PREMISE . . . In which you were caught wandering through a blizzard in Snezhnaya. They happen to be out in the blizzard for their own reasons when they spot a distant figure emerging through the whiteout, only to realize it's you. After the two of you meet eyes for one fleeting moment, you finally collapse from exhaustion and the cold, leaving them to rush to your aid.
ꫂ᭪݁ STARRING . . . mitya, valeriy, alyosha, tartaglia, dottore (in order) + gender neutral! reader
⚠︎ WARNING . . . › sfw!!, word count : 5k total / 1k per character, hypothermia, fainting, mentions of fever, use of [name], dottore being harsh, hints of s3lf-harm, established relationship, comfort, mild angst, protective behavior
note . somewhat proofread, mild spoilers of 7.0 snezhnaya archon quest (?) mostly places from snezhnaya being mentioned + i think i had too much fun writing dottore's part hmm
── ( 𝐦. ) Mitya was completely frozen the moment he realized the figure emerging through the blizzard was you. He had been focused on his fieldwork, following an unusual energy fluctuation that had leaked beyond Glupov and appeared on his equipment despite the worsening weather, so at first he only registered the approaching silhouette as another person caught in the storm.
He raised his voice through the wind, asking who was there, and when the figure finally came close enough for the snow to stop obscuring your face, his entire train of thought simply collapsed. His eyes widened, his expression going almost blank with disbelief as he stared at you. "[Name]..?" Your head lifted at the sound of his voice, and your eyes met his through the swirling snow.
Mitya couldn't move at all. He just stared, almost as though his mind couldn't accept that you were actually standing there. You looked equally exhausted, snow clinging to your hair, shoulders trembling beneath clothing that had clearly done very little to protect you from the storm, and there was something in your expression that made his confusion slowly turn into alarm.
"Mitya," you finally whispered, his name so faint that he almost wondered whether he'd imagined hearing it. "I'm here," he immediately answered, taking a step toward you. "What are you doing—?"
He reached toward you, his eyes searching your face as though trying to understand how you'd ended up here, but before he could ask anything, your knees suddenly gave way. "[Name]!" The paralysis shattered instantly.
Mitya lunged forward and caught you as your body collapsed, pulling you against his chest before you hit the snow. "No— hey, hey, stay with me!" His hands immediately moved over you, checking your breathing and searching for your pulse, and the moment he touched you properly, the panic became even worse.
You were freezing, not merely cold from standing in the storm for a few minutes, but frighteningly chilled throughout, your body almost completely limp against him. He brushed the snow from your face with shaking fingers, repeatedly calling your name and trying to get some response from you.
"Come on. Open your eyes." He stared at your closed eyelids, then down at your chest, watching desperately for its rise and fall. The questions he'd been trying to ask disappeared entirely beneath one overwhelming realization, you'd been walking through that blizzard for a long time, and he'd found you only because you'd somehow managed to keep moving until you reached him.
His equipment was forgotten in the snow behind him. The energy fluctuation that had brought him outside the city could cease to exist for all he cared. He gathered you into his arms, immediately wrapping his coat around you and shielding your face against his chest before carrying you toward shelter with a frightening urgency that made his normally composed movements almost frantic.
Once inside, Mitya became intensely focused, carefully getting you out of your frozen outer layers and replacing them with dry clothing and blankets while making certain you were warmed gradually.
His hands still trembled every so often, especially whenever he remembered how your knees had simply given out beneath you, but he forced himself to concentrate on what needed to be done.
Once everything he could do had been done, Mitya finally stopped moving, standing there for a moment as though he had only just realized how exhausted he was. His breathing was still uneven from carrying you through the storm, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked down at you beneath the thick blankets.
A warm, damp towel rested gently across your forehead, your face finally beginning to regain some color as you lay quietly, your breathing soft and steady beneath the covers. He watched the rise and fall of your chest for several seconds, almost as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly safe now.
His shoulders gradually lowered, and he let out a long, shaky breath before sitting beside you. The room was finally quiet, and without the frantic movement of getting you warm and settled, the reality of what had happened began catching up with him.
His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, his expression softening with exhausted relief, before he gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your forehead. His hands were steadier now, though there was still a faint tremor in his fingers.
He kept talking quietly as he worked, partly to keep himself grounded and partly because the silence left him alone with the image of you collapsing in his arms. "You know, I was supposed to be looking for an energy fluctuation tonight," he murmured, his thumb carefully smoothing along your hairline.
"It leaked outside of Glupov, and I thought I'd just have to come out here, check the readings, make a few notes, and go back to report what happened." A breathless, humorless laugh escaped him as he glanced down at you. "You... really couldn't have picked a less terrifying way to get my attention, could you?" The attempt at humor didn't quite hide how shaken he was.
Once you were made comfortable and your condition had stabilized, he sat beside you rather than returning to his work, keeping one hand near yours and checking your breathing every few minutes.
Every small movement from you immediately drew his attention. A twitch of your fingers, a change in your breathing, even the faintest shift beneath the blankets had him looking down with renewed concern.
After he sat down, he gently took your hand, his fingers carefully closing around yours as though he were afraid even the slightest pressure might disturb you. His thumb slowly brushed back and forth across your knuckles, lingering over the warmth gradually returning to your skin while his eyes remained fixed on your sleeping face.
For a moment, he simply sat there in silence, his expression softening as he watched your breathing settle into an even rhythm. Then he lifted your hand slightly and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles before lowering it back onto the blanket, "You really scared me."
── ( 𝒗. ) Valeriy would be traveling with a small unit of Fatui soldiers while inspecting a remote outpost, the worsening weather already making the journey considerably more difficult than it had been when they first set out. He would remain composed despite the blizzard, walking near the front of the group while giving short, precise instructions about their route and the condition of the road.
Snow would lash against his coat and collect along his shoulders, visibility gradually shrinking until the soldiers behind him became little more than blurred silhouettes. Then, through the thick curtain of white, he would catch sight of something moving in the distance.
Valeriy would immediately raise one gloved hand, bringing the entire group to a halt. The sudden silence among the soldiers would feel almost unnatural beneath the roar of the wind. He'd narrow his eyes toward the distant figure, watching it disappear behind a wave of blowing snow before emerging again several paces farther away. It wasn't moving normally. There was an unevenness to its steps, a slow, staggering rhythm that made his instincts immediately tighten.
He'd order the others to remain where they were and advance alone, his pace increasing with every step. The figure would become clearer the closer he came, until the familiar shape of your clothing finally emerged through the storm. He would stop dead. For a fraction of a second, Valeriy would simply stare, his usual impassive expression giving way to something much harder to conceal.
"[Name]." His voice would cut through the wind, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your face would be pale from the cold, snow caught in your hair and eyelashes, your entire body visibly exhausted from however long you'd been walking through the storm. Then your eyes would meet his.
Valeriy would remain completely still, staring at you as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly standing there. Recognition would flicker across your face, followed by a faint movement of your lips. "Valeriy..." The sound would barely reach him, but he would hear it.
He'd take another step toward you, his attention narrowing entirely onto your face. "What are you doing here?" Yet before you could answer, your expression would suddenly lose focus. Your knees would buckle beneath you.
"No." Valeriy would move instantly, catching you before you struck the ground, one arm securing your back while the other supported your head. Your body would feel alarmingly cold in his arms, far colder than it should have been, and his expression would harden as he checked your breathing and pulse.
For one awful moment, he'd find himself waiting for the reassurance of a heartbeat. When he finally felt it, he'd release a controlled breath. "They're alive." His voice would be quiet but absolute.
He'd immediately turn toward the soldiers, his expression remaining cold and composed despite the urgency underneath it. "We're heading back. All of us. Now." His gaze would sweep across the unit, leaving no room for hesitation.
"Forget the inspection. I want everyone back at Snezhnograd immediately. Stay together, keep to the marked route, and don't fall behind." His eyes would briefly drop to you before returning to the soldiers. "Move."
He'd remove his own outer layer and cover you with it, shielding your face from the wind before lifting you fully into his arms.
He wouldn't allow one of the soldiers to take you from him. Instead, he'd carry you himself, keeping your head supported against his shoulder while repeatedly checking your breathing as they made their way back toward the city.
Once they reached Snezhnograd, Valeriy would take complete control of the situation. He'd have the heating system started immediately, order blankets and dry clothing brought in, and summon whoever was capable of assessing your condition.
Every instruction would be concise and deliberate, his usual cold efficiency becoming almost severe as he refused to let anyone waste time. He'd personally oversee your treatment, making sure you were warmed gradually and that your breathing and pulse remained stable, occasionally reaching down to check your hand himself.
The soldiers would notice that he hadn't left your side, though nobody would be foolish enough to comment on it. Valeriy would sit beside you once everything necessary had been arranged, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable as he watched your sleeping face.
Eventually, your fingers would twitch, and his gaze would immediately sharpen. When you finally stirred, he'd lean forward without hesitation, his hand closing around yours. "Look at me." His voice would remain controlled, but the intensity behind it would reveal how closely he'd been watching you.
Your eyes would slowly open, unfocused at first before settling on him. "You're safe." He'd pause, studying your face for any sign that you were still struggling to remain conscious. Only once he was certain you were awake would the questions begin. Where had you come from? How long had you been out there? Why had you gone into the storm alone?
He'd want every detail, but he wouldn't bombard you while you were still weak. Instead, he'd let you answer at your own pace, quietly listening while his thumb rested against your hand. Beneath the composed exterior, however, the discovery would continue to haunt him. He had seen you standing in the middle of a blizzard and, for one terrible moment, believed he might have arrived too late.
That possibility would be enough to make him unusually reluctant to leave your side. Even once you were stable, he'd remain in the chair beside you, his coat still draped over your shoulders and his hand still loosely holding yours. Whatever business had brought him to the outpost could be delegated. The blizzard could rage outside for another hour, another night, or longer. Valeriy would remain exactly where he was, silently watching over you until he was certain you were truly out of danger.
── ( 𝐚. ) Alyosha would be deep in the wilderness when the blizzard began to roll in, the snowfall growing heavier by the minute until the familiar paths around him were becoming difficult to distinguish. Tugarin would normally remain close, responding immediately whenever Alyosha called him back, but this time the dog would seem strangely distracted.
Alyosha would stop beside a cluster of snow-covered trees and call out, "Tugarin." No response. He'd wait a moment, listening for the familiar sound of paws moving through the snow, then call again, sharper this time. "Tugarin, come here." Still nothing. His expression would immediately tighten.
Tugarin wasn't the sort of dog to ignore him without reason. Alyosha would start moving through the snow, following the faint disturbances in the powder while calling his name again, but the dog would suddenly appear farther ahead before turning and running in the opposite direction. "Tugarin!" Alyosha would call after him, irritation briefly flashing across his face as he hurried to follow.
The dog would disappear behind a curtain of snow, forcing Alyosha to pick up his pace, and by the time he finally caught sight of him again, Tugarin would be standing beside someone half-buried in the snow. Alyosha would slow immediately.
You were barely standing, your legs trembling beneath you as you leaned heavily against Tugarin for support, one hand weakly resting against his fur. Tugarin would be whining and nudging at you, clearly refusing to leave your side. You'd weakly try to push him away, murmuring through chattering breaths, "Tugarin, please." as though you were worried you'd somehow drag him into danger with you. Tugarin wouldn't listen. He'd press closer instead, standing firmly between you and the storm.
Alyosha would watch the scene for several seconds, his suspicion immediately sharpening at the sight of an unfamiliar person so far from any safe path. He'd take a few careful steps forward, one hand instinctively moving toward his weapon. Tugarin would glance back at him but still wouldn't move. Then you would finally lift your head.
Your eyes would meet Alyosha's through the swirling snow, and everything would seem to become strangely still for a moment. He'd recognize you. His expression would change immediately. "[Name]? Why..?" You'd stare at him, your face pale and exhausted, snow gathered along your lashes and hair.
Your lips would part as though you were trying to answer him, but no sound would come. Alyosha would lower his hand from his weapon and approach quickly, his attention moving between you and Tugarin.
He'd see the way your knees were trembling, the way you were struggling simply to remain upright, and the realization that you'd been walking through the storm for far too long would settle heavily in his mind.
"[Name], you need to get to someplace warm. Now." He'd reach toward you, but your strength would finally give out. Your knees would buckle, your body collapsing forward as Tugarin gave a sharp whine and Alyosha caught you before you could hit the snow.
Alyosha would immediately pull you against himself and check your breathing and pulse, his usual quiet composure replaced by a sudden, controlled urgency. "[Name]—!" You were frighteningly cold, your body nearly limp in his arms, and the sight would make his jaw tighten.
He'd look toward the trail behind you, studying the partially buried footprints and the direction they came from, already trying to determine how long you'd been wandering alone. Tugarin would stay pressed against Alyosha's leg, whining softly while watching you, and Alyosha would glance down at him before returning his attention to you.
Alyosha would glance down at Tugarin, his expression softening slightly despite the urgency of the situation. "Good boy. I knew I shouldn't have doubted you." He'd give the dog a brief pat along the head before looking back at you, immediately noticing how badly you were trembling. "Now we need to get [Name] back to the shelter before they get sick from being out here this long." He'd pull off his cloak and wrap it securely around you before carefully lifting you into his arms, keeping you close against his chest to shield you from the wind.
Alyosha would make his way back toward his place with Tugarin following immediately at his heels, occasionally running ahead before circling back to make certain Alyosha was still coming.
Once they reached their destination, Alyosha would carefully lay you down and begin warming you gradually, replacing your damp outer layers with dry, warm clothing, giving you thick blankets, and keeping you close to the heat source while having a close watch on your breathing.
Tugarin would settle on the bed, his head resting near your arm, occasionally lifting his ears whenever you moved. Alyosha would notice every little change. He'd check your pulse between tasks, adjust the blanket around your shoulders, and brush your hair with careful fingers.
The questions would already be forming in his mind, but he wouldn't ask them yet. Not while you were unconscious. When your eyes eventually opened, Tugarin would be the first to react, his head lifting immediately before he gave a few barks and nudged closer.
Alyosha would lean toward you, watching carefully for signs of confusion or weakness. "Wait, stay still, your body's still weak from the high fever you have." His voice would remain low and firm. "You're safe now." He'd let you gather yourself before asking what happened, listening closely to every word and every hesitation. His suspicion wouldn't disappear simply because you were his lover, seeing you emerge from a blizzard barely able to stand had already told him something was terribly wrong. Still, none of that would matter until you were strong enough to speak.
For the rest of the night, Alyosha would remain beside you with Tugarin curled nearby, the two of them keeping watch while the storm raged outside.
── ( 𝒄. ) Childe would be traveling through the region on Fatui business when the blizzard suddenly became severe enough to force his group away from their original route. The storm would be little more than an inconvenience to him, Snezhnaya had never been particularly kind about the weather, and Tartaglia was hardly the sort of person to let a little snow ruin his mood.
Then, in the midst of his walk, he'd catch sight of something moving through the whiteout. His voice would trail off. He'd turn his head toward the distant figure, narrowing his eyes as it appeared and disappeared behind the violently blowing snow. "Hold on." His sharp voice would be enough to make the soldiers stop on their tracks. Tartaglia would already be moving before they could ask what he'd seen.
The figure was walking toward them, though barely. Every few steps seemed to take an unreasonable amount of effort, the person's silhouette swaying in the wind as though the storm itself were pushing them backward.
Tartaglia's pace would quicken, his expression gradually losing every trace of amusement as something about the figure began to feel horribly familiar. Then the snow would shift, revealing your face. He'd stop for half a heartbeat, genuinely stunned.
"[Name]...?" You'd hear him and slowly lift your head, your eyes finding his through the storm. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you would move. Tartaglia would simply stare at you, his eyes widening as he took in the snow tangled through your hair, your pale face, and the way your body was trembling beneath your clothes.
You'd look at him with an exhausted sort of recognition, your lips parting as though you were trying to say his name. "Hey, I'm here." He'd take another hurried step toward you, his hand already reaching out. "My love, what are you doing out here? You'll get sick if you stay out like this."
You wouldn't get the chance to answer. Your knees would suddenly buckle beneath you, your entire body giving out as though whatever had been keeping you upright had finally run out. Tartaglia's expression would snap from disbelief to panic.
"[Name]—!" He'd rush forward and catch you before you struck the ground, dropping hard onto his knees in the snow with your weight collapsing against his chest, ignoring the loud calls from his soldiers behind them.
His hands would immediately move over you, checking your breathing and pulse with frantic precision. "Hey— [Name], look at me!" He'd brush the snow from your face, his voice becoming increasingly urgent when you didn't respond. "Come on, sweetheart. Open your eyes."
The moment his fingers found your pulse, he'd release a sharp breath, relief hitting him so suddenly that it almost made him dizzy. "You're okay." He'd say it under his breath, almost as though he needed to hear the words himself.
Then he'd pull you closer, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "You're going to be okay. I've got you." He'd barely spare a glance toward the soldiers before ordering them to get the nearest shelter ready.
Whatever mission he'd been on no longer mattered. He'd lift you carefully into his arms and carry you through the snow himself, keeping your head tucked securely against his shoulder while repeatedly looking down to make sure you were still breathing.
The moment he reached shelter, Tartaglia's usual energy would turn into something much more frantic and focused. He'd get the fire going, call for blankets, make sure there was warm water available, and carefully remove the snow-soaked layers from your clothing before wrapping you in everything he could find.
He'd keep touching your hands and face, checking that the horrible chill was gradually leaving your skin, and every few seconds his eyes would return to your chest to make sure it was still rising and falling.
He'd keep talking to you despite knowing you couldn't answer, because the silence would leave too much space for his thoughts to spiral.
"You really know how to scare me, huh?" he'd murmur while brushing the damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "I was already thinking about what would've happened if I lost you right there."
He'd let out a quiet breath, trying to laugh but failing to make it sound convincing. "So you have to wake up now, okay? That's an order." His hand would linger against your cheek before he finally pulled back, watching you with an almost painfully attentive gaze.
He'd remember the way you'd looked at him through the snow, the way you'd managed to say his name before your body simply gave up, and the thought would keep returning no matter how many times he tried to push it aside.
When you finally stirred, Tartaglia would notice immediately. He'd lean forward so quickly that the chair beneath him would scrape against the floor, his eyes locking onto yours the moment they opened. For a second, he'd simply stare, as though he needed to make sure you were actually awake this time.
Then he'd let out a shaky laugh, lowering his head with obvious relief. "Good morning, sunshine." He'd press his forehead gently against yours, closing his eyes for a moment as his hand settled carefully against the side of your face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see those pretty eyes open."
Childe would stay close, letting you regain your strength while he continued checking your body temperature, adjusting your blankets, and making sure you had everything you needed.
His teasing nature would gradually return once he was certain you were truly safe, though it would be gentler than usual. He might complain that you'd given him the worst scare imaginable, or joke that he was going to start tying a bell around your ankle whenever you wandered off, but his hand would remain wrapped around yours throughout it all.
Beneath every joke would linger the memory of finding you in that storm, of watching you meet his eyes for one fleeting moment before collapsing into his arms, and Tartaglia wouldn't forget that sight anytime soon.
── ( 𝒅. ) Dottore would be conducting a field investigation in the middle of the blizzard, having deliberately ventured beyond the city to examine how the extreme conditions were affecting one of his instruments. The storm would be violent enough to turn the surrounding landscape into an indistinguishable expanse of white, yet he would remain remarkably composed, periodically checking his equipment and making mental notes about the fluctuations in temperature and pressure.
His attention would be fixed on the instrument when something in the snow would catch his eye, a disturbance that seemed too deliberate to be caused by the wind. He'd stop, his gaze narrowing behind his mask as he examined the shape from a distance. It would look almost like debris at first, half-covered by snow, but the longer he stared, the more unmistakably human it became.
Dottore would approach with measured curiosity, expecting an unknown variable rather than anything personal, until the snow shifted and revealed a familiar piece of clothing. His pace would slow. He'd recognize you.
For several seconds, he wouldn't move at all. The sight would be so unexpected that even his analytical mind would need a moment to process it, his eyes fixed on you as though the scene before him were some impossible contradiction.
You were out here. Alone. In this weather. His expression would become unreadable as he approached, his attention immediately cataloguing every visible detail, the snow caught in your hair, the pallor of your face, the sluggish way your body moved beneath the weight of your clothes.
"[Name]." His voice would carry through the storm, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your eyes would find his. For a long moment, neither of you would look away. Dottore would watch the recognition settle into your exhausted expression, and beneath that, something resembling relief.
You'd look at him as though seeing him was enough to convince you that you had finally reached somewhere safe. He'd take another step closer, his gaze sharpening as he noticed how difficult it was for you to remain upright. "What are you doing here?" There would be no answer.
Your lips would part, but your voice wouldn't come. Your eyelids would begin to droop. Dottore would immediately notice the change. "How long have you—" He'd reach toward you just as your knees gave way. Your body would slump forward, and he'd catch you before your head struck the snow, one arm securing you against him while his other hand immediately searched for your pulse.
The detached composure he'd maintained until then would become something much more intensely focused. He'd check your breathing, feel the temperature of your skin, examine your pupils, and assess every sign of consciousness he could find.
The realization that you were dangerously cold would make his jaw tighten beneath the mask. He'd remove his coat and wrap it around you, pulling you securely against his chest before lifting you from the snow. The instrument he'd been studying would be left exactly where he'd abandoned it. Whatever scientific curiosity had brought him into the storm had become completely irrelevant.
His entire attention would now be fixed on you, on the frightening stillness of your body, and on the fact that he'd arrived just in time to catch you before you disappeared beneath the snow.
Once Dottore brought you back to the small laboratory he had been using as a temporary base, the entire room would immediately fall under his control. The few subordinates working inside would barely have time to react before he carried you through the door and ordered them to clear the nearest examination table.
His coat would be dusted with snow, your body still wrapped tightly against his chest, and the expression beneath his mask would be so severe that nobody would dare waste a second asking what had happened.
"Move." A subordinate would hurry forward to help take you from him, only for Dottore to turn his head sharply. "Don't touch them." His voice would be cold enough to stop them in their tracks.
He'd lower you himself, carefully arranging your frozen limbs before immediately checking your pulse, breathing, and temperature. Someone would bring blankets and attempt to help arrange them around you, and Dottore would snap without even looking up, "I said I'll handle it."
Another subordinate might mention that they could prepare the equipment while he worked, only for him to give them a cutting glance. "Then prepare it without standing over my shoulder."
