attuned to when he's in group therapy, or generally uncomfortable in the setting he's in.
But he's not uncomfortable now.
He's scared, and it's a pitiful sight to behold.
"No … No, no, no. He won't keep them quiet. He likes the noises they make. The nails against glass, clawing and scraping. The noises make him … happy." He peeks at you from the periphery of his vision. "I'm sure he'll be even happier when he hears yours."
"Mr. Case, there you are!"
A nurse suddenly emerges and, upon finding his assigned patient sitting on the bench, heaves a grateful sigh of relief. "I was searching for you; you can't just disappear like that."
Martin doesn't answer, nor does he seem affected by the volume with which the nurse is speaking, despite the staff being aware of the fragile way his mind copes with noise.
He's just … sitting there, unmoving. Dissociated.
The nurse looks to you, eyebrow raised. "Is everything alright?" His attention trails down to your wrist, and his eyes raise in alarm as he notices the blood staining the fabric of your pulse warmer. "You're bleeding!"
You're quick to hide the wounded appendage behind your back, feigning nonchalance despite feeling the warm blood start to gather into the surrounding fabric, soaking it even as you try to torque your other hand around it. "Just scratched myself."
"Are you sure it's fine? That looks —"
"Can you keep it down?" Martin hisses, and while the nurse is preoccupied with him, you take the moment to sneak back inside.
The blood is easy to wash off in the sink. Superficial, unlikely to leave long-lasting scars, but they still sting once the water washes over them. Fortunately, the bleeding has already stopped, but the evidence of them are still visible, and the more you try to wash it away, the more it begins to bleed again.
Damn it.
Giving up, you dry your injured wrist and cover it again with your pulse warmer. On one hand, the blood in the fabric has already dried, and the dark dye on the material effectively camouflages the crimson color. On the other hand, the dried blood feels irritating to your skin, but you've endured worse before.
You endure it.
You have bigger problems to balance, and you don't want to acknowledge half of them, much less a few scratches.
Rather than going to sleep, like a good little patient is supposed to, you instead settle on top of your bed and browse through one of the many books available to you now. What you end up spending the next hour being semi-invested in - instead of sleep - is the story of a young boy being abused by his caretakers until a giant knocks down their door and proclaims he's special.
Chosen.
… What a load of horseshit.
So, you switch books to something a little more fitting. A little more … unsettling, but entertaining enough to keep you preoccupied for longer than the previous book.
A story of legalized cannibalism due to the inedibility of animal meat; the stark contrast between people who "live", and people who are bred solely for consumption. The world has become a large ….
"Slaughterhouse."
Your stomach lurches painfully, and you feel something … happening. You feel it between your legs the second you sprint out of bed and into the bathroom.
Blood. Dark, fresh drops of blood line in your underwear.
Fuuuuck.
That's what you call one hell of a timing.
With all the meds in your system, it has never been predictable. Sometimes it skips months at a time, and occasionally, you'll spot for several weeks before it just … stops. You can't even remember the last time you bled. Four months ago? Six? Long enough for you to have forgotten — Maybe it was even before you entered Rhodes Hill?
With how much blood has already been drained out of you through a cannula, you're surprised you have any to spare at all.
You rummage through the bathroom cabinet until you finally find a pack of pads. They're thin, reminding you more of panty liners, but they'll do. You hope they will.
Creeek…
The door opens, and Dr. Gideon stands tall in the frame, peering inside. For a man of his size, you should've heard him long before his fingers grazed the doorknob.
"Dr. Gideon." You just about manage to hide the packet of pads behind your back.
"Are you injured?"
Technically, kind of, but also not.
"Not really, no."
He takes a sharp breath through his nose, raising his head slightly up as though fishing for answers in the air above him. A strange habit he seems to have, before his attention returns to you with a curious, calculated glint. "Then why is it that I smell blood?"
Could he really smell that?
You raise your unoccupied hand to him, even while something inside you that it would not be enough to dissuade him. "Accidentally scratched myself in the courtyard."
Taking your extended appendage as an invitation to proceed, Dr. Gideon steps closer to you, unmindful of the small space in the bathroom, until you have to arch your spine a little backward to physically accommodate him.