The laboratory would become unnaturally quiet as everyone returned to their tasks, leaving Dottore to work with frightening concentration. He'd remove the snow-damp clothing, replace it with dry layers, wrap you securely in blankets, and carefully regulate the warmth around you.
Every movement would be deliberate, every measurement recorded, his fingers repeatedly checking your pulse as though he refused to trust the numbers until he'd verified them himself. He'd brush frozen strands of hair away from your face, studying the faint color returning to your skin, then straighten and finally release a controlled breath. You were stable. For the moment.
He'd remain there another few minutes, watching your breathing, before abruptly stepping away to check the equipment he'd abandoned earlier. He'd return after a short while, glance down at you, and find you still unconscious.
Another interval would pass before he left again, giving instructions to a subordinate to alert him immediately should your condition change.
Each time he returned, his eyes would go straight to you. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse remained present, yet you stubbornly refused to wake. The pattern would begin irritating him, not because your unconsciousness was unexpected, but because he'd already calculated roughly when your body should begin responding.
He'd stand beside the table, arms folded, staring down at you for several seconds before quietly remarking, "You really intend to make this inconvenient, don't you?"
Eventually, Dottore would return to your side for what felt like the hundredth time, finding you exactly where he'd left you. His gaze would linger over your sleeping face, his expression becoming increasingly unreadable as the minutes passed. He'd sit beside the table and carefully take your hand, feeling the warmth that had finally begun returning to your fingers.
His thumb would move slowly across your knuckles, almost absentmindedly, while his attention remained fixed on you. He'd lean closer, lowering his voice so that the subordinates across the laboratory couldn't overhear.
"My dear, if this was an attempt to hurt yourself, you selected an exceedingly inefficient method." His thumb would pause against your hand. "And doing it while I happen to be nearby is particularly foolish."
There would be something almost scolding in his tone, though his fingers would remain surprisingly gentle. He'd study your face for another moment before continuing, quieter now, "You could have simply come to me."
A faint sigh would escape him as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders. "Whatever compelled you to walk into that storm can be dealt with. There is no reason to make me reconstruct the circumstances from a half-frozen body."
He'd leave again eventually, returning to his work because he refused to spend every second hovering over you, yet he wouldn't get far. A few minutes later, his attention would drift from his notes toward the examination table. Then he'd stand, cross the laboratory, and check your pulse once more.
The cycle would repeat until one of his subordinates finally became brave enough to point out that he had checked you several times in the span of an hour. Dottore would give them a flat stare. "And?" That would be the end of the discussion.
When your eyelids finally fluttered much later, his attention would snap toward you immediately. He'd approach without hurry, though the speed with which he reached your side would betray how closely he'd been waiting. "There." His voice would soften by a fraction as your eyes struggled to focus. He'd lean down, one hand steadying your shoulder while the other remained around your wrist.
"Stay still." Once he was certain you were conscious, he'd study your face with intense scrutiny before quietly adding, "Now you can explain why you were walking around in the middle of a blizzard." His tone would be calm, almost clinical, but his hand would remain around yours throughout the questioning, unwilling to relinquish that small point of contact now that he'd finally gotten you awake.
I love the idea of immortal characters slowly forgetting their memories with you. It's so painful and real.
Dainsleif, who panics when telling his story of you to the traveler and Paimon, realises he forgot what your voice sounded like. Who clenched his fist, when he can't remember what your laughter sounded like.
Flins, who freezes when asked what you looked like, because he genuinely can't remember, and it shattered his heart when he realised that. Who begged to remember even little bits of you.
Neuvillette, whose voice stumbles when Sigwinne asks what you were like back then, the human who guided and taught him the world, who took care of him, someone that precious, yet he can't remember what you were like besides that.
when you take off your wedding ring during an argument [genshin men pt.2]
⋗ ft. cyno, flins, illuga, lohen, neuvillette, tighnari, wriothesley
⋗ ~0.6k | fluffy angst | gn!reader
Cyno
He’s so lucky he only came when he did, only when your anger simmered down slightly without him getting caught in the worst of it. Or so you thought until he managed to fan the flames again. If you were more sane, you might’ve considered he probably had no idea and it was purely coincidental that his particular choices pushed all your buttons.
You watch with half sick satisfaction, half heartbreaking sadness, as his face twists in surprise and hurt when you start pulling the ring off your finger.
“Hey,” his voice wavers, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on.”
It ticks you off more, though you didn’t think it was possible.
“Cyno, I can’t-”
“Not in front of the children,” he says, straight faced. His arms are outstretched as if he really meant to cover the eyes of the flowers blooming in the pots by the wall. Various rare desert flowers that he brought you as seeds, that you’ve grown and raised to their beautiful blooming selves despite the odds. You both did occasionally refer to them as your children, simply because caring for them was a labour of love.
Now, his words are so absurd that you can’t help but laugh through the swirling frustration. The ring stays on your finger because you don’t even have the strength to remove it.
Cyno chuckles too, carefully putting his hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the house. You can’t protest, still laughing, as if that was the outlet for your emotions that you needed - too proud and fired up to cry instead. Or maybe it was the cool night air, quenching the fire in your lungs and chilling your heated skin.
“Better?” he asks. You realize he’s patting your back.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “Better.”
“Now, wanna tell me what that was about?” he asks, and honestly he’d be right to sound more irritated than he does. Because he just sounds confused and concerned instead of angry.
“I was pissed off,” you admit, “And then you came and started talking about everything that already set me off earlier - and I still haven’t figured anything out. And then you argued back and- yeah.”
“Ah, I see,” he hums as he sits down, patting the space next to him for you to join him. You do. “You know you have a mouth, and you can tell me to shut up instead of starting a fight.”
Some part of you is set ablaze again, but you’ve run out of fuel.
“I know,” you sigh. You sway, drained both physically and emotionally, and lay your head on his shoulder. He just exhales with fond exasperation and leans his head against yours. Your feet dig into the cooling sand.
“Never take off your ring again,” he tells, orders, you, “Not even when showering. You’ve lost your privileges.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” you chuckle. He nudges your side with his elbow. “And I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven - for now. Just tell me if something’s bothering you next time,” he chides again, “We’ve made a sacred promise to each other. Don’t break it.”
Your hand settles atop his thigh, soon covered by his palm. The night is slowly growing chilly, but with your body pressed into his side it’s just what you need to let the tension uncoil where it lies waiting inside your body. And slowly you begin to talk as you should’ve done in the first place.
Cyno listens, he asks and leads when you’re getting too worked up and tangled in your own words. Like he promised, you figure it out together. And at the end of the day, when you finally doze off against his shoulder, he picks you up and carries you inside.
Flins
His words die in his throat, he raises his hand as if to stop you, but you’re too far to reach. Physically, at least, he hopes that the feeling of disconnect and distance between your hearts is only an illusion created by the argument that spiraled out of control.
“Please,” he says, voice quiet and calm, “Don’t leave me. Not you.”
You, too, stop. Fingers brush the ring on your finger as you consider what you were about to do. Flins comes closer, slowly, then circles his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. You let him, your resolve to keep arguing your point broken upon hearing his voice.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs into your hair, “That’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed.”
You nod weakly, finally letting your arms fall and wrap around his shoulders too. He doesn’t seem to want to let go anytime soon, and you’re grateful. It doesn’t fix anything, not the sadness radiating off of him, not the mournful silence that settled over the room. Still, for now, to feel his chest expand and press against yours, your breaths syncing, feels healing.
“I’m sorry, Kyryll,” you whisper, turning your face towards his, “I really shouldn’t have done that.”
“There was a time where I’d assume you are leaving me,” he confesses in a low voice, “Nothing would persuade me that you are not.”
You know it well. You’ve been there, after all, every step of the way - from how wary he was about getting close to you, then to at least being open to the idea but still reluctant, knowing he might not see you for weeks or months, all at the whim of the headquarters. But you never meant to stop him, accepting of the fact that duty comes first. And though you’ve pushed through the obstacles, you know well that arguments still take a toll on him, knowing he could be called to leave for a long time at any moment, even before you can make up.
“Let’s sleep on it, alright? We can talk over breakfast,” you suggest, “Or just shelf the argument. It’s not worth… this.”
“Can we do that?” he asks, unsure, “Is that allowed?”
You chuckle, and you think he must smile too, only briefly - the same way he only squeezes you tighter for a moment.
“We make the rules, don’t we?” you think aloud.
“Then I suggest we make it a rule neither of us tries to take off our ring unless our life depends on it,” he pulls away, looking at you with a strangely serious expression that you didn’t expect, “I declare it a rule. As a compensation for what you’ve done.”
You smile, a little relieved.
“Of course,” you agree, “So you forgive me? I promise I’ll obey your new rule perfectly.”
He makes a thoughtful sound.
“Maybe I should confiscate it until I’m sure you’ve learned how to behave,” Flins considers, leaning against you with his full body weight as if lost deep in thought. You struggle to keep both of you upright.
“People will talk,” you remind him gently, “If you need a public apology, I’m more than willing to give it to you without losing my ring and without being interrogated by every nosy old lady in our vicinity.”
He laughs into your hair but shakes his head. At least he can be reasonable. Finally he pulls away to look at you. The hurt on his face softened but its traces still linger. Somehow it feels reassuring that the centuries of his life have not stripped him of emotion, of care.
“I better hear what a wonderful husband you have next time they see me,” he smiles.
“I always tell them,” you promise, “No husband could compare.”
Illuga
“You don’t hurt people you love just because you get upset,” he whispers, yet somehow his voice sounds louder than it did the whole night.
You look down, at the back of your hand, at the ring halfway down your finger, and open your mouth before realizing you have no idea what to say. What can you say? When you look up, Illuga looks heartbroken. Angry, too. You see the nervous twitch of his hands, the buzzing, anxious whirlwind of energy inside of him. So it’s not a surprise when he storms out into the night with nothing but his coat and his lantern.
You sit down, the strength in your knees suddenly gone. Was it really worth it? You frown as you recount the events of the evening. Although you can’t say you’re being very efficient. Your mind stutters whenever you remember how calm he’s been through the whole thing, even though he must’ve been uncomfortable and upset too. You sigh. Hopefully he’ll return soon. As used to it as he is, as strong as he is, nothing is ever certain and the nights are long and dangerous. It hurts to remember how reverent Illuga acts whenever he has to leave on a mission, compared to the cold - although understandable - abandonment just now.
It’s infuriating that you can’t even follow after him - where would you start your search? No, it’s better to just wait, although you can’t seem to be able to just sit and do nothing. And even walking to the window is better than doing nothing at all. Walking? Running. You see a flash of light.
The flash is a glow of a lantern, circling, and you pace inside the house, running from window to window, one circle, second one, third - then you crack.
You barely open the door an inch before Illuga’s there, scowling at you. “What are you doing?”
“Please come inside,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. I was wrong and I shouldn’t have done that.”
He hesitates, but his shoulders drop, the lantern hangs by his side.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says.
“Thank you,” you whisper, taking a gamble and reaching for his hand. He lets you, smiling softly at the spark of light that bounces off the bands on your intertwined fingers. “If you need air, I can handle it if you stay like this. But I’d love it if we could talk inside.”
He follows after you, even if he slowly pulls his hand back as you reach the kitchen. It hurts, but you suppose it’s fair.
“I always think of you before every fight,” he confesses, nothing new, but it makes your heart ache, “Who would I return to if you left?”
“That’s not what- I’m sorry,” you sigh again. There’s a painful lump in your throat that you try to ignore.
“Just remember that if you ever feel like doing it again,” Illuga begs, quietly.
Of course you won’t. Finally he comes closer, if only because he puts some water on the stove to boil and needs to stand beside you to do so. He lingers even after the task is done, however. His fingers slowly intertwine with yours again despite the silence stretching on.
You don’t know what to say or do next, all you do is look nervously at him, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk either. So you just help him make the tea and sit down with him to drink it before you retire to bed, together, facing each other, even if no words are exchanged, even if all you do is hold hands. Illuga gives you a small squeeze, a reassurance he’ll be okay, eventually. That’s good enough for you.
Lohen
Your fingers only graze your ring. The briefest of touch of your fingertips against the band that you never manage to get a grip on.
Lohen’s already snatched your wrist and is dragging you towards his desk. You’re no match for his strength. He pulls you along like a ragdoll with no regard for your panicked gasp or nails clawing at his glove. In all honesty, you think for a second that it only excites him further.
He roughly shoves you against the desk, traps you between the surface and his body. His hand shoots out for something while his other holds the hand with your finger steady. Before you can collect yourself and resume protests, you feel the bite of a cold metal close around your skin. Your eyes fly towards what he’s doing. The device is familiar, you’ve seen it used before. You know it can cut through bone like a hot knife through butter.
“You’ve evened the odds,” you say, voice calmer than you feel.
It’s a lie, too. As much as you might value your finger, it’s not comparable to what he’d be losing.
“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” he growls against your ear. His voice sounds frenzied, smirk loud in his every word. The blade doesn’t cut into your skin. Obviously he’s not being reckless.
“In part,” you hum. As if a bucket of cold water was poured over you, your earlier anger has all but dissipated.
“If I add sliiiightly more pressure you lose the finger-”
“And I’ll never take another husband,” you add with a small smile, “Yes.”
Utterly predictable. You feel him bristle. Naturally he wouldn’t say that, but what is Lohen if not a possessive lover?
“How could I after my first betrayed me in this way?” you continue, “After I was marked irreversibly for my mistake and yet still cast aside?”
Lohen falls silent. Calculating? Surely not. Poison might or might not still be coating his tongue, ready to lash out because after all, he’s been wronged. Perhaps more than you’ve been during your clash, perhaps less than you’re being slighted now.
“I was about to act on emotions, and it was a disappointing reaction,” you continue, “I apologize. In the heat of the moment I forgot certain rituals are sacred to you as well.”
For a long moment, you’re stuck at an impasse. Eventually, though, he deflates behind you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder.
“You’re no fun,” he grumbles, “And the safety is on.”
Safety? He demonstrates - no matter how strong he pushes, you don’t lose the finger.
“You’re full of surprises,” you sigh, leaning back into him, “I never thought you’d have any use for measures like that.”
He giggles, kissing your cheek. His arms remain tightly wound around you. “I didn’t before. But I have since acquired a liability that needs to be taught a lesson sometimes.”
“Liability? Ouch,” you scoff.
He just shrugs. Though you suppose he’s not exactly wrong - it goes both ways, after all. Liability to each other with your actions, liability to each other due to your position. Even if you doubt anyone would believe they’d get under Lohen’s skin through you or stupid enough to try to threaten his wellbeing to get back at you.
“Next time, there will be no safety,” he warns suddenly. His voice dropped ten degrees since he last spoke. It sends a shiver down your spine.
“There will be no next time,” you promise, “Regardless of what you just said.”
“Good,” and he’s back to his cheerful self and pecks your cheek, “You learn quickly, that’s why you’re mine.”
You roll your eyes. You did know what you were getting into, though, so you suppose you have no right to complain anyway.
Neuvillette
And suddenly you could hear a pin drop. The world has stopped for a moment in your bedroom, yet it keeps turning without mercy.
Neuvillette’s eyes are wide, and it’s not just them - his entire body betrays how shaken he feels. His entire line of sight has narrowed to where your ring is held between your fingers instead of being worn on one of them.
“What does it mean?” he asks, his breathing trembling, voice quiet and unsteady, “What-”
He wants to take a step forward, it almost looks like he’ll fall forward but he doesn’t, instead he forces himself to stay in place. Although trembling, he chooses to stay as if the smallest of his actions might make you leave and leave the ring behind.
Watching him makes you forget your feelings, drained into nothingness. Your own hands start to shake, you, too, start to second guess yourself. More so when you take a step towards him and he draws back, as if he couldn’t fathom anything but a catastrophic scenario.
“Love, it’s okay,” you whisper, trying to coax him into allowing you to approach him without fear. His eyes finally look up to search your face for something. The second, third, all the following steps are easier. By the time you’re within his reach, the ring is back on your finger, not like it changes anything.
“Why would you do that?” he asks, a pained whisper, “What did you want to say by it?”
You shake your head, slowly erasing the space between you, slotting yourself against his body, embracing him.
“I’m sorry, mon amour,” you murmur into his shoulder. His hands hover over your body without quite touching you. “I just got so upset I couldn’t think straight.”
Finally - contact. Like you’re the one who needs comfort, and you do - just not as much as the Iudex shivering in your arms.
“What happened?” he murmurs, “You’ve never done this. I thought we were just discussing an issue.”
You can only sigh fondly.
“This isn’t the court, Neuvillette,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his back, “I need you to hear me out without evidence and without questioning me.”
“I didn’t realize I was upsetting you,” he admits as he pulls you closer, “Not to this extent.”
You know. The intricacies of intimate relationships are still a little lost on him, and that’s fine. That’s fine as long as you’re the one who goes briefly insane. You have no idea what you’d do to placate a dragon should he get stubborn.
“Did you want to leave? And,” he hesitates, his voice breaking, “Dissolve our marriage?”
“I didn’t,” you reassure him, but you can’t look into his eyes - not with how stubbornly he refuses to let you put distance between you.
“I can’t lose you,” he confesses quietly, “Scream at me. Be angry with me. Talk to me.”
You chuckle. You can’t help it. To make up for the slight, you hug him tighter.
“How could I leave? I’d get soaked,” you mumble. Biting your tongue before you can laugh again, you listen to the indignant sound he makes.
“How can you joke now?” he grumbles. Still holding you a prisoner in his arms, still squeezing you with every single of your movements.
“It’s alright,” you try to reassure him, “I’m not going anywhere. We’re not arguing anymore.”
He hums while clearly not listening much to your words. Maybe your fears were justified, maybe you did bring out the draconic stubbornness in him. Which is fine. It’s fine as long as he wants you to stay instead of insisting you leave.
Tighnari
“Okay - pause, pause,” Tighnari’s demeanor switches in an instant. The moment you see his ears flatten against his head and his tail frozen stiff behind him, you can’t help but feel guilty. You might’ve overreacted, just a little bit. “I see you, I hear you, let’s take a step back.”
He offers you a careful half-smile as he guides you to sit down. For now, he avoids touching you, even though you see the nervous twitch of his fingers, the urge to do so and reassure himself you’re okay. He kneels on the floor in front of you, offering his hands for you to take. You hesitate for a bit, but eventually sigh and slip your hands into his.
“There we go,” he murmurs, “What was it?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. Because you truly don’t. Maybe it was everything - the late hour, your empty stomach, him making sense, him breathing wrong, just a cocktail for disaster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think this far ahead.”
He pats your knee.
“I’m sorry too, I pushed too hard,” he sighs, “Still, I’m glad you changed your mind.”
You look down at the ring on your finger and then raise your eyes back to meet his. Giving him a careful smile, you squeeze his hands. You shared the silence, both relieved that your home is back to how it’s supposed to be. Although, some of the tension still remains woven into your shoulders.
It was so rare, after all. Any kind of an argument with Tighnari, especially a heated one like this. You pull on his arm to make him get up and sit next to you, slipping easily into his hug when he sneaks an arm around your shoulders. He rocks you from side to side, gently, until your heartbeat finally settles.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” you finally say, “I don’t think I felt myself taking the ring off at all.”
“I want you to know there’s plenty of sources I could get a really sticky resin from,” he hums, “Don’t make me glue it to your finger.”
You have no idea if his intention was to sound threatening, all you know is that if so, he failed miserably. But that’s also good. Your Tighnari is gentle, after all. Scary only whenever you’re in danger, never towards you.
“Did you mean that?” you ask, “When you said that thing about-”
“No,” he shakes his head, almost as if he doesn’t want to hear his words repeated to him, “I just got a little frustrated too.”
“Hmm, that’s a first,” you joke, “And last, I hope.”
Tighnari laughs too, his ears finally slowly relaxing and unsticking themselves from his skull. His tail lands in your lap like a warm blanket, like yet another appendage that’s supposed to stop you from leaving.
“But if that was your way of telling me you don’t like the ring-”
“Nari…” you groan, rolling your eyes when he bites his lip to stop himself from laughing again, “But if that’s your way of asking for a vow renewal, I’m not against it.”
“It wasn’t that big of a fight, was it?” he teases, but soon his smile softens, “We can do it - we should do it sometime in the future.”
You nod in agreement. It’s too soon now but just the thought of perhaps exchanging vows again, perhaps even adding another ring to seal those vows, makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. More than that, however, the thought of spending the years leading up to it with Tighnari, and years following after too.
“I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.
“And I love you,” he returns the gesture.
The look in his eyes betrays him. He was thinking the same.
Wriothesley
“-oh come on, please don’t do that,” he groans, running his hands over his face. Still, he steps back, giving you the space you needed, that you asked for. He backs himself into the wall, sliding against it until he sits on the floor.
The room falls silent, safe for the sound of your breathing. You worry your lip between your teeth, allowing yourself time to calm down. Deep inhale, hold, deep exhale. A routine until you feel in control enough to not say anything you’d regret later.
“Wriothesley?” you call out to him. He still sits with his back against the wall, his face is still covered by his hands. “Baby? Look at me?”
“I’m not looking until you put the ring back on,” he says, and he couldn’t sound more like a kicked dog if he was one.
“How about you put it on me, hm?” you try as you sit down in front of him, nudging your knee against his.
Finally he lifts his head. You’ve never seen him more miserable than right now, looking at the ring in your palm. He takes your hand, brings it to his lips after picking up the ring and kisses your knuckles one by one. You can only sigh affectionately and run your hand through his hair.
It’s a quick, yet gentle affair, him putting the ring back on your finger. He keeps your other hand hostage, cradling it to his cheek.
“Just tell me next time,” he pleads, “Warn a guy. I don’t know, push me away if I don’t listen. Hit me.”
You sigh. You have a half a mind to take him up on that, just to shut him up before he can come up with any more stupid ideas.
“I’m not gonna hit you, Wriothesley,” you inform him, “But I would like it if you could listen when I tell you I need space.”
“You were about to leave,” he pouts again, “We promised to never walk away when we’re mad.”
“Yeah, that’s on me,” you admit.
“I should’ve listened anyway - we’re even?” he suggests, full of hope. You smile and nod.
“My offense was worse,” you tease, “I’m getting off lightly.”
“You know what, if you’re keeping that ring on your finger I think I can live with not putting you on trial,” Wriothesley leans closer and steals a kiss, “See how nice I am?”
“The nicest,” you roll your eyes.
He grins, finally more relaxed. Yet you’re not allowed to pull your hand back, still cupping his cheek. He holds your hand there like his life depends on it, contrary to his carefree smile. So you huff and put your hand on his other cheek too, leaning over him when he parts his knees to make space for you.