His eyes linger on you for a second longer before they trail down to your wrist. With no word of warning, his expansive hand grips your own, and he carefully pries the pulse warmer back to take a look at the suspected "injury".
A low hmm reverberates from him as he turns your palm both ways to inspect, looking … disappointed, somehow. Whether he's checking out the wound from the injuries years ago, or the fresh ones delivered by Martin, you're not sure.
"Did you do these yourself?"
No, you didn't.
You didn't do them.
They were a mistake from a long time ago.
You shake your head. "No."
"You're not lying to me, are you?" His fingers tighten around your hand, not painful, but the pressure should be enough to convey that you can't sneak around this without consequence. "You know I take your well-being very seriously, don't you?"
You can’t help but stare at the way his hand dwarfs your own; pale skin, beyond what anemia would inflict. Almost dead, yet still pumping blood through to the tissue, somehow. Biologically speaking, it shouldn't be possible. You're no biologist or doctor, but you've been surrounded by enough of them to know what is normal and what is not.
This is not, and yet, you cannot pull away.
“I didn’t do it."
"Then who did?"
"A rough edge on the bench outside."
You don't see the need to rat out Martin to save your own skin, though you probably should. But the guy evidently got it hard enough without you digging his grave any deeper. To be antagonized by sound, that on its own is a curse. You don't mind noise, but never to an degreethat aligns with his.
You're not that cruel, or unfeeling.
Dr. Gideon squeezes your wrist a little tighter, as his vigilant gaze bores into yours with such overwhelming intensity that it's like he's trying to conjure your thoughts from the depths of your mind like a hidden treasure.
You can instantly discern his grip from Martin's.
Martin's was compulsive; desperation edged into his nails. A caged animal looking for reprieve, in any way he could.
Dr. Gideon is measured. Calculating. He may not intend harm, but he's not being entirely forgiving either. It serves as a warning and a demand for acquiescence on your side.
You don't avert your eyes, despite the shivers that vibrate under your skin, and neither does he.
Somehow, you know he knows that you're not being entirely truthful. Even if you've spent years mastering the craft of total nonchalance in the face of whatever life throws at you, Dr. Gideon is - and has always been - an anomaly compared to what you're used to. There has been no one quite like him, and there might never be.
He lets go just as it's about to genuinely hurt in your bones.
"Very well."
And you think ─ hope ─ that it will be the end of the matter. That he will turn and walk away to leave you be for the rest of the night.
Alas, life has never been fond of turning the tide in your favor.
He grabs both your shoulders, locking you in position. He stares at you in his grip, and you can only think that it wouldn't take much effort on his part to snap you clean in half. He has the strength and size required, and even if you felt your bones fall into misaligned positions, maybe you would cry? Maybe you would scream? But he could still do it.
You have no resistance to bargain with.
Dr. Gideon leans in close to your neck and breathes in on whatever scent or pheromone your skin provides. You can feel his nose caress the epidermis of your throat, feel it tickle your hair, feel it drag in the molecules your hide has to offer. You should act like a normal person and push away. You should find this act repulsive and reject it.
Are you that touch-starved and pathetic that you would allow this?
But you don't. It's hardly the worst thing anyone has done to you, and so you let him conduct his research.
You try to look over his shoulder and focus on something other than what's currently happening. However, his large frame blocks anything else from your sight except for him. There's nothing other than him. No other touch, no other feeling, no other sensation other than what he alone can deliver.
Time stops, until it doesn't.
" … Ah." Even if you can't tell his expressions, it sounds as if a revelation has dawned upon him with unshakable merriment. "Catamenia.”
You readjust your stance in his hold in favor of a more comfortable one. “… Sorry?”
“There’s no need to be.” He pulls back but doesn't let you go. “It’s perfectly natural; signs of a healthy reproductive system.”
Healthy reproductive— Oh. Oh.
So, that’s what he’s talking about.
You know how blood smells. Iron, metallic. The scent of a nail left to rust for far too long in the open. No one has ever paid you that much attention, and yet now, someone does. Even if it is ... rather odd.