Icy blue eyes watch you, tempt you to get closer, flicking down to your lips as if you needed more hints. You kiss him slowly, thumbs stroking his cheeks while his hand cups the back of your neck and holds you close, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I’m already in jail for my crime,” you remind him playfully, “Your domain. They won’t let me go without your permission.”
He chuckles too, capturing your lips one more time. He rubs your noses together.
“Not how this works but I could change that,” another kiss, “I should, maybe.”
“There’s no life without you,” you shrug, but you make sure he knows you mean it, not looking away even when the intensity in his gaze threatens to burn you alive.
It’s true, after all. Your home is where Wriothesley is, and that is where your happiness lies.
idol!reader x assassin!lohen (+ small art in the middle !)
synopsis: Lohen is an assassin who thrive on the thrill of the hunt—especially the moment fear breaks in his targets' eyes.
But when tasked with eliminating a famous idol, you had offered acceptance rather than fear and that single moment turns his mission into a twisted game: he will show you life beyond the stage before ending it at your peak.
However, the more he pulls you into the world, the more he dreads for the end.
contains: 10.9k wc, female reader, modern au, depressive themes, mentions of death/suicidal ideation, attempted murder, psychological distress, implication of eating disorders, violence, controversial (?) takes on the idol industry, lohen might be ooc, fluff with a bit of angst
notes: this came out longer than i expected it to be but i just couldn't stop when i started..whoops. tbh i saw an edit of lohen with 'fame is a gun' as the audio and instantly got inspired to write this. (somehow i always get ideas on trains LOL)
not beta read, so please excuse any mistakes
aso i rlly cant draw anatomy or do any rendering so yikes..
STAGE 0. THE MISSION
'M1RAGE'
Almost everyone knew of them. Even those who had never deliberately followed idols had, at some point, heard of their songs drifting through public spaces—playing softly in stores, trending in edit across countless fandoms, woven into the background of a world that never seemed to stop talking about them.
So it was no surprise that Lohen recognised the name the moment it appeared in the file handed to him.
But what did interest him was not the group iteself—it was the specific target.
[Name]
Of course he knew who you were too.
It would have been difficult not to.
You were, by far, M1RAGE's most popular member.
Your face was impossible to avoid. Billboards stretched across city skylines, advertisements flashed your image beside brands, and your smile had been perfected into something both inviting and untouchable. Entire marketing campaigns seemed to orbit around your existence. It was said that anything you endorsed would sell without question—that your name alone could influence markets.
That was the kind of fame you held.
Which made the assignment almost amusing.
You who were adored by millions.
A person whose every movement was documented, discussed, and scrutinised by the public.
And yet someone, somewhere, had still decided that your life was worth paying to erase.
"Hm."
Lohen rested his chin against one hand, eyes lingering on the photograph clipped to the file.
His gaze lingered for a moment before he flipped to the next page.
"I wonder what you're actually like.."
The thought appeared and disappeared just as quickly.
It didn't matter.
People were people.
Once the fear set in, they all become predictable.
The paper shifted quietly beneath his gloved fingers as he reviewed the remaining details. At some point, a small dagger found its way into his hand. He rolled it lazily between his knuckles, the polished blade catching the light before disappearing again.
"I wonder why the Grandmaster accepted such a case?"
No answer came.
Not that he expected one anyways.
With a small shrug, he closed the file.
"Eh, not my concern."
If it was a job assigned to him, then it would be completed the same way as all the others—without hesitation nor questions.
His eyes drifted back toward the photograph one last time and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Still.."
The dagger stopped spinning.
"I wonder what face you'll make when you realise you're going to die?"
STAGE 1. THE TARGET WHO WASN'T AFRAID.
Now standing on the rooftop a short distance away from the massive stage where M1RAGE was set to perform, Lohen blended into the night without effort.
His dark clothing absorbed what little light remained, turning him into something indistinct against the skyline. From below, the city was noise and colour, thousands of voices merging into a single living thing, but up here everything felt distanct, reduced to silence.
He exhaled once as he set the case down and opened it with practiced precision.
The sniper came together in his hands piece by piece, each movement calm and familiar to him, guided by repetition rather than thought. After years of doing this, assembling a weapon felt no different than buttoning a shirt or tying a knot.
Tonight's plan was simple.
A warning.
The purpose wasn't to end your life tonight. Death was far too quick to be satisfying. No, that would come later, after anticipation had been given enough time to fester into something uglier.
He had chosen the rooftop carefully, sacrificing the perfect firing angle for one that offered greater visibility. The distance was still more than enough to gurantee the shot, yet close enough that, if fortune favoured him, your eyes might catch the sihouette of a man standing against the night, a sniper rifle resting in his hands.
Recognition was all he needed.
Fear would do the rest.
Lohen could already picture it unfolding. The exact moment when the illusion of safety shattered beneath the realisation that someone was out to harm you.
The sleepless nights that followed.
The bodyguards.
The constant glances over your shoulder and the way every unfamiliar face would become a potential threat.
Paranoia had a way of hollowing people out from the inside—it was slow but relentless, almost beautiful in its efficiency to wear someone down.
By the time he returned to deliver the final blow, most of his targets had already done half of the work for him. Exhaustion had stripped away their judgement and fear clouded instinct, leaving them isolated and vulnerable.
He wondered which kind you would be.
Would you scream, like so many before you, your voice tearing itself apart as reality finally caught up to you?
Or would you belong to the quieter ones—the people whose terror swallowed every sound before it could escape, whose mouth opened but whose voices never came, frozen in the suffocating grip of panic?
The thought of his past victims earned the faintest smile.
As time passed, the performance began.
The stadium exploded into life.
Floodlights carved through the darkness in sweeping arcs while music thundered across the area hard enough to rattle the steel beneath his boots. Ten of thousands of voices merged into a deafening roar as M1RAGE emerged beneath a storm of colour, smoke and blinding white light.
Lohen shifted without hurry, settling comfortably against the concrete ledge.
The sniper rifle rose in one fluid motion, fitting naturally against his shoulder. Within seconds, he'd found the perfect angle, his breathing slowing until even his heartbeat seemed to fade into the silence inside his own head.
Through the scope, the world tightened into focus, everything outside the frame dissolving into irrelevant blur. The stage became sharp under the flood of lights, the crowd an indistinct wave of movement and sound.
And at the centre of it all—
You.
For a brief moment, he understood why people became so obsessed.
The stage seemed built around you.
Even surrounded by your group members, attention drifted toward you effortlessly, drawn by some quality he couldn't immediately name.
Perhaps it was charisma.
Perhaps it was the effortless confidence of someone accustomed to standing beneath the gaze of thousands.
Whatever it was, it made sense why your face was everywhere.
Lohen adjusted his breathing again, allowing the rifle to settle naturally into position. His finger rested against the trigger, simply waiting.
Timing mattered more than accuracy.
Accuracy had never been the difficult part.
He centred the crosshair over your face.
But then your gaze shifted.
It rose from the crowd, past the cameras, the building stage lights, and setlled somewhere far beyond. It aligned with his position with unsettling accuracy, as if the distance between you had never existed at all.
He held his breath, wondering if you were going to scream—
And then you smiled.
Right at him.
As though acknowledging his existence up there was no different than acknowledging a member of an audience.
For a moment, Lohen simply observed you.
Fear was something he knew intimately.
He'd watched it bloom in countless forms. Shock that cracked across someone's face before they understood what was happening. Denial that stubbornly insisted everything was fine until reality became impossible to ignore. Blind panic that sent people running without direction, convinced movement alone could outrun death.
Those reactions were familiar to him, predictable enough that he could anticipate them before they formed. Even the ones who hide it still leaked something—fear, confusion, that ugly little instinct to survive.
What he was seeing now didn't belong to any of those categories.
There was no break in your performance. You moved through the choreography with effortless precision, laughing with your members, waving towards the crowd as though nothing had happened.
As though meeting the gaze of someone pointing a rifle at your head hadn't interrupted your evening in the slightest.
Lohen let out a low delighted sound under his breath, his thumb tracing the edge of the scope absently as he watched you continue your performance without a single visible fracture.
"Oh? That's not right.."
He leaned back slightly from the scope, just enought for his eyes to leave the lens for a moment, but his weapon stayed trained forward regardless, held steady by muscle memory alone.
One hand rose to his face, and with slow, unhurried motion, he pulled his mask down. The cool air hit his skin, but he barely registered it.
It felt unnecessary to keep hiding behind it now.
He then leaned forward again, but not to aim properly—just to look. To confirm what he already knew he was seeing.
"No trembling," he murmured, almost fascinated. His eyes tracked your movements effortlessly as you crossed the stage, "No hesitation...no nervous eye movements.."
The grin forming on his face widened.
"That's new."
His heartbeat had always remained steady during jobs. Now, however, he could feel his pulse quickening in excitement.
Because for the first time in a very long while, something unexpected had happened.
Every assignment before this had followed the same predictable progression.
He locates the target, the target realises they're being hunted, fear takes root and they try to run only to be hunted down by Lohen with quiet efficiency.
Whether they screamed, begged or fought, the ending never changed.
He still enjoyed the hunt, but even enjoyment dulled when every chase ended the same way.
Predictability was efficient, but efficiency was boring.
Then there was you.
You had looked toward the rifle aimed at your head with impossible precision, met the gaze of the man behind it, and smiled.
Not the brittle smile of someone pretending everything was fine or the strained composure of someone refusing to panic.
A genuine smile.
As though the possibility of death standing hundreds of meters away wasn't alarming enough to deserve even a second thought.
A quiet laugh escaped him, richer this time, carrying amusement.
"This isn't how prey behaves.."
His finger eased away from the trigger without him consciously deciding to do so. The shot he'd been preparing moments earlier no longer held any appeal.
Instead, this attention fixed entirely on you, studying you as you moved around.
Either you possessed extraordinary control over your emotions..
Or you really didn't fear him.
And it seems it was the second possiblity which made it far more interesting.
What would make you afraid?
"I guess," he said softly, grin unwavering. "There's a change of plans."
Slipping backstage proved almost laughably easy. Security existed to keep fans out, not people like him.
By the time anyone realised an unfamiliar face had wandered into the restricted area, he was already seated comfortably in the makeup chair inside your dressing room.
He leaned back in the chair as though it belong to him, lazily spinning in slow circles while his gloved fingertips drummed against the armrests. His eyes wandered across the neatly arranged cosmetics, bouquets of congratulatory flowers, and handwritten letters from fans scattered across the vanity.
The company must have really liked your group to give everyone their own private rooms.
The door opened.
You stepped inside, still dressed in your performance outfit. Sweat clung to the loose strands of hair framing your face, and a towel rested around your shoulders as you closed the door behind you with a tired sigh.
The moment your eyes landed on the stranger occupying your seat, you paused.
Confusion crossed your features before melting into polite concern.
"Oh." you said, offering the same practiced smile that had greeted thousands of fans only minutes earlier. "Are you..a fan? I don't think visitors are allowed backstage."
"I wasn't"
The chair completed one final turn before Lohen planted both feet on the floor, bringing it to a smooth stop. He rested his elbow against the armrest, supporting his chin with one hand as a slow smirk spread across his face.
"But maybe I am now."
His gaze lingered on yours for a long, thoughtful moment, as though he were comparing the person standing before him to the one he'd watched through the rifle scope earlier.
"Tell me something."
You tilting your head slightly, waiting.
"When you looked toward the rooftop during the concert," His tone remained almost conversational, "..what did you see?"
Recognition flickered across your face.
"Oh..! Were you perhaps the fan up there?"
Lohen blinked, "..What?"
"Our concerts usually sell out almost immediately." A quiet laugh escaped you, "I figured maybe a fan couldn't get a ticket and decided the rooftop was the next best thing."
For the first time since you'd entered the room, genuine amusement crossed Lohen's face.
"You looked at someone trespassing on a rooftop," he said, leaning back on the chair, one hand coming up to cover part of his mouth as delight flickered openly across his face. "And somehow concluded they're just an overly enthusiastic fan?"
"It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud." You hum, shaking your head at yourself. "But fans have done stranger things before. Some followed our vans..climbed fences, waited outside venues for hours just to wave at us for a few seconds.." You shrugged lightly. "Going up to a rooftop to see a concert didn't seem impossible."
"No.." His grin lingered for another moment before dropping slightly. "I suppose it wouldn't" he sighed.
No wonder you smiled.
His eyes remained on you, studying you with the same careful attention he'd given you through the scope earlier.
"Ah a shame..I made sure you could see me, you know?"
The sudden confession of his made you raise an eyebrow.
Lohen leaned back further into the chair, lifting one ankle and casually resting it over the opposite knee as though he were reminiscing about a pleasant evening rather than discussing an attempted assassination. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the armrest once again.
"I even gave up a better firing position for one where the sihouette would be obvious! Plus my rifle was exposed."
Your brows knit together.
"Rifle?"
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He straightened in his seat, one gloved hand lifting as if presenting an invisble outline in the air, his eyes brightening with mischief.
"Yes indeed! If you had seen it instead of merely thinking I was a fan.." He paused, tilting his head as though picturing the scene all over again. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wonder..."
His voice trailed off, entertained by the thought more than the answer.
You lowered your gaze, smoothing an absent wrinkle from the towel draped around your shoulders. Your fingertips lingered against the soft fabric as you searched for the words.
"I..If I had been shot by your said rifle, then at least I would've died with a smile."
The smile disappeared from Lohen's face.
The tapping of his fingers stopped.
He didn't laugh. Instead, he watched you in complete silence, searching your expression for the slightest crack—for a nervours smile, an exaggerated flourish, anything that might reveal it as a joke.
Finding none, he slowly leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"...You're remarkably accepting of death."
You met his gaze before giving a small shake of your head.
"No..I don't think that's quite right." you countered, "I don't want to die. But if I had seen the rifle from the start, I don't think panicking would've changed anything either."
Your eyes drifted toward the brightly lit vanity mirror. Under its glow, your reflection still looked every bit the perfect idol, immaculate beneath the makeup and stage lights, even as exhaustion settled heavily across your shoulders.
"Are you here to finish me off?"
Silence settled over the dressing room.
For several long seconds, Lohen remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on you without wavering. Then, with an almost inaudible sigh, he rose from the chair.
The soft squeak of its wheels echoed across the room as he stepped away from it. One hand slipped into his pocket while the other idly adjusted the cuff of his glove.
Rather than stopping, he wandered a slow circle around the dressing room, his fingertips brushing over the edge of the vanity, lingering briefly against a bouquet of congratulatory flowers before absentmindedly straightening one of the ribbons tied around it.
Only then did he stop—now a few paces from you.
Close enough now that you could see the faint glint returning to his eyes.
"No."
He turned back to the nearest bouquet, plucking a loose petal from a flower, rolling it between his fingers before letting it flutter to the floor.
"That would be dreadfully dull."
"Dull?"
"You know what I enjoy most?" he asked quietly, picking up one of the neatly wrapped gifts from the vanity next. He turned it over in his hands with idle curiousity before setting it back exactly where he found it. "It isn't the killing."
You stayed silent, and that seems to encourage him to continue more.
"It's the waiting."
He wandered a few more steps, aware that your eyes were following him wherever he went.
"I enjoy the part before the ending." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "The part where people realise someone is after them. That they have too much left to lose..and suddenly become desperate to survive."
He turned around, back now facing you as his hand came to rest against the vanity.
"They stop sleeping properly. They start second guessing every sound, every shadow. Every stranger who glances at them for a second too long becomes a suspect." He chuckled quietly. "Eventually, even familiar faces begin to feel wrong."
Looking up, he looked at your reflection in the mirror rather than at you directly, "By the time I return," he mumured, almost thoughtfully, "most of them have already started falling apart on their own."
Only then did his eyes leave your reflection to meet yours.
"But you..."
A quiet breath escaped him, somewhere between disappointment and reluctant curiousity. He studied you for another long moment, his head tilting almost imperceptibly, as though he were discarding one conclusion in favour of another.
"..You already accepted the possibility."
"I didn't say that."
The protest came more quickly than you intended, though even to your own ears it lacked conviction. Your grip tightened around the towel before slowly easing again.
"You didn't have to." he replied, almost gently, as if correcting something self-evident instead of arguing with you.
That made you fall quiet.
Lohen regarded you for another few seconds before speaking again, his voice stripped of any of the playfullness he had from before.
"You bore me."
The words should have stung.
Instead, they landed with surprising indifference, less an insult and more of an..honest conclusion. The disappointment on his face lingered only briefly before something brighter took its places.
His eyes sharpened, the corners of his mouth lifting as though he'd stumbled across a puzzle he hadn't expected to enjoy.
"And yet." he smiled. "You fascinate me more."
"Becauseee," he let the word linger, almost savouring it. "I've never met anyone who reacts quite like you do."
The room fell silent once again.
"If that's true.." Your fingers finally released the towel, dropping back down to your side, "..maybe you're simply early."
Lohen tilt his head.
"Early? Do explain."
"You said you enjoy watching people become afraid when they realise they have something to lose."
You slowly met his gaze again.
"If that's what you're looking for.." A faint, almost apologetic smile touched your lips. "Then perhaps I don't have enough to lose yet."
Something unreadable flickered across his face, but before he could response, the words left your mouth first.
"Show me that life is worth holding onto."
The sentence surprised even you. Your brows drew slightly together, as though you hadn't meant to say it out loud, yet once the silence setlled between you, you found yourself unable to take it back.
"Show me why tomorrow matters. Show me something that makes me want to wake up excited instead of simply because my schedule says I have to."
Your eyes drifted towards the bouquets and gifts lining the vanity. So many congratulations. So many smiling messages..
"Maybe one day, I'll be terrified of losing all of it too." you mumbled, your eyes shifting back to him.
Lohen stared, considering your proposal and soon enough, the excitement spread across his face, his eyes brightening with fascination, as though you offered him something far more valuable than anything he has ever owned.
A quick death would answer nothing.
Watching someone slowly rediscover the joy of living—only to witness the exact moment that joy transformed into desperation...
Now that was worth waiting for.
A low laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, almost in disbelief, his eyes never leaving yours.
I accepted a contract to kill an idol," he murmured, sounding more as though he were speaking to himself to you. "Somehow.." his grin widened. "I've ended up with the most entertaining game I've ever been given."
He straighted his clothes with meticulous care before turning towards the door. His polished shoes clicked softly against the floor as he crossed the room, each step unhurried, as though he had already decided there was no need to rush.
"The day you finally look at me and beg for your life.." He rested one hand on the doorknob without opening it, quiet excitement threading through every word. "I wonder whether you'll still wear that smile of yours."
STAGE 2. BORROWED FREEDOM
The next time you met Lohen, it was inside your dorm.
You had just returned from a filming schedule, exhaustion still clinging to your shoulders as you stepped inside and let the door shut behind you.
The silence of the room should have been familiar, a brief moment of privacy between obligations, but the moment of peace was broken almost immediately when you noticed who was there.
Lohen stood there with his shoulder resting lightly against the frame, as though he had been waiting there for some time without any urgency or concern about being discovered—if anything, he looked almost bored.
In his hand, a small dagger turned lazily between his fingers, catching faint reflections as it spun with practiced ease.
Then his gaze lifted and settled on your properly, and something in his expression eased, as if your arrival had simply completed a thought he had been holding onto.
"Oh." he said, pushing himself off the window frame as he straightened, slipping the dagger away with a smooth motion. "You really do come back at this time."
Your grip tightened slightly on the strap of your bag as you took a cautious step further inside, your eyes flicking once more toward the window before returning to him.
"How are you in my room?"
He glanced over at the window too for a brief second, then back at you, as though the answer was too obvious to elaborate on.
"It wasn't difficult," he said simply, with a small shrug that offered no real explanation at all.
Then, as if the conversation had already moved past that point in his mind, he tilted his head slightly and spoke again, his tone shifting.
"Say, have you ever been to a festival?"
You blinked once, caught off guard by the change in subject.
"A festival?" you repeated.
He didn't clarify immediately, only watching you as if your reaction mattered more than your answer. The silence stretched long enough that you began searching your own memory properly instead of giving him the easiest response.
"I guess I have," you said eventually, though even as the words came out, they felt incomplete. "For filming..variety shows, promotional events...things like that."
His expression didn't change much, but something in his gaze sharpened slightly, like your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
"That's not what I meant," he said, "Have you ever gone for yourself? You know..enjoy the food, the atmosphere blah blah.."
You frowned faintly, the distinction he was drawing wasn't something you had really considered before. Festivals had always been work environments to you, even when they were dressed up to look like enjoyment. There were cues, timings, expectations, cameras always somewhere nearby, even if they weren't obvious.
"I don't know," you admitted more quietly, your voice losing some of iter certainty. "I've been there, but it's always been..part of something else. I don't think I've ever gone for myself."
"Huh." Lohen moved, pulling the chair out more to reveal a duffle bag sitting on it.
"Get ready then," he smirked, confidence high. "I'll show you exactly what you're missing out on."
Thawck—!
The sound of the target being hit entered your ears as you stood beside Lohen, cleverly disguised with his help.
He had changed out of his outfit from earlier too, the sharp edges of his usual presence softened by something almost casual—an open collar white button up instead of his usual dark clothing, sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms as if he belonged here among ordinary crowds rather than something else.
"Here." He held out the ball towards you, nudging his chin toward the remaining setup on the stall, "Try it."
You hesitated only briefly before taking it, your fingers closing around the small weight as you stepped closer to the counter. The stall felt closer than it should have, the expectation of attention from nearby strangers sitting somehwre at the edge of your awareness, even if no one was actually looking at you for once.
You drew your arm back and threw—
Just for the ball to miss completely.
"PFt—Hahaha!" Lohen laughed, shaking his head, "yout technique was wrong from the start," he grinned, tossing the worker a few more coins for another try.
"You did the same mistake you did the last time you tried games like this."
"Wh—?"
"The trick!" he interrupted, picking up one of the balls from the new mini basket now placed in front of the two of you, placing it in your hand as he adjusted your stance. "Is to aim it higher than where the target is.."
Satisfied with his adjustments, Lohen took a small step back.
"Try again.
You let out a sigh, before drawing your arm back again.
The throw followed a clean motion this time, at least in theory, but the results didn't change. The ball veered off just enough to miss the can entirely, bouncing harmlessly away while the last can remained stubbornly upright.
You paused, then turned back toward him with a sheepish look. "Whoops..?"
"Hm." Lohen tilted his head, his grin never fading.
“Or maybe you’re just bad at this.” he said simply, shrugging as he picked up another ball and threw it from where he stood. The ball struck the center of the last can cleanly, sending it flying off the stand it was on.
The stall owner rang the bell to signal a win, the sound sharp and final against the festival noise. A few seconds later, they returned with a slightly oversized blue bunny plush, its floppy ears uneven in a way that made it look more endearing than intended.
Without ceremony, it was placed into Lohen's hands.
He barely looked at it before turning toward you, extending it forward.
"Here," he said. "I have no need for these."
You accepted it carefully, your fingers sinking slightly into the soft fabric as a small smile formed without effort.
“Oh,” you murmured, glancing down at it for a moment before looking back up at him. “It’s adorable… thank you.”
The sincerity in your voice seemed to linger for a fraction longer than expected. You adjusted your grip on the plush absentmindedly, still caught in the quiet satisfaction of the small victory, when something he had said earlier began to settle properly in your thoughts.
Your expression shifted slightly.
You looked up again, brows drawing together just faintly.
“Wait,” you said slowly. “Earlier—you said last time?”
There was a brief pause in which the surrounding festival noise felt suddenly more noticeable. Lohen didn’t immediately respond, which only made the question hang heavier between you.
Then, as if it were nothing worth hiding, he let out a soft sound of acknowledgment.
“Ah,” he said, almost lightly. “You think I wouldn’t do my research?”
He turned his attention away from you then, gaze drifting over the crowd as though the answer didn’t require further explanation. But the faint curve of his mouth didn’t disappear, and something in the ease of his posture suggested he was enjoying your reaction more than the conversation itself.
“I spent a long time watching every video of you that exists on the internet,” he added, tone almost conversational.
You stared at him.
Not startled enough to react loudly, but visibly trying to process where exactly this line of logic had come from.
Before you could find a response, he lifted both hands slightly in mock surrender, as though pre-emptively dismissing whatever protest he expected from you.
“Hey now,” he said. “I need a way to understand you better, right?”
Then, without giving you space to recover from that, he shifted his stance and lightly guided you forward by the direction of his movement rather than touch, steering you away from the stall and toward the row of food vendors nearby.
“And which is why,” he continued, voice lighter again, “I also learnt…”
You were already being led before the sentence even finished forming.
He stopped in front of the food street, where steam, heat, and scent collided in a messy, overwhelming wave—grilled skewers, fried batter, sugar, spice, and something sweet burning at the edges of metal pans.
“You always seem to watch what you eat,” he said, as if stating another conclusion he had already verified.
“I—” you started, immediately caught.
“Ah ah ah,” he interrupted smoothly, not even looking at you now as he scanned the stalls. “No disagreeing. I know I’m right.”
And with that, he simply started walking again, weaving into the flow of people as though the decision had already been made for you both. There was no room left to argue—not because he forced it, but because he moved with the kind of certainty that made hesitation feel unnecessary.
After a second, you followed.
The first stall he stopped at was crepes.
Warm light spilled over a glass display filled with neatly folded sheets of batter, each one layered with whipped cream and fresh fruit. The smell reached you immediately—sweet, buttery, almost comforting in a way that felt strangely unfamiliar after years of carefully measured meals and backstage catering.
You could feel the saliva, and you swallowed once.
Lohen noticed.
He always did.
He glanced at you briefly, just once, before turning back to the stall as if he already knew what he was going to do.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The question was simple.
But your response didn’t come immediately.
Your eyes moved over the options automatically, already sorting through invisible rules you hadn’t consciously thought about in a long time. Calories. Image. Schedule. What was acceptable in front of people. What could be explained away later. What would be forgiven if posted, what wouldn’t.
It wasn’t hunger you were considering.
It was the consequences.
“I don’t think—” you started, then stopped, because even saying it out loud felt wrong in a space like this.
Lohen’s gaze shifted to your face—waiting patiently.
You cleared your throat slightly.
“I’m not that hungry,” you said, defaulting to something easier.
His expression didn't change.
After another second, he simply turned back toward the vendor.
"One strawberry crepe, please."
The order was placed with such casual certainty that it almost felt as though your refusal had never happened.
A few moments later, he accepted the warm paper-wrapped crepe with a quiet nod before turning back toward you. Holding it out at chest height, he regarded you with the same matter-of-fact expression he'd worn since arriving.
"You don't have to worry so much," he said, his attention drifting briefly toward the stream of people passing through the market. "Besides..." A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you think about it, strawberries are healthy!"
You stared at him instead of the crepe.
Then at the crepe.
Then back at him.
The warmth rising from it brushed against your fingers as he nudged it a little closer, never forcefully, but in a way that left very little room to keep refusing without making it obvious you were refusing.
When you still hesitated, Lohen simply reached out and lightly wrapped his fingers around your wrist. The touch was gentle, almost absentminded, as he guided your hand beneath the crepe and settled it securely into your grasp. At the same time, he lifted the bunny plush from your other arm with effortless efficiency, tucking it beneath his own as though he were merely redistributing the weight between you.
"There."
He stepped back, dusting his hands together once with quiet satisfaction, as if the problem had been solved.
You blinked down at the crepe before looking up again, but he was already walking away, weaving through the crowd without bothering to check whether you'd followed.
"Just one bite," he called over his shoulder, lifting a hand in an absent wave. "That's all I'm asking."
The next stalls blurred together after that.
At each one, Lohen never asked you to make a decision quickly or explain yourself. If you hesitated, he simply waited. If you started to refuse, he ignored it with quiet confidence, buying something anyway before placing it into your hands as though it had always belonged there.
Soon, he left fewer and fewer places for your hesitation to settle.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped calculating every choice before making it.
You couldn't say exactly when it happened. The constant stream of thoughts—calories, schedules, appearances, expectations—didn't disappear all at once. They simply grew quieter beneath the chatter of the crowd, the sizzling food, and the warmth of paper bags gradually filling your hands.
By the time the two of you settled onto a wooden bench near the quieter end of the food street, your arms were full of things you never would have allowed yourself to buy on your own. The warmth seeped through the paper wrapping into your fingers, while the mingled scents of butter, grilled food, sugar, and spices drifted lazily through the cool evening air.
It was almost overwhelming.
But—
Not in an unpleasant way.
For a while, neither of you spoke, both staring ahead.
Families wandered past carrying trays piled high with food. A little boy laughed as he chased his older sister between the lanterns overhead before their mother caught up, pretending to scold them while struggling not to laugh herself. Somewhere nearby, a vendor called out another order, followed by the sharp hiss of something hitting a hot grill.
You watched it all in silence.
"...I don't really know how to do this."
The words slipped out so quietly that you almost hadn't realized you'd spoken.
Not the food.
Not the festival.
Something much harder to name.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the warm paper bag resting in your lap.
"I don't really know how to..." You searched for the right words before giving up with a small, embarrassed laugh. "...just be."
The admission hung quietly between you, stripped of the careful polish you usually wrapped around every sentence.
Lohen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he turned toward you properly.
The person sitting beside him with tired shoulders, food balanced awkwardly across your lap, and no audience left to perform for.
His expression softened slightly.
"You're doing it right now."
You looked at him.
He held your gaze for another moment before the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Just..." he said quietly. "Don't overthink it, [Name]."
His eyes drifted toward the crowd again.
"You don't have to earn every moment you enjoy."
Three months passed since you first met Lohen.
Three months since the two of you had agreed upon this strange little deal—or game, as he like to call it.
Somewhere within those weeks, the routine had quietly formed itself. On days your schedule allowed it, he'd appear without warning and drag you out into the city, wandering from cafés to parks, quiet bookstores to crowded festivals, never really explaining where he intended to take you next.
Little by little, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he chipped away at the polished shell you'd spent years building around yourself.
Even so, one thing never truly changed.
You believed your life would end at Lohen's hands.
That certainty lingered beneath everything the two of you did together, impossible to ignore for too long.
No matter how many ordinary days he showed you, some part of you remained convinced you were living on borrowed time—time that existed only because he had chosen not to pull the trigger yet.
Perhaps that was why fully embracing happiness still felt strangely out of reach.
How could you let yourself become attached to tomorrow when you'd already accepted there might not be one?
And what if he simply grew bored?
The game had only begun because you interested him. If one day you stopped being interesting—if he decided you'd never become the terrified person he wanted you to be—then there would be nothing left to wait for.
He would kill you.
Quickly.
Quietly.
Then move on to someone else who could give him the reaction he had been searching for all along.
The thought never truly left you.
It lingered in the back of your mind during every outing, every conversation, every quiet walk home together.
And yet...
Not everything about those three months had felt temporary.
You found yourself appreciating the little things—the smell of coffee drifting from a corner cafe, the warmth of fresh bread from a bakery you'd passed dozens of times without ever stepping inside, the way the city slowly changed color as evening settled over it.
Sometimes, walking beside Lohen beneath an ordinary sky, you caught yourself forgetting everything else and simply living in the moment, unburdened by the image you had spent years building.
Every moment you allowed yourself to enjoy became another reason to want tomorrow.
...And wasn't that exactly what he wanted?
Perhaps this 'game' was coming to an end soon either ways.
The rain began without warning.
At first, it was nothing more than a light drizzle, speckling the pavement and drawing the scent of wet concrete into the air. Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it grew heavier. The steady patter became a downpour, blurring the streets beyond the station entrance as pedestrians hurried beneath their umbrellas.
"Huh..the rain's getting heavy."
Lohen tilted his head back for a moment, watching droplets splash against the edge of the station roof before grinning as though the weather had merely presented another opportunity.
"Guess we'll have to take the train to my next plan."
Before you could ask what that plan even was, he'd already stepped up to the ticket machine. A few quick taps, two tickets in hand, and he was gently tugging you after him toward the platform.
Unfortunately...
It seemed everyone else had reached the same conclusion.
By the time the train pulled in, the platform had become a sea of umbrellas, damp coats, and impatient commuters. The doors slid open to reveal an already crowded carriage, every available space occupied as people pressed shoulder to shoulder.
The moment you stepped inside, your chest tightened.
It was as though everything you'd managed to quiet over the past three months came rushing back at once.
‘They'll see me.’
‘They'll see me with Lohen.’
‘What if someone recognizes me?’
‘What if someone takes a picture?’
‘What if it becomes a scandal?’
Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of your shirt as your shoulders instinctively drew inward. Every passing glance suddenly felt deliberate. Every nearby conversation sounded as though it might somehow be about you. You found yourself trying to occupy less space, shrinking into yourself despite there being nowhere left to move.
You didn't realize how quickly your thoughts were spiraling until something settled lightly atop your head.
"...?"
You froze.
Lohen's cap.
Its brim dipped low enough to cast a shadow over your eyes.
When you looked up, he was already watching the crowd instead of you, a faint smile resting on his face—not playful this time, but reassuring in its own quiet way.
"Crowded, isn't it?" he murmured, his voice barely carrying above the rattle of the train. "I think it's better if we get off at the next stop."
You couldn't find the words to answer.
Only then did you notice something else.
It wasn't simply that he was standing beside you anymore.
His body had shifted, angled just enough to intercept the constant jostling of the crowd without drawing attention to himself. One arm rested casually against the overhead handrail, while his shoulder blocked the nearest passengers from pressing any closer. To everyone else, it looked like nothing more than a man finding his balance on a crowded train.
To you, it felt like breathing room.
Outside the station, the two of you paused beneath the shelter, watching rain pour from the gray sky in shimmering curtains. It struck the pavement in an endless rhythm, splashing against the empty streets beyond.
There was rarely anyone around this part of the city.
Lohen stood beside you in silence, though his attention had long since drifted away from the rain.
It had settled on you instead.
Maybe it always had.
After a moment, you reached up and slipped his cap from your head. Your hair, damp and slightly flattened from both the rain and the hat, fell messily around your face as you turned toward him.
"Thanks..." you said softly, holding it out.
The smile you wore was small and unguarded.
Not the effortless smile perfected beneath stage lights.
Just yours.
"Not going to keep it?" Lohen teased, taking the cap back before settling it onto his own head with an exaggerated sigh. "That's a shame."
He glanced toward the rain-soaked street ahead.
"The place I wanted to show you is only a little farther."
Before you could ask whether he intended to walk through that weather, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.
"Huh—?"
"Run!"
The word had barely left his mouth before he was already pulling you forward.
A startled laugh escaped you as you stumbled after him, the two of you darting into the rain together. Water splashed beneath your shoes as you weaved between puddles and hurried pedestrians, your laughter growing louder each time one of you nearly slipped.
Within seconds your clothes were soaked through.
Your mask clung uselessly to your face.
Lohen's hair, usually neat beneath his cap, had begun sticking stubbornly to his forehead.
By the time you finally ducked beneath the overhang of a closed storefront, both of you were breathless.
Rainwater dripped steadily from your sleeves and hair, forming little puddles around your feet. Lohen pushed damp strands away from his eyes with the back of one hand before glancing over at you.
Your eyes met—
And you both burst into quiet laughter at the sight of each other.
"I never been caught in a rain as heavy as this before." you sigh, wiping the hair out of your face.
Lohen stared.
"You've never been caught in rain?"
"Not like this."
You wandered toward the edge of the shelter, stretching one hand beyond its cover so droplets splashed harmlessly across your fingertips.
"If it rains during filming, everything stops. If it rains during a concert, the managers start panicking. If it rains when I'm outside..." A small, almost embarrassed smile crossed your face. "...someone always has an umbrella over me before I even realize it's raining."
You watched the water dancing across the pavement.
"So..."
You laughed softly to yourself.
"This is actually my first time."
The words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep inside him.
Rain.
Such an ordinary thing.
Countless people complain about it every year.
Yet here you were, looking at it as though you'd just discovered something wonderful.
It made him wonder how many other ordinary moments had quietly been stolen from you.
A faint melody drifted through the rain then, carried from a nearby restaurant whose doors had been left open despite the storm. It was soft enough to be nearly swallowed by the steady rhythm of falling water.
Lohen glanced over his shoulder toward the dark storefront he had planned to visit.
"...Well."
He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
"It looks like the place I wanted to bring you to is closed."
You turned back toward him.
"But..." His grin slowly returned, carrying the familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. "I just thought of something much more fun."
Before you could ask what he meant, he stepped closer and gently took your hand.
"What are you—"
With a smooth tug, he drew you toward him before spinning you beneath his arm.
"How about a little performance?"
"What?" You laughed, stumbling into the turn before lightly swatting his chest. "Are you crazy?"
"We're already soaked." His shoulders lifted in an easy shrug. "Besides.." He glanced around the nearly deserted street. "I don't think anyone's going to see us."
You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips.
"...You're unbelievable."
"And yet you're still here."
He offered a theatrical bow, extending one hand toward you once again.
"So?"
You let out a sigh, but still place your hand in his regardless.
The two of you drifted back into the rain as the distant music continued to play. At first your movements were clumsy due to the wet pavement, more laughter than dancing, but before long your years of choreography began to show. You guided him through a few simple steps, laughing each time he exaggerated a movement just to make you smile, while he followed with surprising enthusiasm despite getting nearly every turn wrong.
The rain blurred the world around you until it felt as though the city itself had quietly disappeared.
There was no audience.
No cameras.
No stage.
Only the two of you.
Lohen watched you as you laughed, your smile brighter than any he'd seen beneath concert lights.
You look happy.
‘Are you... enjoying your life?’
The thought came uninvited.
With it came another.
The game the two of you had made three months ago.
His chest tightened.
Ah.
I might be in trouble.
STAGE 3. THE BIG REVEAL
"You've been stuck on this target for a while, Lohen."
The steady rhythm of steel striking the training dummy came to an abrupt stop. Lohen lowered his knife and glanced over his shoulder as Varka stepped into the training room, the older assassin taking in the sight of the battered dummy with a quiet chuckle.
"That's rare," Varka remarked as he folded his arms across his chest. "Usually you're finished long before anyone even notices you've been assigned." His gaze drifted from the dummy back to Lohen. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes." Lohen answered without hesitation, driving the knife into the dummy's chest one last time before letting it topple backward with a dull thud. "A hugeee problem." He sighed dramatically as he yanked the blade free, wiping it clean against a cloth before pointing it lazily in Varka's direction.
"Actually...maybe you can help me. How about you answer one teeny tiny little question that's been bothering me?"
Varka laughed. "Go ahead."
"You only ever assign me people you believe deserve to die." Lohen tilted his head, his usual playful smile still resting comfortably on his face. "People who've done something unforgivable." The smile faded ever so slightly. "So why..." He studied Varka's expression for a moment before finishing quietly. "...why was [Name] given to me?"
The room fell silent.
For the first time since entering, Varka's relaxed expression faltered. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away with a small sigh before finally answering. "...She's a special case."
"I noticed." Lohen's voice remained light, but there was a quiet insistence beneath it now. "I asked why."
Varka didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked past the fallen dummy, stopping beside one of the weapon racks as though searching for the right words there instead of in Lohen's eyes.
"When she came to us..." He paused, fingers idly brushing over the handles of several knives before coming to rest. "...she looked exhausted."
Lohen frowned.
"...She?"
"[Name]."
For a second, he simply stared.
Then a quiet laugh escaped him.
It wasn't mocking.
It sounded more like someone convinced he'd misheard.
"You're telling me..." He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "You're telling me [Name] hired us to kill herself?"
Varka didn't laugh.
He didn't correct him either.
He simply held Lohen's gaze.
The smile slowly disappeared from Lohen's face.
"...You're serious."
"I tried talking her out of it," Varka admitted quietly. "I refused at first. But she kept coming back." He exhaled through his nose, his eyes lowering briefly toward the floor. "She wasn't angry. She wasn't looking for revenge. She just..." His voice trailed off before he finally finished, "...looked tired."
Silence settled over the room once more.
Lohen stood perfectly still, the knife hanging loosely at his side as the words slowly settled into place. The rain. The festival. The dancing. The countless ordinary moments she'd looked at with quiet wonder. Her laughter. Her smile. The way she'd asked him to show her that life was worth holding onto.
None of it had begun because she'd been afraid of dying.
She had already accepted death long before he'd ever met her.
"...I have somewhere to be."
His voice barely rose above a murmur.
Without waiting for Varka to respond, he sheathed his knife and strode past him. The training room door slammed shut a second later, followed almost immediately by the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
"[Name]…my favourite idol. Wake up."
You stirred at the sound, blinking awake to find Lohen standing over your bed, a faint smile resting on his face like this was the most normal hour in the world.
“Lohen..?” You grumbled, slowly sitting up as you rubbed your eyes, looking over at the clock on the wall.
3.04 A.M
"It's three in the morning…" you sighed, still half-asleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I have somewhere I want to show you," he replied simply, as if that explained everything. "And it has to be now."
Before you could properly process that, he reached for your hand and pulled you up from the bed.
"Nooo I'm tired—"
The protest barely formed before the world shifted.
You let out a startled sound as Lohen scooped you into his arms with effortless ease, as though your weight meant nothing at all. He moved without hesitation, carrying you straight toward the window.
"Lohen—what are you doing?!" you protested, gripping instinctively at his shoulder.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the window like he’d done it before—like it was familiar—and stepped out into the night air.
For a brief, dizzying moment, you thought he might actually drop you.
Then his footing found the branch of the tree outside, and he descended with practiced ease, one arm securing you against him while the other guided his balance as if gravity was merely a suggestion.
The night wind brushed past you.
Below, the world was silent and still.
Only then did he glance down at you, a smile softening just slightly at the edges.
"Then I’ll walk for us," he said lightly, as if carrying you out of your house at 3 A.M. was nothing more than a change of plans.
And just like that, he kept going.
He set you gently back onto your feet when the two of you reached the beach.
The cool sand shifted beneath your bare feet as you looked out across the endless sea. Moonlight spilled over the water, turning each wave into silver before it disappeared against the shore with a quiet rush. The air smelled of salt, clean and cold, carrying away the last traces of the city.
"...This is beautiful," you murmured.
"I know." Lohen smiled, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stood beside you. "Did you know? The night we first met... the moon looked just like this."
"Yeah," A faint smile tugged at your lips as your gaze drifted toward the horizon. "I remember thinking... if I died that night, I would have died on a rather beautiful one..."
The words escaped before you had the chance to stop them.
Silence settled between you. You were about to find an excuse to what you meant when Lohen shook his head, his smile fading.
“[Name], I know.” Lohen said quietly. “I know you were the one who sent in the request.”
“Oh.” you let out. “I guess…there isn’t any use in pretending anymore, huh?”
For a moment, you simply stared at the waves rolling onto the shore. They came and went in an endless rhythm, filling the silence neither of you seemed eager to break. When you finally spoke again, the words came more easily than you expected, as though they had been waiting for an opportunity to escape.
“I was tired.” You shook your head almost immediately. “No... tired isn't even the right word. I was exhausted.”
Your fingers curled together unconsciously.
“Every morning I'd wake up already wishing the day was over because I knew exactly what was waiting for me. Smile. Practice. Film. Perform. Smile again. And if I wasn't smiling enough...” A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “People would ask if something was wrong. So I smiled harder.”
Your gaze fell to your hands.
“It got to a point where I couldn't tell where the smile ended and I began. I couldn't be angry because idols aren't supposed to be angry. I couldn't be selfish because idols are supposed to love everyone. I couldn't date. Couldn't make mistakes. Couldn't have bad days. And whenever I felt exhausted, there'd always be someone telling me how lucky I was.”
The wind swept past, carrying your words toward the sea.
“People always say idols are living the dream.” Your smile returned briefly, but it didn't reach your eyes. “They see the concerts, the fans, the awards. They see the edited clips, the interviews, the moments we're supposed to look happy. But they don't see everything behind it. They don't see how every mistake becomes entertainment for thousands of strangers. They don't see people picking apart the way you look, the way you speak, the way you breathe.”
Your voice grew quieter.
“And eventually... you start doing it to yourself.”
Slowly, you crouched down and reached toward the sand. Your fingers dug into it absentmindedly, letting the grains slip through the gaps between them as you watched them disappear.
“I loved singing. I really did.” The confession came with surprising certainty. “I loved dancing until my legs gave out. I loved hearing everyone sing along with us. I loved seeing people smile because of something I'd done.”
For a moment, your expression softened with the memory.
“But somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person who loved those things.”
Your eyes lowered again.
“I became someone who was simply good at pretending she still did.”
The words hung heavily between you.
“I don't even remember when it happened. It wasn't sudden. There wasn't some dramatic moment where everything fell apart.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “One day I just looked in the mirror and realised I couldn't recognise the person staring back at me anymore.”
Lohen remained silent.
Not because he didn't have anything to say.
Because he knew this wasn't the moment for words.
You drew in a slow breath, turning your head up toward him fully for the first time since the conversation began.