“You can … smell that?”
“My sense of smell is more … refined than others.” He states this as if it’s perfectly understandable. “Yours, however, is rather potent.”
What are you supposed to answer with? What are you supposed to say?
“Thanks?”
The strange glint in his eyes doesn’t disappear. If anything, it heightens like a shark smelling blood in deep waters. His fingers keep trailing up and down your shoulder, and with every second he spends doing this, you feel colder.
Scared
Seeing no point in keeping up with the deception, you pull the pads from behind your back and put them on the sink.
“It tends to be irregular.” You find your voice unusually restricted. “Sometimes it’s a few spots over a few days, and sometimes it’s nothing. I stopped keeping tabs on it a while ago.”
Dr. Gideon, seemingly restraining himself, pulls his hands away. You’re relieved by the retraction, but something gnaws inside you at the loss of contact all the same. You haven't known benevolent touch in so long, you're leaning into the slightest indication that someone might want to reach for you.
Touch you.
Hold you.
“It’s not atypical.” He glances at the packet with something akin to … resentment. “The medication those incompetent physicians put you on prior to you admission here produces few benefits. I’ve been trying to amend that since your admission. Perhaps this is a sign your body is in the process of resetting itself.”
That would explain some things, like why the Olanzapine has been strangely absent from your usual pile of morning pills, and why the pile on its own has been dwindling since you got here. No sertraline. No Escitalopram. No Zofran.
You didn’t question it. Or rather, didn’t bother to. Your body feels like shit for most of the time, as does your mood. If you've unknowingly undergone withdrawal symptoms, you haven't put much thought into it.
Still, the question remains, “You’re trying to remove them all?”
“Only the unnecessary ones.” He scowls at the mention of this, though not at you. “And I found quite a number of them on your list.”
“Is any medication unnecessary?” You can't squash a self-deprecating smile about your own situation. "Isn't it supposed to help me get better?"
Help you talk less. Reveal less. No dead men. No cannibalistic monsters. Nothing about Raccoon City.
“Everything and anything has a function.” Dr. Gideon lifts the packet from the sink, gives it a light turn, and hands it to you. “But they’re not allowed to interfere with yours.”
You take the packet. It suddenly weighs heavily in your hand, and for a moment, you wonder what to do about them. “It doesn't really matter to me. Periods, I mean.”
He looks at you strangely. “The reproductive organs are of vital importance to the human body, regardless of whether reproduction is intended.”
“Not to me.”
“What makes you say that?”
Oh, boy. How do you clinically explain this without being transparent or weird?
“I’ve never even had an interest in … uhm …" What did he call it? "‘Matters of the flesh’?”
A pregnant pause fills the minima space between you. Dr. Gideon doesn't ask you to clarify what you mean, but something about the way he looks at you indicates that he already knows.
You know the deal, know what goes where and how and why, but you’ve never pursued it. Never bothered with it. Never seen the benefit of it, no matter what anyone else has tried to insinuate.
It was an awkward conversation between you and the charge nurse when you were, like, thirteen, and she looked more ashamed at the time than you could ever hope to be. Sure, you know what's typical to check out when you're young, what you're statistically supposed to experiment with, but you rarely have.
Being frequently monitored by staff didn’t exactly help either in the “exploratory phase”, so to speak.
So periods, and any matters related to them, extending towards sex, never did much for you. Just another symptom for you to manage, so to speak. You've heard older patients and staff talk about it, about the 'pleasures of the flesh'; about cock, and cunt, and climax. You've heard about it all, yet you've never been a recipient of that kind of delight, be it by yourself or others.
Dr. Gideon inclines his head to you in a way that’s hardly assuring. Inquisitive. Very inquisitive.
Interested in a way that stretches beyond a clinical standpoint.
“So,” he prompts, sounding cautious about how to approach the subject, the same way one would hesitate to approach an animal prone to fleeing. “You have never ...?”
There are a lot of things you have never done nor had the chance to explore, but you think you can discern the gist of what he’s trying to imply.
“Not really, no.”
Sure, you’ve had other patients - and occasionally staff — ogling you from time to time. Even endured the rare instances of an unwelcome touch here and there, and once an outright proposal of giving a blowjob in exchange for a favor, a few years back, to a doctor. You tried touching yourself once or twice, but whether it be by your circumstances, the medication you were on, or your general mood, you didn't see any need for it.
It didn't get you "off".
Nothing did.
So, you didn't bother exploring an area that didn't welcome you.
Regardless of what you experienced or didn't experience, it was nothing you thought of as important. You know there are worse sharks in the water.
Ironically enough, the most dangerous one you've encountered yet is looking right down at you this very moment.
Damn, Darwinism is really wasted on you, isn’t it?
Dr. Gideon doesn’t say anything else, or move much, but his gaze doesn’t stray from yours. It’s like he’s … considering something. Planning something. Putting down the foundation of some kind of strategy or experiment.
The answers to the what and whys reign outside your deduction skills, but it must be … interesting, if it warrants that kind of reaction with him.
For some reason, rare as it is to befall you, you sense that something is … off.
“… You okay, Dr. Gideon?”
A soft, yet calculating smile stretches across his marred lips. “Oh, just fine, my dear. Just thinking, is all.”
“Thinking?”
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with.” He pats your shoulder once, maybe twice, before he finally turns around to exit the bathroom. “Apologies, I should let you recuperate. Do tell the nurses if you are in need of anything to manage the pain.”
“… Will do.”
And then he leaves you alone, closing the bathroom door behind him. The soft echoes of his receding footsteps is the only evidence of his absence as you’re left to your own device.
Your eyes remain fixated on the door for a short while longer until they fall back to the pads in your hand.
Blood. You’re starting to grow weary of the sight of it.
──────────
More time flies by, and you notice a change. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
For one thing, the food actually tastes good. Not overwhelmingly so, but it doesn’t require Herculean effort on your behalf to stomach half a portion anymore without feeling nauseous.
The nurses notice with pride and scribble down on their notepads.
Selena notices instantly, too.
“Wow, you’re really eating that much?” She leans over the table to stare at the partially-finished portion like it’s a phenomenon. “You should be careful. Bacon has a lot of unnecessary calories.”
You need to find better friends at this place. Selena cannot be your best shot at a meager social life, can she?
“Duly noted.”
“I’m just looking out for you, you know. Some hotshot sponsor is supposed to come here today.”
You put your fork down. “A sponsor?”
“Yes!” She looks over to where the nurses are, and, concluding that they’re not paying too much attention, leans over the table as if to whisper a secret. “I heard the staff talking about it all morning. Apparently, he’s one of the guys who pays the bills around here, so that we don’t have to.”
“And this is relevant to my breakfast, how exactly?”
“You don’t want to be stuffing your face when a hot, rich guy passes through here, do you?”
“Didn’t really think about that, no.”
“You see? That’s why we’re friends! You need me to keep an eye out for you in cases like this.” She rests her chin in her open palms. “I mean, sure, Dr. Gideon is probably loaded, and isn’t too bad to look at if you exclude the hairline. But imagine if you could get someone more handsome." She giggles. "God, this reminds me of college."
You quirk an eyebrow. "You went to college?"
"Yes, though I didn't graduate. Too many absences, and then there was a ... misunderstanding with one of my professors."
"A misunderstanding?"
"I didn't know he was married."
Yeah, that tracks.
There are a lot of things you want to say, and a lot of things you shouldn’t, so you won't.
“Wasn’t Dr. Beckett good to look at?” You point out in an effort to get the subject back on the rails.
She shrugs, and it's almost impressive how someone who was so disheartened by his absence a month ago can't care less about it now. “I mean, he was. But now that he’s not here anymore, it doesn’t matter.”
“So, you’re looking for a rebound?”
“It’s not a rebound, but between having to look at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum over there,—" She points with her thumb over her shoulder to where Tim and Tom are seated. "and that guy who’s always freaking out over noises, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone more … appealing to look at here and there.”
This is really not a conversation you see a need to participate in, but now that it’s already been brought up, you might as well engage.
“So, who is the sponsor?”