“I just wanted everything to stop.”
There was no bitterness left in your voice now.
“I thought if someone else ended it, then maybe I wouldn't have to disappoint everyone by doing it myself. It felt easier that way. Less selfish.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the ocean.
“To tell you the truth... I already knew exactly who you were up there. My fan was just a last minute thought of excuse—a lie.”
"But then you ruined everything..you didn’t kill me that night. Or even do any of the things you said you usually do to a target." A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. "We had this..game. You kept showing me all these tiny, ordinary moments I'd forgotten people could have..and somewhere along the way, I started looking forward to tomorrow.."
"I..." You smiled at him, and for the first time there was no trace of the idol who had spent years performing for everyone else. "I suppose I'm grateful I didn't die that night. Because I wouldn't have met you...and I never would've remembered how beautiful living could be."
Your voice softened into little more than a whisper.
"So...thank you."
Silence settled once more as the waves rolled endlessly onto the shore.
After a long while, you drew in one slow breath and met his eyes again, your smile calm.
"I think..." You paused only briefly.
"...you can kill me now."
Lohen didn't answer.
For the first time since you'd met him, he found himself with nothing to say to you.
His eyes remained on you, searching your face almost desperately for the slightest crack in your expression. Some hint that you'd said it to test him. That you were joking. That you were lying.
But no.
You were sincere.
Lohen dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it carried none of his usual ease.
“You said I ruined your plans,” he murmured, gaze still fixed somewhere between you and the horizon, “but you ruined mine too.”
The words lingered in the space between you as he slowly lowered himself down onto the sand beside you. He didn’t rush the movement. If anything, it felt careful, as though he was trying to match the stillness you had fallen into, afraid that any sudden motion might break something neither of you knew how to fix.
For a while, he simply looked at you.
Not like a target nor like an idol.
Just…you.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitating midway as it neared your face. It stopped there for a moment, suspended awkwardly in the air, as though his body had forgotten how to do something so simple. Violence had always been instinctive to him, clean and certain, but this—this uncertainty, this gentleness—seemed foreign in a way that unsettled him more than any weapon ever had.
When his fingers finally made contact with your cheek, it was almost tentative, like he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too firmly. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, wiping away the tear that still clung there without him even seeming to notice at first.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of no longer having you,” he admitted quietly, the words rough at the edges, like they had been forced out before he could stop them.
That was when he noticed it.
His own hand.
It was trembling.
Subtle at first, then undeniable, like his body had finally betrayed something he had spent his entire life keeping under control.
Lohen stared at it for a moment, almost as if he didn’t recognize it, before letting out a faint, disbelieving laugh that died quickly in his throat.
“…Look at that.”
The sound that followed wasn’t quite humorous. It was something closer to disbelief at his own body.
“I’ve held a rifle without my hands shaking,” he said slowly, “I’ve stood in front of people pointing guns at me and never once—never once—felt this.”
His voice faltered slightly, and for the first time there was something unsteady beneath it that had nothing to do with confidence or control.
“I’ve never trembled before.”
As if the admission itself made the moment too real, he exhaled and slowly pulled his hand away from your face, as though he needed distance from the vulnerability he had just exposed.
His other hand moved into the inside pocket of his coat.
When he pulled it out, it was with something folded carefully between his fingers. The assignment, the contract signed that was suppose to guranteed your death.
The one that had defined everything between you.
He looked at it for a long moment, unmoving, the paper catching faint traces of moonlight as the wind shifted around the two of you.
“…How troublesome,” he muttered under his breath.
Then, without ceremony or hesitation, he tore it.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again until it was nothing but fragments.
The pieces scattered into the wind almost immediately, lifted away by the breeze rolling in from the ocean, disappearing into the pale light of the moon before either of you could track where they landed.
Lohen watched them go in silence.
“I’ve never failed a mission before,” he said finally, voice quieter now, almost distant. Then he turned slightly toward you, expression softening in a way that felt almost painful. “But I don’t think I mind if it keeps you alive.”
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though he was trying to memorize something he was afraid he might lose.
Because when he spoke again, there was no hesitation left in him at all.
“Somewhere along the way…” he exhaled softly, a small, helpless smile forming as if it had no choice but to exist, “…I fell in love with you.”
pairing . AdultContentCreator!Scaramouche x OFmodel!Reader
summary . You make premium adult content, profiting off your virgin status, rejecting every disgusting offer in your DMs, waiting for something that feels real. Then, you find that something, Scaramouche. He makes adult content, fucks girls, sends them off, and the cycle repeats. But something about him makes you want to hand him over all your firsts. [MODERN AU]
contains (warnings) . explicit sexual content, being filmed, but obviously consensual, mean scara, dirty talk, degradation, oral, throat fucking, mirror sex, porn WITH plot, overstimulation, too lazy to add more
word count . 14k (i know... i know.)
an . i literally spent ages on making the fake twitter profiles, idk how these ppl in the smau's do it istg. i also had to study, like a maniac, loads of twt corn acc's to make this, so i hope this is good. cross posted onto ao3
₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 masterlist | home | ao3 | kofi | discord server
You have a dirty secret.
Well… maybe dirty isn’t the right word.
Lucrative.
Thrilling.
Deeply, and I mean deeply embarrassing if anyone you knew in real life ever found out.
You make premium content.
Sex content.
It started after so many failed job searches; it’s so hard to find work in this day and age as a young adult with zero experience. You also attend college, and you know the moment you do actually get a boring, shitty job as a cashier or some shit, you’d want to shoot yourself in the head due to all the stress that’ll come with it.
You saw other girls on TikTok, flaunting their gaming set-ups from DMing creeps on Discord, going on calls with them, masturbating or pretending to, and they get the biggest paycheck of their life.
You’d do that if you didn’t have to go on call with them and hear their gross, disgusting voice.
So you chose the other option, chose to sell your body online, even though, compared to how girls on Discord make money, they don’t have to sell their nudes, just talk on call, you’d rather just record yourself doing lucrative acts.
I mean, why not? You were already broke, stressed beyond any comprehension, already spending too much money on lingerie that no one ever saw.
Now someone sees it, thousands of someones, actually.
It’s practically a job at this point, your real job if you’re being honest.
You lie to your parents, tell them you work at a cafe near campus, and they’re so proud of you. Their hardworking daughter, juggling school and work and still managing to keep her grades up.
If only they knew.
You don’t just do it for the money, even though that’s how it started. Like, yeah, the money is actually insane, more than you’d ever even expect, so much that you've had to open separate bank accounts just to hide it from your parents. But that's still not why you keep doing it.
You do it because it's fun.
You do it because it feels good.
I mean, why wouldn’t it?
It’s fun dressing up all cute, bringing your aesthetic in your videos because the fans love it. Soft pinks, light pastels, lace, ribbons, and so many bows.
You show your face in your videos.
But you wouldn’t ever get caught. Why? Because you wear wigs, cute ones that actually look good and not shitty party city ones, you do your makeup in a way that people on TikTok and Pinterest would call ‘dollmaxxer,’ eyelashes, glossy lips, aegyo sal shimmer forever and always.
You cosplay sometimes, characters from games and anime that your subscribers request.
That’s the thing that sets you apart from a lot of creators, most of them crop their faces out, wear masks, keep the camera angled just so. You’re lucky you don’t have any distinctive birthmarks, tattoos, or anything tying you to the girl who goes to college and buys coffee from the campus Starbucks.
It didn’t take long before you moved out of your college dorm. Roommates are a liability when your job involves moaning loudly on camera three times a week.
Now you have your own apartment, expensive but worth it, a pink sanctuary where you can film without worrying about anyone walking in.
Your content is... specific.
You goon, that’s the word for it, that’s what people call it on the internet.
You slap your face with dildos, letting them bounce off your cheeks, you grind on pillows and plushies, soaking the fabric while you whimper and moan. Sometimes you even sell the pillows you grind on, subscribers love it all.
You drool excessively, letting spit drip down your chin while you suck on a dildo attached to your wall, your eyes rolled back, your tongue out too far.
You make yourself look stupid, brainless, like a toy that exists only for pleasure.
It's fun.
It feels good.
And the sponsors love it.
Sex toy brands send you free products constantly. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, things you didn't even know existed before you started this job. All you have to do is use them on camera, tag the company, and they keep sending more.
What you hate is your subscribers.
Obviously, your content caters to the male gaze. That's the market. That's where the money is.
But god, the men are disgusting.
The comments they leave, the DMs they send, the way they talk to you like you're not a person, just a thing they can say whatever they want to.
You have some subscribers who are women, followers, and mutuals who found you through the aesthetic side of things. They're the sweetest. They leave nice comments, send supportive messages, and actually treat you like a human being.
The men are the problem.
You also profit off being a virgin.
It’s not a lie, you know, some creators fake it, like Sophie Rain. But you’re genuinely untouched.
Never had a boyfriend. Never had sex, never even been kissed before.
The dildos you use on yourself don't change that. Toys aren't real dicks.
It's your biggest money maker, honestly. The virgin thing. Men lose their minds over it. They DM you constantly, begging to be the one to take it, offering obscene amounts of money to fuck you on camera.
You always deny.
Always.
Because even so, even after everything you've done on camera, you want to wait for the right person. You want it to mean something. You want...
You don't know what you want.
But you know it's not some random subscriber with a dick pic in his DMs.
Tonight, you're exhausted.
You just finished filming a two-hour session, one of those marathon streams where you edge yourself over and over until your thighs are shaking and your brain goes blank. Your subscribers loved it. You made more money in those two hours than most people make in years.
And now all you want to do is lie in bed and doom-scroll until you pass out.
You're on your stomach, still wearing the sheer babydoll lingerie from your stream, lacey underwear clinging to you. You’re on your phone, Twitter open, scrolling mindlessly through your feed.
Your algorithm feeds you content from girls like you, with similar aesthetics, similar content. Some of them are your mutuals, creators you’ve befriended through the weird little community you’ve stumbled into. You leave sweet comments on their posts, the kind of supportive girl-to-girl energy that balances out the gross male comments.
You're not really paying attention, just scrolling.
And then something new comes up.
It's a video, a boy, this time, which is unusual for your feed. The algorithm is probably experimenting, testing your preferences.
The boy is skinny, pale, really pale, like porcelain skin. He’s on a bed with white sheets, his face is cropped out of the frame, but you can see his body, lean and so pretty, looming over a girl who lies beneath him.
He's holding her arms above her head.
And he's fucking into her mouth.
You don't scroll past. You don't mindlessly like and move on. Instead, you tap the video to turn up the volume just a little.
The sounds are obscene.
Wet, throat gagging sounds, the girls' muffled whimpers mixing with his soft grunts of pleasure. He fucks into her mouth, slow, at first, almost lazy, then faster, harder.
The girl taps his thigh. The universal signal for "I need to breathe." You've done it yourself, with the dildos attached to your wall, practicing for videos, it’s basic human instinct, you think.
He laughs.
That laugh.
It's mean and amused and condescending, and something about it makes you clench around absolutely nothing.
He doesn't stop. If anything, he goes faster, ignoring her desperate taps, using her mouth like it belongs to him.
Only at the last second does he pull back. She gasps, choking, saliva dripping down her chin, and before she can recover, he's pushing back in.
Your pussy clenches again.
The video is in Japanese, which was obvious mainly because of the body parts being censored and the words coming from his mouth. You don't understand a single word from it, but something about him, about the way he moves, the way he sounds, the casual cruelty of his body language...
You click on his profile.
scaramouche
His profile picture is a boy's pale, slender hand gripping a girl's face. His bio is in Japanese characters you can't read, so you copy it into a translator.
"i'll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time."
That's it. That's all he has to say about himself.
He’s following zero people, fucking dickhead you think, and he has over 500k followers.
Holy shit…
More than you.
You scroll down, his age is listed, 20. He’s 2 years older than you.
Obviously, as any normal person who's about to stalk a stranger's content, you click on the media tab.
Your heart drops.
He shows his face.
Not everyone does; most people don’t want others to recognize them in real life. You didn’t expect to see his face because in the other video, the camera was angled down.
This guy, this scaramouche, he doesn't seem to care.
He's hot.
No… hot isn’t the right word to describe him, actually. He’s pretty, beautiful, even, in a way that doesn’t even seem real.
Dark indigo hair, which could almost be blue or even purple in certain lighting, eyes the same color.
A face that definitely shouldn’t be used on making porn.
The first video with his face in it is him on a couch with a girl. His house is expensive, the kind of expensive that screams old money or nepo baby or both. The girl's face is blurred, but his isn't. He's looking directly at the camera, completely unbothered.
Nepo baby, you decide. Has to be. Some rich kid who hates his mom and spends her money on whatever he wants, not caring about his image or his future or anything.
He probably gets away with it because he's a man.
The video is in Japanese as figured. You watch it anyway, picking up on body language instead of words. The girl looks nervous, shaking slightly, and he sits close to her, petting her hair, touching her thigh. He leans in but doesn't kiss her. Just hovers there, making her wait.
You get bored and translate the description instead.
He calls her shy. Says she just broke up with her boyfriend, saw his content online, and wanted to be one of the girls in his videos. He talks about how he's going to ruin her. Turn her into a perfect little doll.
You don't feel disgusted by it; you don’t even know what you feel.
You keep scrolling.
Ten minutes later, you've gone through most of his content.
He's always in control, always cruel, always making the girls in his videos fall apart in ways that look almost painful. But he also... takes care of them. In his own way. Kisses them while he fucks them. Leaves hickeys all over their skin. Holds them down but also holds them close.
It's confusing.
Probably more confusing for the girls.
It makes you feel things you don't want to examine.
Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you give up pretending you're just curious.
You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, the one you just used on stream, and press it between your legs.
You cum to the sound of his voice.
His moans, the way he laughs at the girls when they beg, the way he laughs even harder when they start shaking from being overstimulated. The things he says in Japanese that you don't understand but somehow feel in your core anyway.
You cum again.
And again.
You're on your third orgasm, trembling and oversensitive, when your phone buzzes with a notification.
A DM.
From him.
Your heart stops.
You stare at the notification, certain you're hallucinating. You followed him earlier, when you first clicked on his profile. You didn't think anything of it; you follow lots of people.
But he followed you back.
And now he's messaging you.
You tap on the notification with shaking fingers, fully expecting to see a wall of Japanese characters you won't understand.
It's in English.
You stare at the message for a full minute in shock. Your brain is refusing to process this, because what the fuck type of coincidence is this?
He looked at your profile, saw your content, your bio, your everything while you were cumming to his own content.
And in your bio, the first fucking line is:
horny virgin
Fuck.
scaramouche:
hello?
i know youre online
i saw you like one of my videos 3 minutes ago
and twitter also shows when people read your texts
Shit.
You forget how annoying this app is, how it automatically shows ‘seen’, when you click on someone’s DM, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to turn it off.
Twitter needs to fucking change that.
Embarrassing.
you:
um… hi?
scaramouche:
there she is
thought you were gonna leave me on read
you:
sorry
i was just surprised i guess
scaramouche:
surprised that i messaged you?
you:
yeah lol
you kinda dont really seem like the type to just dm ppl
scaramouche:
im not
girls usually come to me
You roll your eyes hard in real life. He sounds so egotistical.
you:
okayyy..
so why r u dming me then?
scaramouche:
bcuz i wanted to
is that a problem
you:
no
i mean… IDK… i guess not?
scaramouche:
relax holy shit
im not gonna bite you unless…
unless you want me to
You read that last message three times at the least. Your face is burning, you're still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and this conversation is not helping. You squirm in your bed, sitting back against a pillow and pulling your sheets over you so that you’re more comfortable.
The vibrator, the toy you used on yourself to his videos stares back at you, the stare feels harder than how it felt when your plushies would look at you while you shot videos.
You turn your body away from it and lie on your side.
you:
how did you even find my account
i know you aren’t just scrolling thru your notifications, looking at any any girls profile that follows u
scaramouche:
algorithm duh
you came up on my feed
some video of you drooling on a dildo
In real life, you shove your face into your pillow, embarrassed, before glancing up, thumbs typing.
you:
oh god
scaramouche:
it was cute
very pathetic mostly but cute
i liked it
you:
i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not
scaramouche:
it is trust me
You don't know what to say. You're typing and deleting, typing and deleting, too shy to keep up this conversation.
Thankfully, he talks first, again.
scaramouche:
you know what actually make me interested in you, though
you:
what?
scaramouche:
your bio
the first thing it says, horny virgin
thats real right?
not some marketing bullshit like the other girls on here
you:
it’s real
scaramouche:
fuck thats hot
You stare at your screen, wide eyed, trying to ignore the feeling of your cunt, aching, clenching around nothing…
Because of him.
you:
…
scaramouche:
i mean it
the virgin thing drives me insane
but you already know that from stalking my account
you:
uh, no i wasn’t
scaramouche:
mhm…
yeah sure
tell that to my inbox
stalker tip: try not to like every single post of mine that you scroll past, even though i always get a shit ton of likes, i can see when a mutual likes my post
You didn’t think about it till now that you’re mutuals with him on here, you followed him, and he followed you.
He continues typing.
scaramouche:
its hot thinking about some cute girl who’s never been touched for real
who only knows what it feels like from toys
and whos been practicing on dildos for years without having the real thing
you:
i haven’t been practicing for years
i’ve only been doing this for like… a year tops
scaramouche:
even better
a year of making content
a year of showing off that pretty little body and nobody gets to actually have it
thats so fucked up dont you think?
you:
i guess when you put it that way
scaramouche:
and then i look at the shit you post
"soft girl with soft moans & a tight grip" "wanna b ur brainless toy" "force me to take it"
you srsly write all that and youre still a virgin?
you:
those r just marketing
it’s what subscribers want to hear
you should know this
scaramouche:
is it though?
because i watched ur videos
and you dont look like youre faking it
you look like you mean every dirty word
You don’t have a response for that, because he is actually right. You do mean it, every filthy caption, every desperate moan, every time you beg the camera to use you, you mean it.
You just never thought you'd actually get to experience it.
scaramouche:
so here what i wanna know
with all the subscribers you have
all the men in your comments, begging, offering to fly you out and fuck you on camera
why are you still untouched
you:
because they’re all disgusting
dont u see half or most of them are like 40 yr olds with wives??
plus i dont want my first time to be with some random guy who just wants content
scaramouche:
what do you want then
you:
i dont know
something real ig
someone who actually gives a shit about me
scaramouche:
thats cute
naive
but cute
you:
whats that supposed to mean
scaramouche:
it means you’re in the wrong industry for romance sweetheart
but i respect it
it’s rare nowadays
You're blushing so hard your cheeks could probably boil an egg.
He called you sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
It shouldn't affect you this much. It's probably something he says to all the girls.
But still.
you:
so why r u messaging me if you’re not trying to fly me out or whatever
scaramouche:
maybe i am
you:
oh
scaramouche:
would that be so bad?
you:
i mean yes? i dont know you
scaramouche:
you know what i do
you know what i look like
you know how i treat the girls in my videos
you also know that im more age appropriate than the creeps in your dm’s
thats more than what most people know about each other before they fuck
you:
thats different
scaramouche:
how
you:
it just is
scaramouche:
youre scared arent you
you:
im not scared
im just cautious
scaramouche:
same thing but whatever
i get it tho
random guy on the internet wants to meet up
thats serial killer energy i know
you:
it is a little bit
scaramouche:
fair but for what it’s worth i dont live in japan
so i wouldn’t have to fly u there if you change your mind
i just go to japan sometimes for vids, i actually live in [insert city/town/wherever you live name]
Your heart stops.
That’s where you live. The same area your apartment is in, the same place where your campus is in.
He’s so much closer than you thought.
you:
wait srsly??
scaramouche:
yeah, why?
r u from there too?
you:
…maybe
scaramouche:
holy shit
small world
or maybe the algorithm knows more than we thought
you:
that’s kinda creepy
scaramouche:
it’s extremely creepy
but also very convenient if you ever wanted to meet up
you:
i don’t know about that
scaramouche:
no pressure
just saying the options here
You've spent the last hour watching his videos, cumming to his voice, imagining yourself as one of the girls he ruins on camera. And now he's in your DMs, telling you he lives in your area, offering to meet up.
This is insane.
And also dangerous.
And also everything you've fantasized about.
scaramouche:
you dont have to decide rn
im not going anywhere
just think ab it
you:
okay ill think about it
scaramouche:
good girl
You’re too fucking easy, because those two small words makes your entire body feel hot, and you have to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure
scaramouche:
you liked that
didn’t you
you:
what
scaramouche:
being called a good girl
i can practically feel you squirming through the screen
you:
get over urself
im not squirming
scaramouche:
liar
you:
shut up
scaramouche:
make me
You’re going to die, literally, actually going to combust right here in your bed, and they’ll find your body in the morning, still holding onto your phone, still blushing.
You need to end this conversation before it spirals into you giving in.
you:
i need to go to sleep
scaramouche:
running away already?
you:
im not running away
im just tired
i had a superrr long stream tonight
scaramouche:
yeah i watched a little of it
u looked all cute
all fucked out and desperate
you wish you had someone there to actually take care of you after, don't you?
Oh fuck do you. So bad…
You wish he was that someone.
you:
maybe
scaramouche:
think ab that too while you’re “sleeping”
you:
you’re insufferable
scaramouche:
really now?
and yet…
you haven’t blocked me
you:
goodnight scaramouche
scaramouche:
scara
you:
what?
scaramouche:
call me scara
only people i like get to use the full name
you:
okay
goodnight, scara
scaramouche:
night virgin
dream about me
You close the app before you can say anything else stupid.
Your heart is pounding, head spinning, and you’re still so wet, still needy, and now you have a name, and a face to attach to all of your desperate fantasies.
You're not going to sleep tonight.
You know that already.
You're going to lie here in the dark and think about him. About his voice that you can only imagine in Japanese because that’s all you’ve heard. About his hands… About all the things he does to those girls in his videos and how badly you want him to do them to you.
But you can't.
You won't.
Because if you meet him, if you let him take your virginity, he'll just add you to his collection. Another video, another conquest. Another girl who fell for his pretty face and annoying pretty and cruel hands.
And then he'll move on to the next one.
And you'll be left with nothing but a video and a broken heart.
You want him. You know that now, with painful clarity.
But you want him to stay.
And you don't know if he's capable of that.
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since Scara slid into your DMs, and somehow, against all logic and reason, he’s still there.
You expected him to ghost you.
That's what guys like him do, right?
They message a girl, realize she's not going to put out immediately, and move on to someone easier. You were prepared for the silence, had already started bracing yourself for the inevitable.