Selena shrugs again. “No idea. Haven’t Dr. Gideon said anything?”
He’s said a lot of things as of late, but nothing about a sponsor. “No, not that I remember.”
She grins slyly. “He was probably occupied doing more interesting stuff to you, wasn’t he?”
Sure, if she considers bloodwork, EKGs, and watching you bathe “interesting”.
You shrug with as much strength as you can muster. “Nothing as interesting as what you’re probably thinking.”
“Come on! Don’t be like that! At least tell me he’s gone down on you!”
🍓So for this fic I’m writing I’m trying to break down how I categorize the segments I’m using (25.35.45.65), so I thought I’d just write down my notes and give them to the world lol. No eight for obvious reasons and no eighteen because I don’t think you understand how difficult it is to write a scene with six characters as is.
NSFW MDNI; 6.6 spoilers? I guess?
TW: Nsfw; sadism; violence in alignment to regular dottore violence; he’s mean as hell; marking; blood kink; doctor kink; problematic age-gap king(?)
General Thoughts on the Collective
-They’re all inarguably sadists, and they’re all inarguably selfish as hell.
-They don’t like to share with each other pretty much anything, and that would extend to a partner as well. They’d be vying for their attention and sabotaging one another non stop, yet, they also don’t care enough to forcibly isolate them from the other segments.
-The only person who does would be Zandik himself, and his reasoning for doing so is vague and obtuse. It’s easy to chalk it up to insecurity, since his segments are younger, more vigorous versions of himself. Yet, you’ll never be able to tell lol.
-I think, at the end of the day, the thing that keeps them behaving is the mutual agreement that it would be better to share amongst themselves than have you running of with someone of less… worth?
-They all think you’re incredibly stupid, by the way, even if you’re not. Even if you’re considered a genius on the level of the god of wisdom, Dottore and his segments hardly bat an eye to it. His ego is too big, and he quite prefers making you feel ashamed.
-Why, precisely, they keep you around is beyond them. (They know, of course they know, but to acknowledge that would break their understanding of themselves). But they do! Lucky you.
25
-The younger you go the meaner this guy gets. The only exception to this rule is 8, and that’s because he’s literally 8, but the kid has bite too.
-25 is in this stage where he’s arrogant with the intelligence to back it up, but he’s only just been able to remove the roadblocks in his path, so he’s a bit overeager?
-Other than 35, he’s the most sadistic, and enjoys more… vile things? His experiments are teeming with less than savory tactics, even for Dottore, and he’s kind of speed running through every idea that he’s been denied by the akademia.
-He’s more temperamental, though I’m not sure if that’s the right word. He just gets more irritated faster than the others do when he experiences a setback or a failure.
-He tends to be the flattest with you of them all, just blatantly mean for no reason other than to be mean. He enjoys the way you shrivel at it, but will get irritated and seethe quietly to himself if you walk away or don’t engage how he likes.
-Understands why you don’t seek him out, gets pissed off about it anyway. No one can tell him how to behave around you either, you have to adjust because he’s not changing.
-If he ever gets you in bed, because let’s be honest, why would you ever say yes to this asshole? He’s incredibly sadistic with very little care of your pleasure.
-Very much the last guy you’d ever want to have sex with. He’s mean with no remorse, talking down to you in the tone you’d talk to a petulant child while you whimper and squirm.
-He’s either milking you until your dry and then some, or he’s torturing you and never allowing you to cum at all. No matter what, you’re a helpless, needy little thing that he’s simply unable to satisfy properly.
-Also very much the type to mark you up and make you bleed. Not enough to kill you (unfortunately, everyone else would have something to say on that), but enough that you need a lot of time to recover after he’s finished with you.
-He’ll draw little hearts on your skin with your own blood, perhaps the sweetest thing he does, then mock you for thinking it’s charming even if you’re too fucked out to say a word.
-No aftercare, either. It’s up to you to clean up, or to whoever finds you in a heap on the floor. Usually one of the older segments who’d rather not deal with the fallout of your death from serious infection or injury. Sometimes it’s even Pantalone, who has it in that cold heart of his to feel pity enough to help you out.