It never came.
He’d send you videos, porn videos he found on twitter.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
this is what id do to u btw
just so yk
you:
oh my god scara wtf
u can’t just send me stuff like that at 2pm
scaramouche:
um why the fuck not?
r u at school or something
you:
yes actually
im literally in the middle of a lecture
scaramouche:
boringgggg
watch the video
you:
im not watching porn in class scara
scaramouche:
coward
It wasn’t always porn that you’d both talk about though, he’d send you other things…
scaramouche:
[image attachment]
you:
lol is that build a bear
scaramouche:
it’s a fucking sanrio build a bear
it’s YOUR fault my algorithm is ruined
now i see this dumb shit constantly
you:
aww
that’s so cute though??
scaramouche:
it’s not cute
it’s annoying
i used to get porn content now i get plushies and dumb pastel room tours
you:
sounds like an improvement tbh
scaramouche:
i hate you
He was also still in the subject of wanting to meet with you, in real life.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
notice how she taps out at the end?
you:
yeah
scaramouche:
i wouldn’t let u tap out
you:
…
scaramouche:
just saying for when we meet
you:
IF we meet
scaramouche:
when
You clicked on his profile one night, just to check. Just to see if he's posted anything new.
He hasn't.
No new videos.
No new photos. Nothing in the same amount of time he’s been chatting with you.
That's... unusual. He used to post constantly. New girls every few days, new content every week. Now there's nothing.
You're not sure what that means.
But then you notice something else.
His following count. The little number that shows how many accounts he follows.
1
Just one.
You tap on it, expecting it to be private, and it is. But you already know.
It's you.
Out of everyone on this app, all the girls in his DMs, all the creators he could be following... he only follows you.
You don't mention it to him.
At some point, you both exchanged numbers.
scaramouche:
hey y/n
we should exchange numbers
you:
why…
scaramouche:
bcuz twitter dms r annoying and i wanna text u without the app crashing every 5 minutes
you:
idk…
scaramouche:
im not asking for nudes
well even though you have it all posted already
i just want ur number so we can talk easier
you:
ughh
okay
fineee [number]
scaramouche:
finally
check ur texts
You check your texts and there's a message from an unknown number.
3058291193: hey virgin
You save his contact with a little purple heart emoji next to his name.
You both start texting more now that you both don't have to open Twitter just to message each other. It's nice, fun... but you also want to know more about him.
So one day, you ask.
you:
we’ve known eachother for like almost 2 weeks now
and i barely know anything about u
tell me something ab u
scara:
uhhh
like what
you:
why do u do this content
i mean… you clearly don’t need the money
scara:
the fuck
how do u know that
you:
your house in the vids
ur clothes
everything about u screams rich
scara:
observant now?
yeah okay
my mom is super loaded
shes some corporate bitch who cares more ab her company than her own son
she barely knows i exist
so i spend her money however i want and she doesn’t gaf
you:
that sounds so lonely
scara:
dont psychoanalyze me
or im blocking u
you:
sorry
scara:
it’s fine
ur not wrong
it’s just annoying when ppl are right about me
After that conversation, he started talking more about himself.
scara:
i have a cat btw
you:
wait… rly?
i didn’t expect that
scara:
black fur, golden eyes
her name is kuroneko
it means black cat in japanese
yes i know thats basic shut up
you:
aww thats so cute
can i see her??
scara:
[image attachment]
you:
OH MY GOD SHES SO PRETTY
scara:
shes a bitch actually
hates everyone but only tolerates me
you:
sounds like someone i know…
scara:
fuck off
You find out more and more about Scara. How he speaks Japanese fluently because his mom sent him to international schools growing up. How he lived in Tokyo for three years before moving back here. How he absolutely hates sweets, can’t stand anything too sugary…
except for you…
Tonight, you’re in your bed after a long day of school, you skip filming to talk with Scara like you normally do.
scara:
yk what i dont get
you:
what…
scara:
why u wont let me meet u
you:
ughhh scara
we’ve been over this
scara:
have we though?
because everytime i bring it up you change the subject
or you say you’re not ready
or you make some shitty excuse
you:
scara…
scara:
im srs two weeks we’ve been talking
i message you everyday
i havent posted shit because im too busy thinking ab u and u still wont tell me why you’re so scared
im not a stranger to u anymore, y/n
You stare at your phone for a long time.
You’ve been making excuses, not wanting to give the real answer everytime he’s too close to it.
But tonight, for some reason, you're tired of pretending.
you:
okay fine
u wanna know why im scared?
scara:
duh
it’s what ive been asking this whole time
you:
because you’re going to leave
scara:
what
you:
after you take my virginity and film the video you’re going to leave
and go back to making content with other girls
and im just going to be another video in your collection, another girl you fucked and moved on from
He doesn’t respond, and you keep going.
you:
and i dont know if i can handle that scara
because i actually like you, and i like talking to you all night
and then that’ll all just be over once we meet up
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.
You wait.
And finally…
scara:
you’re so fucking pathetic
you:
wow
thanks
scara:
no i mean it
thats the most pathetic thing ive read
two weeks of bullshit when you could’ve just said that from the beginning
you:
so what? r u going to make fun of me now?
scara:
no im gonna tell u something and you’re going to listen, okay?
you:
okay
scara:
i havent posted in 2 weeks because everytime i think about filming with some girl whos offering in my DM’s, all i can think about is you
and how it should be you
and how everyone else would just be a waste of time
and im the one who reached out to you first when i normally dont
do u understand what im saying?
you:
i think so
scara:
good bcuz thats all your getting
my pride can only take so much
You read his message, over and over, trying to convince yourself that they're real, trying to convince yourself that he likes you just as much as you like him.
you:
okay
scara:
okay what
you:
okay ill meet u tmr after school
u can come by my place
scara:
are you serious
you:
yes im serious
i want to
i’ve wanted to this whole time i was just scared
scara:
and now?
you:
still scared but more scared of never knowing what this could be
scara:
…send me your address
you:
[address]
scara:
ur fucking kidding me
you’re 5 miles away from me
you:
wow really
scara:
i could’ve been fucking you for 2 weeks
you:
scara
scara:
im kidding
kind of..
ill be there tmrw what time specifically
you:
my last class ends at 3… so maybe 5?
gives me time to get ready
scara:
k
ill bring my camera equipment in case yours is shit
you:
it’s not shit
scara:
we’ll see
goodnight virgin
sleep tight, because tmr you’re going to be ruined
you:
goodnight scara
You don't sleep.
I mean, who would in a situation like this?
You drift in and out, feeling both anxiety and anticipation.
Tomorrow.
It’s happening tomorrow.
After two weeks of texting, flirting, you’re finally going to meet him.
And he's going to take your virginity.
And film it.
And maybe, possibly, hopefully, not disappear afterward.
The next day is absolute torture.
Every class drags on forever.
Every lecture feels like it's being delivered through molasses.
You check your phone constantly, rereading your conversation with Scara, making sure it really happened. Making sure you didn't imagine it.
You didn't.
Your last class ends at 3:07. You're out the door by 3:08, practically running to your apartment.
You do that stupid Cassie routine in Euphoria. Shower, shave, exfoliate everywhere. Everywhere. Moisterize every inch of your body with the expensive lotion that makes your skin feel like silk and look insanely good for the cameras. You do your makeup, lighter than usual, the kind of look that you wear in class, soft and pretty.
Because you asked him over text to blur your face out in the video, that you didn’t want to dress up too much because you dont wanna be in makeup and a wig getting your virginity taken.
He didn’t care, if anything, he loved it, how he gets to see the real you the fans don’t get to see.
You take forever finding the right clothes to wear. You don’t want to wear anything revealing, you dont want to be standing there with your tits out when he walks in. You want… something in between. Cute but not too desperate, sexy but not aggressive.
You settle on a pink bra, lacey, with a little bow between the cups. Matching panties, obviously. A sheer babydoll top over it, soft pink that makes your skin glow.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
And realize something that makes your stomach drop.
Not only have you never been fucked before.
You've never been kissed.
You're getting all your firsts taken tonight.
scara:
omw
And in exactly 20 minutes, you hear a knock at your door.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. You walk to the door on shaky legs, peering through the peephole.
He's there.
Real, solid. Not just a face on a screen anymore.
He's wearing a dark hoodie, oversized, with baggy black jeans and chunky boots. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. He looks grunge, maybe? Alternative definitely. Like someone you'd see at a concert, not someone who makes porn for a living.
He’s also short, taller that you, definitely, but not by much. Somehow that makes him less intimidating.
Somehow, that makes him more real.
You open the door.
His eyes scan you immediately. Up and down, taking in your bare feet, your babydoll top, your face without the usual layers of camera-ready makeup.
"You look different," he says.
His voice, god, his voice. You’ve only ever heard him speak Japenese. You honestly expected him to have an accent or something, but he doesn’t have one, just this tone that makes your knees weak.
You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good." He tilts his head, looking at the top of yours, before looking back down at your eyes and smiling, almost mocking. "You're much shorter than I thought."
You roll your eyes at him, "Says you."
He snorts, shrugging. "Fair enough."
For a moment, you just stand there, both of you, staring at each other. Two people who've shared every filthy thought in their heads, who've seen each other at their most vulnerable, meeting for the first time.
"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, breaking the silence. "Or are we doing this in the hallway?"
"Oh, right. Sorry. Come in."
You step aside, and he walks past you, and he smells good, expensive cologne probably.
You shut and lock your door as his eyes scan your apartment, moving through it.
He sees the pink walls, the LED strip lights set to white because hot pink looks disgusting to you, he sees the collection of plushies on your couch.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "It's like a Sanrio store exploded in here."
"Shut up."
"I'm not judging. It's very you." He picks up a Hello Kitty plush from your couch, examining it with mock seriousness. "Does she watch while you film?"
"Sometimes."
"Kinky."
You lead him to your bedroom, and he takes it all in with the same amused expression. It’s even worse than the pink shit outside your room. A huge bed with pink sheets and a duvet with brown teddy bears, plushies everywhere on the bed, fluffy rug on the floor, but what he mainly focuses on is the ring light set up in the corner, the camera equipment you use for your streams.
"Your setup isn't shit," he admits, examining your camera. "Better than I expected."
"I told you."
"You did." He sets the camera down and turns to face you. "Okay. Get on the bed."
Your eyebrows knit, glancing at the bed, and back at him. "Already?"
"Relax." He rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking you yet. We need to talk first."
"Talk?" You tilt your head, confused.
"Yeah. You've seen my videos, right? The ones where I'm just... talking to the girl before anything happens?"
Well yes and no… you have seen them, but they’re all in Japanese. You never understood a single word he was saying.
He doesn’t wait for a response. "That's the pre-talk. I do it with everyone. Go over boundaries, safe words, what they're comfortable with." He sits on the edge of your bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you."
"You might."
"Later,” he says with a wink.
You sit down next to him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. He immediately closes it, shifting until your thighs are touching. You don’t move away.
"Okay," he says. "I’m not recording this one because most of my fans don’t understand english, so you can say whatever you want. First things first. Safe word?"
"Um... pink?"
"Pink." He nods. "Good choice, the one’s that are easy to remember are always the best. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No arguments. You say pink, I stop. Got it?"
"Got it,” You say with a nod.
"Second thing. What are you okay with?"
"I... I don't know. Everything? I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know what I like."
"That's fine. We'll figure it out." His hand lands on your knee, casual, like it belongs there. You don’t pull away. "What about what you're not okay with?"
"I don't want my face in the video. Blurred, cropped out, whatever. I don't want people to recognize me."
"Done, we already chatted about that earlier, but what else?"
"I... I don't know. That's it, I think."
He's quiet for a moment, studying your face with those intense indigo eyes.
"You're shaking,” he points out, not taking his eyes off you once.
"I'm nervous,” you say with a nervous giggle.
"I can tell." His hand slides higher, resting on your thigh, just above your knee. "You've really never done this before? Any of it?"
"No."
"Not even kissing?"
Your face burns as you look down, shaking your head. "No."
You glance back up and see something change in his expression, a hungry look like you just handed him so much more then you’re already giving.
"Oh? So I'm your first everything."
"Yeah."
"Fuck." He breathes out the word like it's been punched out of him. "That's... that's so fucking hot. You have no idea."
"Scara..."
"No, I'm serious." He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. "You've never been touched by anyone. Never been kissed. Never had someone's hands on you like this." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "And I get to be the first."
You don't know what to say. Your whole body is tingling where he's touching you, every nerve ending lighting up.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
"You're asking?"
"First time counts. I want you to remember it, all of it."
You nod.
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His lips brush against yours, soft, tentative, nothing like the brutal way he handles the girls in his videos.
It's gentle.
It's perfect.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
When he finally pulls back, you're breathless.
"Not bad," he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your lip. "For someone who's never kissed before."
You stare at him, blinking slow, fully dazed. Your lips are tingling, actually, your whole body is tingling.
You wonder if he can see that.
"Can you..." You trail off, embarrassed.
"Can I what?"
"Do it again?"
"Yeah," he says quietly, like he was going to anyways. "I can do that."
He kisses you again. Longer this time. So much deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take control because you don't know what else to do.
You just know you never want him to stop.
When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.
"Okay," he says, standing up. "I need to set up the camera."
"Now?" You ask, pouting, wanting him to come back.
"Yeah. Now." He walks over to your ring light, adjusting the angle. "You're going to sit right there, looking all fucked out and pretty, and I'm going to film what happens next."
Your heart is pounding, your lips are all swollen, and your entire body is aching with want.
He's really doing this.
It's really happening.
He positions the camera, checks the lighting, makes sure everything is perfect. Then he turns back to you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.
"Ready?"
You're not.
But you nod anyway.
The camera light blinks red.
Recording.
Scara stands at the foot of your bed, fingers going around the hem of his hoodie, he pulls it over his head and your breath catches. You’ve seen his body in videos, pale, and lean, and deceptively strong, but it’s so different in person, more real, more… overwhelming.
It’s also the first time a boy’s been shirtless in your bedroom.
"You're staring," he says.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." His fingers move to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. "That's kind of the point."
He pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them, and now he's just in black boxers. You can see the outline of him through the fabric, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry.
He gets on the bed.
The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he's right there. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, casual, like he does this every day.
He does do this every day.
Just not with you.
"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.
You lean forward, and his hand catches the back of your neck, pulling you the rest of the way. His lips meet yours, and this time it's not gentle. It’s like he’s doing it for the camera. This time it's hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can even process what's happening.
You make a sound against his mouth. Something embarrassing. Something needy.
He laughs into the kiss.
His hands are everywhere, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, you can feel his hands at the hem of your babydoll top, "This is pretty," he murmurs when he pulls back just a little, fingers in the lace. "But it's in the way."
He pulls it over your head before you can respond, and a kisses you again, his fingers now at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced efficiency that should bother you but doesn’t.
The bra falls away.
He pulls back from the kiss, and his eyes drop to your chest. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he's looking at you like you're something precious. Something he wants to devour.
"Pretty," he murmurs.
"Scara..."
"Shh." His hands come up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp. "I'm appreciating the view."
Before you can respond, he's moving you. His hands on your hips, spinning you around, pulling you back against his chest. Your back presses into his bare skin, and his so soft, warm, and solid.
"There we go," he murmurs against your ear. "That's so much better."
One hand finds your breast again, squeezing, palm warm against the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
His other hand slides lower.
Down your stomach, tracing the edge of your panties, where his fingers trace the edge of the lace without going any further..
"These videos you make," he says, conversational, like he's not currently driving you insane. "I've watched all of them. Every single one."
"You mentioned that."
"Did I mention the one where you sat on that vibrator for forty-five minutes without cumming?" His fingers dip below the waistband, just barely, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. "You were crying by the end. Begging even. And you still held out."
"That was... a challenge. From a subscriber,” you breathe out, trying not to squirm.
"I know… I read the caption." His fingers slide lower, finding your folds, and you whimper. "I jerked off to that video six times. Kept thinking about how pretty you'd look if it was me making you cry. Me making you beg."
He presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and your hips jerk involuntarily.
"There it is," he murmurs. "Those pretty little sounds. Just like in the videos. Except now I get to hear them in person."
"Scara..."
"Take these off." He snaps the waistband of your panties. "I want to feel you properly."
Your hands are shaking as you lift your hips, sliding the underwear down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. You're completely naked now, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between his hand and your cunt.
His fingers finds your clit immediately.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked, already. We've barely started and you're dripping all over my hand."
"I can't help it."
"I know you can't, that's what makes it so fun."
He circles your clit slowly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease. Your hips buck, trying to get more friction, but his other hand that was on your breast wraps around your waist, holding you in place.
"Patience," he says. "We have all night."
"Scara, please..." you whimper out, so sweet and so needy.
"Please what?"
"More. I need more…"
He laughs, and it’s that exact laugh from the first video you ever watched of him. The one that made you wet before you even knew his name.
"You want my fingers inside you?"
"Yes." You nod, desperate.
"Such a simple word… You’re going to have to beg prettier than that."
Your face burns, but you're so turned on you don't care about dignity anymore.
"Please, Scara. Please put your fingers inside me. I need to feel you. I've been thinking about it for two weeks, imagining what it would feel like, and I can't... I need..."
"Good enough."
He slides a finger inside, and the sound you make is embarrassing. High, and so desperate and completely involuntary. He's not even doing anything yet, just holding his finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion.
"Tight," he murmurs. "So fucking tight. All those dildos you use and you're still this tight?"
"They're not as big as..."
You cut yourself off, embarrassed.
"As what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you open. "As me? Is that what you were going to say?"
You don't answer. Your brain is going fuzzy, all of your attention is focused on the feeling of his fingers inside you.
"You trained your throat for months," he says, still in that conversational tone, like he's discussing the weather while he finger-fucks you. "I watched you go from barely taking six inches to deepthroating that ten-inch dildo on your wall. Holding it for a full minute without gagging."
His fingers curl, pressing against your front wall, searching.
"Fifty seconds," you manage. "I could only... only do fifty seconds."
"Still impressive." He crooks his fingers, checking your expressions, seeing if he found that spot yet. "But training your throat is one thing. This..." He curls and curls still searching. "This is something else entirely."
He finds the spot.
Your whole body jerks, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He presses harder, rubbing circles against that bundle of nerves, and your vision starts to blur at the edges, your toes curling
"There it is," he says, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's what makes you fall apart, go fucking blank."
"Oh god. Oh fuck. Scara, I can't..."
"You can." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, faster, and you can’t control the loud moan you let out, hard instictively grabbing at his arm. "You're going to take whatever I give you, and you're going to love it."
His other hand leaves your breast and wraps around your throat instead. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you aware of how completely he has you.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Shaking already. Just from my fingers. Imagine what you're going to do when I actually fuck you."
You can't imagine it. You can barely think. All you can do is feel, the pressure building between your legs, the heat of his body behind you, the grip of his hand on your throat.
He adds a third finger.
The stretch makes you gasp, pain and pleasure blurring together. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes faster, fucking you with his fingers like he's trying to prove a point.
"You know what my favorite video of yours is?" he asks.
You shake your head, unable to form words.
"The one where you fucked yourself on that machine for two hours straight. Where you came so many times you lost count. Where you were crying and begging and saying you couldn't take anymore, but you didn't stop." His fingers speed up, fucking into you harder, faster. "You came eleven times that stream. I counted."
"You... y-you counted?" You surprisingly manage out.
"I counted everything." His grip on your throat tightens. "Every moan. Every whimper. Every time your eyes rolled back. I have it all memorized."
His fingers find that spot again, pressing hard, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of your bedroom. Your mouth falls open, gasping for air, and that's when he moves.
His hand leaves your throat, and suddenly his fingers are in your mouth instead. Two of them, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck on instinct, moaning around the digits.
"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, that's it. That's what I want. Suck them just like that."
You suck. You suck his fingers like your life depends on it, tasting yourself on his skin, while his other hand keeps working between your legs. The combination is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're so good at that. All that training paid off, huh? You're going to suck my cock just like that. I'm going to fuck your throat until you can't breathe, and you're going to take it, because that's what you've been practicing for."
The words push you closer to the edge.
"You're close," he observes. "I can feel it. The way you're clenching around my fingers, the way you're shaking. You want to cum so bad, don't you?"
You nod desperately, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth.
"Too bad." He slows down, keeping you right on the edge. "I'm not done with you yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer."
You whine around his fingers, and he laughs. "God, you're pathetic," he murmurs, and it sounds like a compliment. "Completely pathetic. And I fucking love it."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours. Edging you, backing off every time you get close, until you're crying real tears and begging around his fingers for release.
"Please," you sob when he finally pulls his hand from your mouth. "Please, Scara, I can't... I need..."
"Need what? Say it."
"I need to cum. Please. Please let me cum."
"Okay." His fingers speed up one final time. "Cum."
You shatter.
The orgasm rips through you like nothing you've ever felt before. Your whole body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and the sound you make is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He works you through it, extending the pleasure until you're twitching and oversensitive.
Then he pulls out.
You collapse against him, boneless, breathing hard, shaking. You've made yourself cum hundreds of times on camera, but it's never felt like that.
"Good girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That was beautiful."
Then he pushes you off.
You land on your back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Your whole body is tingling. Your cunt is throbbing. And he's not done.
You hear the rustle of fabric, of something hitting the floor.
You lift your head to look.
He took off his boxers.
And his cock… is big.
You've seen it in videos before, sort of. Japanese censorship laws meant he always had to blur it, pixelate it beyond recognition. Sometimes he got lazy with the editing and you can almost make out the shape. But you've never seen it clearly.
It's bigger than you thought.
You’re almost an expert at dildos, which translates into dicks. You’re able to tell how long they are just by a glance, and you’d estimate his is about 8 inches, at least.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"That's the plan."
Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself.
You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he throbs in your grip. It's nothing like the dildos you've practiced with. It's warm and alive and so, so real.
You’d never use dildos again if you had the real thing everyday.
"Eager," he says, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes dark, as you stroke him slowly. "You're supposed to be a virgin."
"I am a virgin." You look up at him, voice almost tired, still recovering.
"Could've fooled me." He lets you touch him for a few more seconds, then grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "But I didn't come here to get a handjob."
He comes closer, positioning himself between your legs. You spread them automatically, making room for him, and he settles into the space like he belongs there.
"This is going to hurt," he says, rubbing his cock slowly against your folds, almost teasing.
"I know." You say, anxious, but just wanting to get the hard part over with already.
"You might bleed."
"Wait really? I thought that was a myth…" Your brows knit, getting distracted way too quickly.
"You could,” he says, not dwelling on the subject further, “And I'm not going to be gentle."