35
-This guy fucking stinks, bro, oh my god. He’s got the brains, the arrogance, and the means. He’s at his prime, and he knows it. Flaunts it in his own subtle way, taking control of situations with an ease that no one seems to catch on to.
-It’s that attitude of his that makes him positively insufferable, but he’s not as horrible as 25 can be. He’s not mean without reason, he doesn’t do just because, he’s controlled. Logical. Irritating.
-He treats you more like a pet than a person, but at least there’s a level of affection there, though it’s not exactly a humanizing feeling. You’re not with Dottore to feel “human” though, so it’s fine.
-He’s got an incredible control on himself and an even better control on you. He knows how to sweet talk, knows how to manipulate you into whatever state he likes you in. It’s to a point you’ll come to him — cold calculating 35 — for comfort when others upset you.
-And why wouldn’t you? He’s built himself up to be your savior of sorts, the one segment you can easily predict and rely on. Is it manipulation? Of course, and he’s sure you’re aware of that. Do either of you care? No, not really.
-He likes control, and that’s very present in the bedroom. Though, you’re not often in the bedroom with him. He likes to set you in the lab, when he can, or somewhere makeshift like one.
-He enjoys setting it up like it’s all an experiment. How will you react to this? How will he react? If you changed this variable, would you like it less or more? He takes notes in the middle of your little “appointments,” and likely has a whole file dedicated to your sexual preferences and activities.
-Don’t think he’s concerned with your pleasure, though. Most, if not all, of it is observational. He really is just documenting your reactions, you’re not even sure if he enjoys anything he does for himself. (He must, since he does it so often).
-He’ll get really annoyed if he sees evidence of the other segments “activities” with you, and will find a way to brand you as his own where he can.
-This guy does so much to you it’s hard to really list it all. Think it, and he’s probably tried it at least once just to see if he liked it.
-Big one with him is dumbification though, have fun with that one lol.
45
-Think 35 with the penchant to tease.
-45 is a bit more loose with himself, more relaxed now that he’s been established and feared in the science world. I think he tends to act as Dottore’s face politically more than the others because he’s just a bit more charming and charismatic in comparison.
-Now, he’s not friendly at all, but he’s more enjoyable to talk to than you’d imagine. He’s got the mean bit from 25 with the knowledge of application that 35 has. Meaning, he knows how to make you fluster, and he likes to do it a lot.
-He still treats you like a pet in a similar way to 35, but it’s less condescending because he delivers it smoothly, rather than objectively.
-But he can be awful to you, and his teasing can lean too far into insult, and that’s when you run back to 35. Who takes great pride in his role as your “protector” from the others. It irritates 45 to no end, because he’d rather be your go to, but he’s not going to try and argue with the oh so arrogant 35.
-45 is the most fun to have sex with, because he doesn’t see a need to “experiment” on you too much. Yes the two of you have your fun, but that’s what it is: fun.
-Give it to his experience in living, or give it to his charm, he also tends to just enjoy things to enjoy them so long as he sees the benefit. The benefit of sex with you is that it feels great, and he gets to have you to himself.
-I think he also likes dumbification quite a bit, and he’s most likely to push you to orgasm the most. Overstimulating you is a quick way to get you in that idiotic state of mind, after all.
-He likes the babbling, makes fun of you for it, but enjoys how you rely on him so much in that mental state. Coos at you in an almost sweet kind of way, if only his intentions were the same.
-Also one of the only segments who gives a shit about after care. He’ll actually take the time to clean you up and ensure you’re resting after the fact. No cuddles or things like that, but he’s gentler than you’d expect him to be.
65
-As the oldest segment, he’s probably the most impassive of them all. The young ones have their fun, his research is more refined and detailed.
-He’s not much of a talker, either, though he will speak when spoken to. You’re not sure if it’s because he sees others as beneath him, or if he thinks talking isn’t worth the energy.
-He’s surprisingly comfortable to be around though. He rarely shoos at you, and if you ask him questions on his research he’ll answer curtly, but tell you regardless.
-He finds you… pleasant? Watching the other segments stumble over themselves for your approval is amusing, which is why he allows you to come to him when you like.