Your breath catches, you nod slow. "I know."
He grabs one of the cameras he'd set on the bed earlier, angling it down between your bodies. The other cameras are already positioned around the room, capturing everything from multiple angles, but this one will get the close-up.
The money shot.
"Any last words?" he asks, almost mocking.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes despite the whimpers you’re letting out, feeling his cock, warm, heavy, just resting ontop of your cunt. "Just... do it. Before I lose my nerve."
He smiles, cruel and so adoringly beautiful at once.
And then he pushes inside.
Easing in? Not his style at all. He slides all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and the scream that tears from your throat is unlike anything you’ve made before.
It hurts.
It hurts so fucking bad.
You feel like you're being split in two, like he's too big, too much, like your body wasn't made to take this. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He doesn't stop.
He starts to move, slow but not gentle, pulling out halfway before pushing back in. The camera in his hand stays steady, like he’s a pro at this, documenting everything, while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
"There it is," he breathes. "Fuck, there it is. That's what a virgin feels like. So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
"It hurts," you whimper. "Scara, it hurts..."
"I know." He leans down, still moving, still fucking you, and his lips brush against your cheek. "I know it hurts. But you're taking it so well. Such a good girl."
Tears are streaming down your cheeks. He notices, and instead of stopping, he leans down and kisses them. His tongue traces the wet tracks on your skin, collecting your tears, tasting your pain.
"So pretty when you cry," he says against your cheek. "I've always thought so. All those videos where you make yourself cry from overstimulation. But this is better. This is real."
He keeps moving, slow and deep, and gradually the pain starts to fade. It doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into something else, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl.
"That's it," he says, feeling you relax around him. "There you go. Starting to feel good, isn't it?"
You nod, biting your lip.
"Use your words."
"Yes," you manage. "Yes, oh god, yes..."
He speeds up.
The camera is still in his hand, still recording, but his attention is on you now. On the way your face changes, pain melting into pleasure. On the sounds you're making, those sweet, cute moans that you're not even trying to hold back anymore.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he says, voice rough. "Two weeks of watching your videos, imagining it was me inside you instead of those stupid toys. And now I'm finally here. Finally fucking you for real."
He changes the angle, and suddenly he's hitting his cock deep inside the spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Finding that spot and abusing it mercilessly.
"That's the one," he says, satisfied. "Found it, again. You make the cutest fucking face when I hit it."
"Scara... Scara, I'm gonna..."
"Already?" He laughs, mean and delighted, hitting that spot again, again, again. "We just started. You're really that easy?"
"I can't help it... it feels so good..."
"Then cum." He fucks you harder, faster. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show the camera how good I make you feel."
You cum so hard you see stars.
Your whole body convulses, walls clenching around him, and you're pretty sure you're screaming but you can't hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears. He fucks you through it, doesn't slow down at all, and when the first orgasm starts to fade, the second one is already building.
"Good girl," he breathes. "That's my good girl. One down, how many more to go?"
He loses count somewhere around the fifth.
"Up."
His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, and you look up at him, dazed. He's pulled out, leaving you empty and aching, and he's sitting back on your headboard, cock still hard and glistening with your slick.
"What?"
"Come here." He grabs your hips, hauling you up, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper. "I want you to ride me."
"I don't... I don't know how..."
"Mhm, don’t worry, I'll teach you." He guides your hips, lifting you up, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down. Slow."
You sink Inch by inch, feeling him fill you up again, until you're fully seated in his lap. The angle is different like this. Deeper. You can feel him in places you didn't know existed.
"Now move." His hands are on your hips, guiding you. "Up and down. Just like that. Find your rhythm."
You start to move. It's awkward at first, clumsy, but then something clicks and suddenly it feels amazing. You're in control, setting the pace, taking what you need.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching you with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you've got."
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, and grind down onto him. He groans, hands tightening on your hips, and you feel a surge of power. You did that. You made him make that sound.
You're so close to him like this, chest to chest, his breath on your lips. It feels intimate in a way you weren't expecting. More like making love than making content.
"Kiss me," you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate, he kisses you, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while you ride him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment it's just the two of you, the cameras forgotten.
Then, he breaks the kiss, as if remembering what it is you both are supposed to be shooting.
"Faster," he demands.
You go faster.
You bounce on his cock, chasing the pleasure, and he watches with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him.
"Pretty," he says. "So fucking pretty. Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"Scara..."
"You know how many girls have been in this position? How many have ridden my cock on camera?" He yanks your hair harder, and you moan. "None of them felt like you. None of them were this tight, this wet, this desperate."
"Please..."
"Please what? Use your words."
You whine, grinding even more desperately. "Please... harder... I need..."
He laughs, and then he flips you.
One second you're on top, the next you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and he's fucking into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall. The angle is brutal, hitting deep, and you can't do anything but lie there and take it.
"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice is rough, strained. "To be ruined? To be fucked so hard you can't think straight?"
"Yes," you sob. "Yes, yes, yes..."
"Then take it. Take all of it."
He cums inside you.
You feel it, hot and thick, filling you up as he groans and shudders above you. His hips keep moving, fucking his cum deeper, and you cum again just from the feeling of it.
When he finally pulls out, you're a mess. Cum leaking from your cunt, tears drying on your cheeks, whole body trembling with aftershocks.
He looks down at you with something like satisfaction.
"We're not done yet."
Content like this calls for lots of positions being changed, different ways you both fuck, constantly moving, constantly trying different things.
After probably your 14th orgasm of the night, you’re on the bed, propped up on your hand when you suggest, "I want you to fuck my face."
He pauses in the middle of repositioning the camera, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"The first video I saw of you." Your voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning. "You were fucking that girl's throat. Making her choke. I want... I want you to do that to me."
"I remember that video." He sets the camera aside, turning to look at you with renewed interest. "She tapped out three times and I didn't stop."
"I know."
"And you want me to do that to you."
"Yes."
He smiles slow, and the look he gives you is predatory.
"Lie on your back."
You position yourself how he wants, your head close to your pillows, looking up at him. From this angle, his cock looks even bigger, hard again already, glistening with your combined fluids.
He stands over you, cock in hand, and taps it against your lips.
"Open."
You open your mouth, and he slides in.
You've practiced this. Months of training with dildos, learning to relax your throat, to breathe through your nose, to suppress your gag reflex. But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The heat of his cock, the weight. The way he pulses against your tongue.
He slides in slowly at first, letting you adjust to the angle. But then his hips start to move, and slow goes out the window.
He fucks your face.
There's no other word for it. His cock slides down your throat, cutting off your air, and then pulls back just long enough for you to gasp before plunging in again. The sounds are obscene. Wet, gurgling, choking sounds that would embarrass you if you could think about anything besides the cock in your throat.
"Fuck," he groans, falling foward, his head falling down onto one of your pillows. "Your mouth feels amazing. Better than I imagined. You really did train for this, didn't you?"
He keeps going, humping your face with desperate little thrusts, and the sounds he's making are nothing like the controlled, mocking ones from before. These are raw, unfiltered. Almost vulnerable.
You start to choke for real. Your hands come up, slapping against the backs of his thighs, the universal signal for "I need air."
He doesn't stop.
Instead, his knees move, pressing down on your arms, trapping them away from trying to signal for anything. You're pinned now, completely helpless, unable to tap out or push him away.
"There we go," he groans. "That's better… no tapping out, no escaping. You just lie there and let me use your throat like the good little fuckdoll you are."
He picks up the pace, driving into your throat over and over. You can't breathe, can barely think, your vision starting to blur around the edges. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he laughs.
"Getting wet from choking on my cock? Fuck, you're perfect. Listen to that sound." He thrusts particularly deep, and you gag violently. "That wet, sloppy, choking sound? That's the sound of your throat being trained by something real."
Just when you think you might pass out, he gets up from your pillow and he pulls back. You gasp for air, chest heaving, drool and tears covering your face.
He gives you five seconds.
Then he's back in your mouth, fucking your throat like he's trying to break you.
"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunts. "And you're gonna swallow every drop. That's what good girls do, right? That's what you always say in your videos?"
You try to nod, but you can't move. You just lie there, throat open, accepting whatever he gives you.
He buries himself deep and cums.
You feel it pulsing down your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow on instinct. He holds himself there, grinding against your face, riding out his orgasm, until finally he pulls out.
You gasp for air, coughing, drool and cum running down your chin, your whole body trembling.
He looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
The positions blur together after that.
He fucks you from behind, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air. He fucks you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder.
Then, he lifted you off the bed like you weighed nothing at all. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air out from your lungs, and you could already feel his cock pushing inside.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and you obey, ankles locking behind his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you cry out, nails raking down his shoulders.
"Fuck… Good girl." His voice is strained, arms flexed as he holds you up, and you can see the slight muscles in his forearms working.
Every thrust pushes you up the wall, your back scraping against the plaster. It hurts, you can feel the friction burning your skin, but the pain just makes the pleasure more real.
"You know how many times I've thought about this?" He fucks up into you, brutal and deep. "Having you pinned like this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just taking whatever I give you."
"Scara..." Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling. The angle is hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"That's it." He shifts his grip, one hand sliding under your ass to support you better, the other coming up to wrap around your throat. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, that perfect composure finally cracking. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.
"You're so fucking tight like this," he groans. "Squeezing me so hard. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."
"It doesn't," you gasp. "I don't. Please don't stop, please..."
"Couldn't stop if I wanted to." His hips snap forward, driving you up the wall, and you swear you see stars. "You feel too good. Took one look at this tight little cunt and knew I was fucked."
The hand on your throat squeezes, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Your legs are shaking, your arms are shaking, everything is shaking, and he just keeps going, fucking you against the wall like he's trying to leave an impression of your body in the plaster.
"Cum for me," he demands. "Right now. Let me feel you pulse around me."
You don't have a choice. Your body obeys him without your permission, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through you. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and when you finally go limp in his arms, he's still hard inside you.
"Good," he breathes. "Now let's see how many more we can get out of you before your legs give out completely."
More and more positions blur after that one, and at some point, you’re on your knees, carefully placed on your soft rug of course.
You're grateful for that, the soft rug. You've been down here for what feels like hours, jaw aching, lips swollen, looking up at him while he holds the camera and watches you worship his cock.
"Eyes up here," he says, tilting the camera down to catch your face. "I want them to see those pretty eyes when you choke."
You look up at him through wet lashes, his cock heavy on your tongue. He's not moving, not yet. Just letting you hold him there, drool pooling in your mouth, waiting for permission.
"You look good like this." He traces the outline of your stretched lips with his free hand. "On your knees where you belong. Mouth full of cock. Barely able to breathe." His thumb wipes at the drool running down your chin. "This is what you were made for, isn't it?"
You try to nod, but it's hard with your mouth this full.
"Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He starts to move, slow shallow thrusts that make wet sounds echo through the room. "I already know the answer. I've seen you practice on those dildos for hours. But they were never enough, were they?"
He pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around him. The camera catches everything.
"Plastic can't compare to the real thing." He pulls back, lets you breathe for half a second, then pushes back in. "Can't feel you choking. Can't hear the sounds you make. Can't watch the tears fall down your pretty face."
Your eyes are watering. You can feel the mascara running, can feel how messy you must look, but he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Take it deeper," he instructs. "Show me what you learned."
You relax your throat, let him slide further, until your nose is pressed against his stomach and you can't breathe at all. The camera is right there, capturing the way your throat bulges around him.
"Fuck." His voice cracks, almost breaking from the feeling of your mouth. "Fuck, that's perfect. Hold it. Hold it for me."
You hold, five seconds… ten… fifteen. Your lungs are burning, tears streaming down your face, but you don't pull back. Not until he does it for you.
"Breathe."
You gasp, sucking in air, and he taps his cock against your cheek. Once. Twice. Leaving wet marks on your skin.
"Open."
You open, and he slides back in, and the cycle starts all over again.
You both switched rooms at some point, change of scenery, and you led him to your bathroom.
He'd bent you over it the second you walked in, said something about the lighting being "fucking perfect" and grabbed his camera from the bedroom. Now you're pressed against the marble, watching yourself in the mirror while he fucks you from behind.
"Look at yourself," he orders, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so you can't look away. "Look at what I'm doing to you."
You look.
Your reflection is a mess. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, mouth hanging open as sounds spill out that you don't recognize. Behind you, he's a study in contrast, composed and controlled, watching your face in the mirror while he drives into you.
"You see that?" He pulls your hair harder, forcing your back to arch. "That's what a ruined virgin looks like. That's what I do to girls who think they can resist me."
"I didn't resist," you gasp.
"No." He slams into you, and you watch your own face contort with pleasure. "You didn't. You spread your legs and begged for it. Desperate little thing."
The angle is brutal, every thrust pushes you into the counter, the edge digging into your hips, but you can't look away from the mirror. Can't stop watching the way his cock disappears inside you, the way his face tightens with pleasure, the way your body moves with each impact.
"This is my favorite part," he says, meeting your eyes in the reflection. "Watching you watch yourself get fucked. Seeing the exact moment you realize how pathetic you are."
"I'm not..."
"You are." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit, and you cry out. "You're dripping all over my cock, moaning like a whore, watching yourself get ruined, and you're going to cum just from seeing your own fucked-out face in the mirror."
He's right, way too fucking right. Because watching yourself, watching him, watching the everything being reflected back at you… it’s pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has.
"That's it," he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you. "Watch yourself cum. I want you to remember exactly what you looked like."
You cum with your eyes locked on your own reflection, watching your face go slack with pleasure while he groans and spills inside you.
The mirror fogs up from your breath.
He doesn't pull out.
"Again," he says. "I want to see it again."
At some point, you end up with him sitting against your headboard, your body draped across his lap. His fingers are in your ass, slicked with lube, stretching you open while you whimper into his chest.
"You've never done this before either, have you?" he murmurs, working a second finger inside you. "Never had anything in this tight little hole?"
"No," you gasp. "Never."
"Jesus Christ." He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes you see stars. "You really are a virgin everywhere. Completely untouched. And now you're all mine."
"Scara..." You can barely form words. "It's too much..."
"It's not enough." He adds another finger, 3 now, and you cry out. "Not nearly enough. I'm going to ruin every part of you before this night is over."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours, working you open, making you cum over and over until you're crying and begging and promising him anything if he'll just let you rest.
But the position that stands out most is the one where he's fucking you face down into your mattress, deep and slow. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, kissing and biting and marking you as his.
It feels oddly passionate for sex content.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your skin. "Better than anyone I've ever had. Tighter. Warmer. More responsive."
"Scara..."
"I love how you say my name." He bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Say it again. I want everyone who watches this to know exactly who's ruining you."
"Scara. Scara, please..."
"Please what?"
"I don't know." You're crying again, overwhelmed. "Just... more. I need more."
He gives you more, more thrusts, more of everything, until you're shaking apart beneath him, cumming so hard you see white.
He kisses you.
A lot.
More than he does in his videos. You've watched enough of them to know that he's usually detached, controlled, focused on the camera and the performance. But with you, he keeps leaning in. Pressing his lips to yours, or to your neck, or at your breasts, anywhere he could find.
"Intermission."
He pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, and collapses onto the bed beside you. You're both breathing hard, covered in sweat and other fluids, and you've lost count of how many times you've cum.
"I need a minute," you manage.
"Take five." He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, watching you. "You've earned it."
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember your own name. Every muscle in your body aches. Your cunt is sore, your throat is raw, and you're pretty sure you have bruises in places that bruises shouldn't be.
You've never been happier.
"Here."
You turn your head, and see him holding out his hoodie, the one he was wearing when he arrived.
"Put this on. I can see you shivering."
You hadn't noticed, but he's right. The sweat is cooling on your skin, making you tremble. You sit up, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pull the hoodie over your head.
It's a little big on you. Soft and warm, and it smells just like him.
"Better?"
"Yeah." You look down at yourself, almost drowning in his clothes. "I look like a little kid."
"You look like you're mine."
The words hit you somewhere deep. You look up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Lie back," he says.
"What? I thought we were taking a break."
"We are." He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs, and you let him. "But I've been wanting to taste you all night, and I can't wait anymore."
He settles between your thighs, his face inches from your cunt, and looks up at you through his lashes.
"Just relax. Let me take care of you."
His tongue drags through your folds, and you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets. He's not trying to make you cum this time. Not yet. He's just... tasting. Exploring. Licking up the mess he's made of you, cleaning his own cum from your cunt with gentle, thorough strokes.
"You taste like me," he murmurs against your skin. "Like us. Fucking delicious."
He eats you out slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue circles your clit, dips inside you, traces patterns that make your toes curl. And the whole time, you're lying there in his hoodie, feeling more cared for than you've ever felt in your life.
When he finally makes you cum, it's soft. Gentle. A slow wave of pleasure that washes over you instead of crashing, leaving you warm and boneless and completely content.
He crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead before settling beside you.
"Fiftieth orgasm of the night," he says. "New record?"
"Definitely a new record."
He laughs, it’s not the mean laugh from before, it’s something softer, something real.
When it's finally over, you're barely conscious.
Your body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled wrong. Every muscle aches. Your throat is raw from screaming. You can still feel him leaking out of you, cum dripping down your thighs.
He tucks you into bed. Actually tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, smoothing your hair back from your face. Then he climbs out, reaching for his jeans.
You watch, dazed, as he pulls his jeans back on. He starts gathering his cameras, carefully placing them in his bag, and something cold settles in your stomach.
This is it. The part you've been dreading. The part where he leaves and goes back to his life and you become just another video in his collection.
"Are you leaving?"
Your voice comes out small, scared. You hate how vulnerable you sound.
He pauses, camera in hand, and looks at you. "Do you want me to?"
The question hangs in the air. You're still wearing his hoodie, still lying in your bed, still feeling his cum leaking out of you. And he's asking if you want him to leave.
"No." you whisper. "I don't want you to leave."
No pretense. No games. Just honest, raw need.
He puts the camera down.
You barely have time to process before he's climbing back into bed, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"Good," he murmurs into your hair. "Because I didn't want to leave either."
His hand traces patterns on your back, soothing. After everything he's done to you tonight, the tenderness almost makes you cry again.
You tilt your head up to look at him, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is different from before. No heat, no desperation. Just soft and slow and achingly tender.
He tilts your chin up and kisses you.
When he pulls back, you chase his mouth.
"Needy," he murmurs, letting you kiss him again.
When you finally pull back, letting you both get some air, you can’t help asking, "What are you going to do after this?"
"What do you mean?"
"After this. After tonight." You trace patterns on his chest, avoiding his eyes. "Are you going to post the video and move on? Find another girl to film with? Go back to your life like this never happened?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm asking."
He catches your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"If I don't leave," he says slowly, "if I keep coming back here, keep filming with you, keep... spending time with you outside of filming... this stops being just content. You get that, right?"
"What does it become?"
"Something else." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something more."
"That sounds like you'd be my boyfriend."
The words hang between you. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.
"Is that what you want?"
You're quiet for a moment. Not because you don't know the answer, but because you're scared to say it out loud.
"Yes."
The word is barely a whisper, but he hears it.
A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, softer, almost innocent, something just for you.
"Good," he says. "Because I'm pretty sure I've been so far gone on you since that video you posted with that stupid Hello Kitty pillow."
"It's not stupid."
"It's extremely stupid." He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "But so am I, apparently. For falling for a girl I met on the internet."
"You fell for me?"
"Obviously." He rolls his eyes, tone almost sassy, but there's no heat in it. "Why else would I follow only you? Why else would I stop posting? Why else would I spend two weeks texting you instead of finding someone else?"
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to."
I don't want you to."
"Then I won't."
You lie there in silence for a moment, processing everything that's happened. The long sex. The confession. The fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now, one who makes porn and took your virginity.
It's perfect.
"Scara?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I might love you."
He's quiet for way too long, and your heart plummets. But then his arms tighten around you, and his voice comes out rough.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think I might love you too."
You fall asleep in his arms, wearing his hoodie, with his cum still inside you and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
Hello, fine individual! I’m not sure if you write for Lohen, but if you do, could you do Lohen x female reader where reader gets unexpectedly heavily injured? Thank you so much :)
૮꒰ྀིㅤ❝ while we dance on the edge of the knife! ❞ㅤ꒱ྀིა
𑣲ㅤ m's warningsㅤ ◞ sfw, implied blood mention, injury mention, angst/comfort (more on the fact that lohen becomes a certified crashout when the abyss uses his feelings for you against him), no established relationship, reader is highkey nonchalant at first, reader uses a blade, secretary! reader
𑣲ㅤ m's synopsisㅤ ◞ lohen? in love? oh my word, are you joking or what? the vice captain falling for his stern secretary? the one who refuses to fight him?
𑣲ㅤ m's noteㅤ ◞ rip 2.5k follower event... otw to 5k followers already chat... this was supposed to be a simple headcannon thing until it clicked in my head...
𑣲 characters included: lohen x gn! reader (* wc is around 2k+ i stopped counting)
originally, you became varka's second in command for how responsible you were, and the amount of paperwork you agreed to help jean with while he was gone.
but now that he's back... you tossed it on right back to him, and helped arrange events, and went back to your rightfully elected jobs; at least initially the ones you signed up for anyway.
now finally at the side of jean in preparing the little mini festival made for the return of varka's group, he only decided to call you back in. great, just when you got the only person who was willing to do the paperwork WITH you...
you were his second in command, not one that he asked for, but subconsciously is thankful for. little does he know, varka had assigned you a different mission when you became lohen's right hand general; stop him from going too far, become the limit that stops him from reaching the undescribable insanity he might want to attain.
you... well, you don't really know what to expect. you've been a knight of favonius ever since you were a child, maybe between klee's age and noelle's age was when you started—but you had never ever met anybody named 'lohen'. you've met a few of the people at fifth company, but not enough for any of them to be truly recognizable.
even you at first, were completely in awe of the description your boss was giving to you about the man you were about to work for. adre.... adrenaline-junkie? battle maniac? yet polite, and friendly? could you please pick a struggle?!
you squinted at the blonde man momentarily, "are you sure that's one person, varka? i mean—" sighing as you place the finished stack of paperwork to the side. "you just told me he likes killing for fun, but is very kind, and has a friendly demeanor?"
a raised eyebrow came the blonde man's way as he let out that obnoxiously loud laugh out, "look, (name), i believe in the years we've worked, and me and him working together, you out of everybody in the favonius can actually handle this man."
your face told the grandmaster everything he needed to know; you still didn't get it. "so why do you still let him work here?" — "he isn't a monster. but we need someone who could keep him in check, get it or still no?"
shaking your head, varka sighed again.
"how about we just let you two meet, good?"
. . . ~_~ . . .
"okay, lohen, go ahead and introduce yourself to your new right hand commander!" smiling brightly, the gray-haired man puts both hands on his hips before offering a small smile. "i'm lohen, captain of the fifth company for the favonius."
"woah, is that really his voice?" you thought to yourself silently, he definitely doesn't look the part of insane maniac but hey, don't judge a book by its cover... right?
"hello lohen, i'm (name), previously and unfortunately secretary of the grandmaster, now your secretary. it's nice to meet you." you offered a hand for him to shake, but for him to just offer a wider smile; "oh! this is what you meant, grandmaster?"
before you realized he already summoned his polearm, trying to strike you in the side when you summoned your own weapon, briefly blocking his hit. stepping backwards, he let out a loud laugh, not the kind varka would let out, but the kind you would fear in a battle.
"good, you react fast. does this mean we can spar, or what?" — "i think... i'm good. if you pull that shit again, best believe i won't just be blocking your weapon, sir."
the grandmaster smiling widely again before he brings you both in for a hug, large biceps around both your shoulders before asking, "so what do you think? aren't you two just a perfect match?!"
"no." - "yes!"
you couldn't help but sigh at his enthusiasm, keeping your weapon out, guard up, and awareness to the t as this unexpectedly violent man is now officially your boss, and you become his assistant.
un-fucking-believable.
. . . ~_~ . . .
it was often that your new boss would tease and poke fun at you for being way too 'stuck-up' and 'strict' when in reality you were really just trying to keep him out of trouble.
"you know what? varka's only ever mentioned you to me twice. you and your [h/c] hair, and how responsible you are." but what really gets to him is the fact of how lackluster your reactions end up being.
"...mmh? oh really?" continuing to cut the excess branches off your little bonsai tree gifted by none other than captain jean. god you already missed your old life already, sometimes you wished for all the stacks of paperwork again... lohen has none going on for him.
"yeah really. how about it [h/c]head, is it true?" a small smirk appeared on his face when he sat himself up onto the sides of the table, just adjacent to your little tree.
you tilt your head upwards to connect your gaze with the swirls inside his eyes. "i'd like to say i am." — "show it to me, show me how responsible you are!" before falling over the table, right beside the spot where you had pushed the chair away earlier for interrupting your leg space freedom;
thinking quickly, you had placed a hand on his back, catching him swiftly before he landed on the ground. "...holy—crap, do you do this to varka too?!" placing him back onto the table, and dragging the chair back. "there, if you wanted a seat beside me, you should've just said so."
"hah, like i'd want to be on the same level as you. you are merely mediocre." looking away, lohen refused to admit the red on his face was spreading.
"provoking me will not make me want to spar with you, sir."
hell even the traps he places everywhere you walk, just for you to dodge them every single time?
what kind of beast were you when you actually put an effort into fighting him? shit you might just be hotter than just what you let him see.
so when you step on a small patch of moundy grass and hear a beep? how come you immediately jumped out of the way?! it was mere milliseconds from exploding?! would you just fight him already?!
"how many of these did you place?" brushing dust off of your knees from the dirt that had just exploded everywhere, your boss just looked at you with annoyance. kneeling down to inspect the ground, you try to check how many more mounds there are, yet that wasn't the thing that set off the thoughts that floated in the vice captain's head anymore.
"whh... what? you think i'd be stupid enough to tell you? do you really underestimate me that much?" snapping out of the little trance he was placed under. "...i assure you i would never think lowly of you, sir." — "so why won't you give me a taste of that blade? are you scared?"
summoning his polearm quickly and trying to strike you once more, pressing you further; if you didn't get hurt by his blade- you definitely would get hurt by the explosions caused by the adorable little bombs that were buried under.
that was his thought process until he realized you were already dodging each bomb with precision whilst parrying all his polearm strikes. even when he used his cryo to grow his blade longer to reach your skin, not even a scratch littered your skin.
"c'mon pretty, won't you just give me a chance? give me your full strength? i'll do anything..." a finger tracing up your arm, cold and unsettling, it matched the way he smirked while you sharpened your own blade.
"please quit it, lohen. you are aware now that i'm here to keep you out of trouble, not cause it, right?" — "gosh, but that's boooring!"
coming over to varka briefly since today was an invitation from the man himself, lohen didn't really mind, maybe today would be the fight he'd been begging for for how many years now?
"so, how are they? you like them?" taking a sip of his dandelion wine, varka raised a brow as he investigated the vice captain's expression. "mmh? yeah, 'course i do but... seems like they refuse to fight me. it's so sad, they're so pretty and all when they fend off disgusting abyss creatures. not to mention that little quirk of brow when their weapon hits the enemy just right—have you ever noticed that?!"
the grandmaster gives a nod and a hum to his out-of-the-blue statement, passing it off as probable praise. it wasn't uncommon for lohen to love the way one is when they fight with purpose.
"lohen, are you in love?" — "whaat?? with (name)?"
he never gave a direct answer.
. . . ~_~ . . .
so when you two were (unfortunately) assigned a mission together with a few other troops in order to bring back a well-known thief alive. it wasn't as fun as it would be when you would with others, not when the only things you would hear from the little mosquito in your ear begging to fight you.
but what happens when he gets the fight he wanted in the worst way possible?
"fuck, okay—(name)—sorry, i'm sorry! is that what you wanted to hear?! stop holding back on me, just.... fuckfuckfuck! fight back! hit me! why won't you talk to me?!"
walking up in a cold sweat, a gasp leaves him, enough to startle you on the outside of his tent. conveniently just sitting by the fireplace while keeping watch. opening the tent briefly, poking your head through;
"hey, lohen, are you okay? i heard a ga-" — "i-i'm fine. go back to the shit you were doing."
you sigh as you did as he said, sitting back down on the log. stabbing the rocks and wood used to make the fiery heat that kept you and your soldiers warm.
what the fuck was that dream for?
his breaths were heavy, chest weighing down on him. what was happening? he thought he already got rid of it, why is he feeling it again? what the hell is happening.
fuck, is the abyss really affecting him now, what the hell? it never did that before. so why now?
clutching the upper left of his chest, his heart felt like it was beating out of his own body. why can't it stop—why won't it stop—what's wrong with him?
what is with the ridiculously large fog that plagues his vision excessively now, why can't he stop thinking about that stupid dream,
why was it you?
tears were already falling from his face when he feels his own arms fall weakly on his sides.
you wouldn't leave him too, right? nononono—no, no, you were assigned to stay by his side because he just can't stop himself from getting in trouble. so why wouldn't he stop doing stupid shit?
or... maybe he's too much and you'd leave,
he's never thought like this, what the hell was—
"hey! heyheyhey, lohen, you're good okay, you're fine. breathe, just breathe..." he hadn't even noticed you walking into the tent as you stood by his side of the bed where you let his head lean onto your stomach. a soft hand on his silky head of hair, believe it or not he does take care of his hair very well.
. . . ~_~ . . .
by the time morning hit, you didn't realize that you made the choice of sitting in his makeshift bed, where he laid his head in the crook of your neck. in fact, he had already left by the time you had awoken.
"lo— huh..." rubbing your eyes to properly wake up, stretching a bit. was that all a dream? no definitely not, how would you be in his tent if it was. exiting the large marquee that belonged to your boss, you greeted the knights that had accompanied you both. "have any of you seen where lohen went?"
shaking their heads, you started to think about the places he would've gone in this type of climate. where abyss was on an all-time hi-
he went to go fight some, didn't he.
"please, the five of you please stay here, and watch over the camp, yes?" they saluted at your command and went back to eating the food you had hunted for the previous night.
. . . ~_~ . . .
your shoes crackled the leaves beneath, your weapon out as your guard stayed up. in what direction would he have gone, you followed the familiar 'X' marks he would leave over certain trees to find his way back to camp on different missions, not like he told you personally... but you picked up the little things too.
like the specific way he brushes his hair, keeping the little tuff on the left part of his locks to keep that signature 'lohen, the vice captain of fifth company' look. or how there's only one way he tests his tea; a spoon circling the rim of the cup before tasting the spoon itself.
cough, very necessary behavior to note down.
the more you roamed the forest, the faster the marks started to dwindle, the x spots start to turn into y's, what could be- oh shit.
you started to pick up your pace as scenarios ran through your head, god where the hell are you, lohen?!
you ran past more trees yet it's like that idiot actually stopped slashing every tree in sight, maybe he found a worthy opponent... no, no way, you continued to run before you finally arrived at a concrete castle in the middle of nowhere.
it was foggy, and the smell that lingered in the air definitely was not vanilla. you stepped closer towards the building as quietly as you could, you fidget with your blade with the smallest movements possible, your boots making a small clack sound as you finally entered.
looking around, this seemed as if a place for rituals, symbols, and marks were littered all over the walls that seemed to have been made out of ivory if you could still call it that.
your hand reaches out to briefly brush against the wall of the long hall that seemed to extend forever. dust coating your fingertips, you brushed it off before making your way over to the light at the end of the tunnel. you try to check in on the compass that was set to your camp, yet now it seemed to conveniently stop working.
shit.
you better be here lohen.
. . . ~_~ . . .
when you finally reached it, you didn't know what you were expecting to see, but it definitely wasn't a scowl on your captain's face while he fought. no, you hardly saw him sink into the mere mention of panicking. he's never, ever, never ever shown those kinds of emotions before.
"lohen!" you shouted from across the stadium-like arena, the large abyss monster he had been fighting turned to look at you before turning back to him; only to get hit in the face,
lohen's scowl shrinks when he realizes its you. "(name)?! what the hell are you doing here?!" the sheer fear in his voice echoed in your mind, it wasn't easy getting familiar with the way his tone was basically frowning at you to leave. "no, nonono- fuck, captain, i'm not gonna leave you."
"(name), this is my one command i demand you follow—" you quickly cut him off as you cut through the creature's legs in one go. "no. i... i'm not gonna leave you. i am your secretary, and i will stay by your side," stepping toward the vice captain slowly,
"i will make sure you stay out of trouble," you take the honor of kneeling before him, "i am honored to have become your assistant." keeping a hand on the handle of your blade, you bowed your head.
"pfft... d- do not bow before me. it's not like royalty or anything, okay? just get up, let's get out of here."
that's what you wish would've happened. if only you had taken the chance of when you got to the monster without it noticing; rather than the legs being struck... you completely forgot about their regeneration.
but before the creature was able to land a hit on lohen as he followed behind you, the speed you were able to gain in order to step in front of the monster and stab it right in the neck was magnificent.
magnificent if he hadn't hit you on the side of your stomach.
. . . o_o . . .
you opened your eyes, your body is aching, letting out a small groan at the pain before looking around. pillars, crosses, a sleeping lohen on your arm, and barbara all in one place.
hold on, lohen?
your eyes widened for a moment before you relaxed again, "oh goodie! you're awake, (name)! lohen has been waiting for you, so has jean and varka, but he hasn't left this place since... well, since you got here."
you stared at the grayhead again, you reach out your other arm to touch the softness of his head. unexpectedly, leaning into your touch, you could finally see his face a little better. his... huh...
his eyebags are more defined now.
"barbara, how long was i out for?" — "oh geez, maybe around a week? supposedly six days but you know, its midnight."
oh, god. he's been here everyday? just waiting for you to wake up?
you could see the pink, and purple swirls in his eyes slowly come back to life, "barbara can you st... oh. it's you." his back straightens as he realizes you were the one petting his head.
"hi, captain." — "hm."
...
"you... didn't have to protect me. i just wanted to get you out of there as soon as possible." his voice was unusually soft, the silence only emphasized it more. "it's my job to keep you out of trouble right?"
you could tell he was briefly shocked before shaking his head again. "no, not at the cost of us not being able to argue again."
ah, that's what this is about.
"you can just tell me you're worried, lohen." — "shut up! you risked your life for me when it was unnecessary!"
his eyes squinted at you as if inspecting you for a lie again. "...i'm sorry then, i didn't mean to make you worried." you smiled softly as you winced quietly, trying to move the arm he had fallen asleep on.
"you..." you cut him off as you comment, "gosh, you sleep like a dead man, you know that?" — "you need to be quiet. barbara said you should be getting rest."
yes, all this happened while varka watches by the doorway, "barbara, how about you leave those two alone for now? i believe rosaria just called for you." a wink from the grandmaster was enough for the sister to know what he means. "i guess i must."
SYNOPSIS: After crossing a line neither of you intended to, The Doctor begins to experience something he cannot categorize. What began as curiosity—a desire to dismantle you piece by piece—shifts into something even science and experiments alone cannot solve. Though, during a particular mission in Nod-Krai, everything soon fractures into betrayal where confrontations arise and honed blades meet, emotions of the past long forgotten.
CONTENT WARNING: tenth harbinger!reader, reader is referred to as lady prevaricator/harbinger, loosely follows nod-krai aq (spoilers!), major character death, angst, yearning dottore, soft dom!dottore, smut (mdni), oral (m & f receiving), face fucking, mutual masturbation, spanking (f receiving), implied cum eating, body worship, semi-public sex (library), clothed sex, p in v, creampie, overstimulation if you squint, reader + pantalone visit fontaine, brief reader/pantalone moments but all platonic, house of the hearth cameo (freminet!), childe is a snitch, OCs mentioned, business jargon, arguing is foreplay, combat, brief mention of blood, reader deals with her feelings, not beta read.
WORD COUNT: 21,684
NOTES: hello! here’s the third and final part of this lil series ^^ aaaaack i’m a bit insecure of this one so please be kind to me. enjoy >< div: @uzmacchiato
“Long day?” You asked.
Not that you were interested—you did not care for small conversations but it felt compulsory.
Like you simply had to because that way, shame would not eat away at your very bones as you sank to your knees and slotted yourself between Dottore’s clothed thighs.
The man above you groaned, deep and passionate as if he’d been waiting for your touch; your right cheek rested on his left thigh, one hand caressed the other leg—you started with his knee then all the way up where he needed you most.
A lone finger traced an invisible path towards the apex of his legs, your hand hovered just above the growing tent in his pants, a ghostly touch enough to make his hips buck upwards in desperation.
“Hmm. Only a two-hour meeting with Her Majesty, and today’s experiment going awry—a complete waste of time.”
Dottore grunted, head tilting far back atop the sofa backrest in response to your hand palming his growing erection.
His gloved fingers dug into the crimson fabric,—velvet against leather—a low moan escaped his parted lips; his cock wasn’t even out yet here he was already trembling like a lone tree braving the harsh, icy winds.
Ugh, today was a drag. Firstly, a subordinate of his had set up the wrong apparatus which led to borrowing extra time to assemble the correct one. m
If there was anything Dottore hated the most, it had to be someone making mistakes over a simple task—it couldn’t get any more straightforward than that, how did one even manage to mess it up? Secondly, the experimental trial was a failure, not only did it explode but it made an annoying mess inside the laboratory, too.
Through lidded eyes, you watched as Dottore’s Adam’s apple stuttered, face contorting beneath the pointed mask he wore while the pressure of your hand gradually increased.
In a weird sense, pride bloomed across your chest at his pathetic behaviour, the mere idea that the Second-ranked Harbinger’s weakness was this, Dottore was eight whole ranks above your own yet when it came to pleasing him, you felt superior.
This . . . exchange between you and The Doctor hadn’t been going on for long.
Despite it starting around a little over two months ago (since the conclusion of the joint research project), you had only visited one another for a total of four times including now, and each time, words were barely exchanged—only carnal desire and the need of release filled all four corners of the room. Neither of you minded because after all, you were only using one another for one’s own pleasure.
Mindless chatter wasn’t needed for something that didn’t involve romance.
You let his response linger in the air, the same way the unspoken energy between you and Dottore did—the push and pull, as if you were the moon and he, the azure tides.
Focused on where the latter needed you most, you shifted to position yourself better before you finally undid his belt and pulled down the zipper of his pants. Dottore sighed in response, relief washed over his feverish body, one less fabric to release his aching cock.
A rather embarrassing wet spot had made itself known on the fabric of his brief and you didn’t waste any time to rub at the spot,—languid and calculated just how Dottore liked it—he let out a forceful grunt, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
Despite not having done this a lot, you’ve already ascertained how his body responded to your touch; anything too light or ghostly had Dottore impatient, he would try to escalate the matters by bucking into your hands or if you were on top, he’d hold your hips in place to thrust upwards.
The Doctor liked it rough, whether it was for him or for you, a touch of roughness never left the scene. It was to be expected, a Harbinger of his caliber only knew of ragged edges and cold nights where softness and comfort did not grow.
Though, it raised a question within you, was Dottore capable of such a thing? A hand that knew nothing but power and violence—stained with endless crimson, you wondered how it would feel.
“Haah. I’ve had a tedious day, Prevaricator. Do not tease me.” He groaned, legs subtly spreading a little wider as if to invite your body further into his.
You’ve been rubbing up and down at the wet spot on his underwear longer than you intended—you didn’t mean to tease Dottore but his low gasps and grunts were simply music to your ears.
Alas, you were here to please him after all, so, without wasting another second further, you freed his cock from its confine. With a lift of his hips and a swift pull of his pants and underwear, his heavy cock slapped against his clothed abdomen—it stood tall, crimson and veiny waiting to be stroked.
Pre-cum from his bulbous tip glistened beneath the dim lighting, its pearlescent sheen beckoned upon your tongue like sinful desire.
One you would willingly fall into, drown in its never ending depths and be saved by no one.
Dottore hissed as you teased his slit and rubbed the pre-cum down the length of his shaft. His chest heaved up and down, each heavy breath he let out in unison with the strokes of your hand.
Up and down, up and down while squeezing just a little tighter as you reached the tip.
More pre-cum oozed out of his slit at your repeated ministrations; you swallowed your saliva, suddenly remembering the way his thick cum felt in your throat the last time you two were intimate.
It felt weird but not enough to have one recoil from its sensation, though, taste was a completely different story. The first time you tasted Dottore on your tongue, you were quite literally met with a coughing fit; the whole scene was beyond embarrassing on your end—it was sloppy, his essence ran down your chin, and tears welled your eyes as you unceremoniously heaved.
His taste sat heavy on your tongue, slightly bitter and salty but you expected nothing else from someone who devoted their time and energy in research and experiments. In other words, Dottore only fuelled himself when absolutely necessary which, of course, led to rather unfavourable tastes.
“Ngh! Good. Yes! Just like that!” A string of shameless groans spilled from his lips like a forbidden prayer. His praise went straight to your core—hot and uncomfortable as it settled—and disappointingly, you clenched around nothing.
Urged by his heavenly sounds and saccharine praises, you brought your head closer to give his tip experimental licks and tried not to think much about the taste.
Dottore’s gloved hands flew to your hair, fingers intertwined with your locks while his cock slowly entered your mouth. Inch by inch, it filled your throat ‘til there was no more room left, you didn’t meet the base of his shaft, a few centimetres remained untouched by your mouth due to his impressive length.
Tears began to form in your eyes as the blunt tip rubbed against the back of your throat, you exhaled through your nose—in and out—trying not to let your gag reflex take over.
The grip on your hair tightened and your hands—that were once flat against his thighs—curled, nails dug into his soft skin, leaving crescent shaped marks behind.
With one hand entangled in your hair and the other resting just below your jaw, Dottore slowly guided your head up the length of his cock ‘til the tip remained before lowering it back down; languid and calculated, he set the pace. With every careful bob of your head, he moaned shamelessly, head permanently thrown back atop the sofa backrest without a single care in the world.
Oh, how your hot mouth deliciously swallowed him over and over again. The sounds it made urged him to fuck your throat even deeper. With trembling hands, you massaged his heavy balls, slightly squeezing and groping them.
Dottore’s cock twitched, followed by a garbled moan of your name that lingered in the thick air; you hated to admit it but your hips involuntarily bucked at his sinful voice. How you desperately wished for some kind of friction—anything. Just to quench the growing thirst between your thighs.
Though, you figured only one individual could do so effortlessly, and it happened to be the Harbinger you were pleasing with your mouth.
“Mhm—haah! I’m close!”
As embarrassing as it was to confess, Dottore neared his impending orgasm; he had been putting off his sexual needs longer than necessary—in short, he was beyond pent up. Simply feeling your tightness dizzied him to the point of weakness. His hips desperately bucked and stuttered as you continued to bob your head with his assistance.
After a few more strokes, you pulled him from your mouth, both hands frantically stroking him while your lips and tongue found his balls.
His scent was simply intoxicating, everything smelled and tasted like Dottore and gods you could not get enough. As if you were a starved madwoman, you messily licked and slurped at his balls with fervour.
Dottore gripped your moving wrist, cursing at the heavens above from the immense pleasure you had him in, and despite his firm hold on, you didn’t let up. Your hands stubbornly stroked him, mouth eagerly sucked him ‘til the coil deep in his stomach violently snapped, white, hot bliss engulfed his feverish body.
Dottore’s legs shook, Adam’s apple bobbing with every whimper he let out. Thick ropes of cum spurted from his tip, painting your hands and face a sinful shade of ivory.
You rode out his high by continuing to stroke his cock and suck on his balls until he was practically pushing you off of him. You gave the base an open-mouthed kiss before pulling away, eyes slightly narrowed as cum dripped down your forehead and brows.
Despite the heaviness of his body, Dottore pushed himself off the backrest, sitting up straight to dig for a handkerchief inside the pocket of his pants and gently wipe away the lewd mess on your face. Obviously, you were more than capable of doing so yourself but you let him—you didn’t move away from his gloved touch.
“That was unnecessary.” You whispered, voice a little hoarse, as he neatly folded the soiled fabric, he made a mental note to wash it later.
“Is that your way of saying ‘thank you’?” He scoffed, tucking himself back in. You stood up—legs a little wobbly—and smoothed your clothes, as if Dottore wasn’t just fucking your face mere moments ago.
You ignored his retort, instead, you turned around and simply headed for the door. This was how it went, once either of you got what you wanted, the next thing to do was leave—no lingering around, no announcements made. Both of you knew of this unspoken rule. If anything, it made things less awkward whenever you’d see one another in the Palace or in the Experimental Bureau.
“Unless you want to get stranded in layers and layers of snow, I suggest you stay the night. Of course, I am not forcing you, I am simply giving advice. You’re free to leave.” At Dottore’s words, you stopped in your tracks.
How strange.
He had never invited you to stay the night, and even if he were telling the truth about the harsh weather, it was still out of character for him. If roles were reversed and Dottore was in your abode instead, you still would’ve sent him on his way. Whether he braved the blizzard outside was none of your