-It is affection that he feels in his later years for you, though he’s not going to admit that out loud. Particularly because the younger ones will have a fit if he did, because it obviously implies their own affections they are so ashamed of.
-He’s also not very sexual with you, because he has little sexual desire left at this point. He simply likes your company, and he doesn’t mind how the others feel about it.
-If you show sexual interest he will indulge you, and it’s likely the most intimate of the segments.
-He’s not quite soft with you, but there is a consideration for your pleasure that doesn’t exist within any of the other segments. You will leave satisfied, and so will he, that’s how it is.
-He finds no extra delight in experimentation and torture, it is only you and he, and that is all it needs to be.
-He even holds you after, allows you to be physically affectionate in a way the other versions of himself do not.
-While 35 may laud himself as your protector and your favorite, 65 is the one who takes the role naturally. If you really need something, all you need is ask, and he will comply quickly and efficiently.
-Perhaps it is a bit out of character for him, but in his later years, he finds himself seeking some kind of connection. Perhaps that is why the original Zandik is so smitten with you…
you live at the foot of a mountain with your husband, where there is nothing more for you to want in the peace you’ve cultivated together. until he comes home after a blizzard that should have killed him, bearing a smile that does not belong to the man you once married.
★ featuring; rerir x f!reader | flins x f!reader
★ word count; 7.2k words
★ tags; alternate universe, eldritch horror, kyryll gets offscreened and rerir hijacks his life ykwim, grief/mourning, SMUT (MDNI)
★ notes; this is lowkey a tshd au but i have only seen a grand total of two episodes from that show, so i kinda just winged it LMAO please do heed the tags and the warnings utc ! i wanted to try writing smth out of my comfort zone fr and here we have it :/
p.s. thank you to my lovely roc @rocwylde for quite literally sponsoring this fic LMAO in their wisest words "i like varka more than rerir, but i like eldritch monster fucking more than varka"
READ ON AO3
★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!
★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie
The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.
You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.
The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:
This is not the man you married.
Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.
You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.
The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.
You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.
Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…
Was Kyryll ever really gone?
You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.
Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.
Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.
Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.
The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.
Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.
Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.
It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.
So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.
These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.
“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”
But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.
“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”
Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.
You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”
“You always think about work first,” you sigh.
“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”
You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.
Almost.
Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.
All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.
“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.
“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”
Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”
Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.
“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”
Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.
You were taught to count time in threes.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.
Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.
The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.
Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.
Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.
Wait for me.
Three days pass before Kyryll returns.
The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.
Finally, he is there.
Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.
“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”
He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.
“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.
Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.
He does not kiss you back.
Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.
“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?
You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:
“What lamb?”
“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”
But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.
Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…
You do not ask.
You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.
The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.
That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.
Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.
But today, there is nothing.
Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.
Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.
For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.
Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.
You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.
At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.
But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.
They are replacements.
The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.
You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.
But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.
The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.
You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.
The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.
He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.
You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.
In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.
Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.
It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.
That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.
Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.
Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.
Instead, he walks toward you.
Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.
The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.
He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.
And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.
That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.
From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.
The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.
It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.
There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.
But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.
Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.
But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.
At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.
You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.
In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.
The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.
Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.
And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.
It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.
Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
One night, the dream takes a turn.
You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.
For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.
The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.
You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.
You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.
Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.
Winter eventually gives way to spring.
The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.
You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.
At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.
Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.
And that is when you turn.
Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.
The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.
He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.
It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.
For the first time, it is not a dream.
And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.
By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.
You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.
The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.
You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.
The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.
Not in fear. In want.
The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.
His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.
They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.
The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.
A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.
And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.
The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.
Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.
His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.
And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.
When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.
The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.
Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.
Even if you know it’s not.
His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.
You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.
And he notices.
The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.
You see it. You know.
But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.
It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.
Still, your body betrays you.
A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.
You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.
His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.
You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.
Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.
“Mine.”
The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.
He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.
Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.
It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.
Only the monster.
Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.
Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.
When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.
As the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Your husband’s shadow lingers at your back, and your wedding bands glint in the waning light.
You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.
You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.
Now, it is you and Kyryll.
And the thing that wears his face.
⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO
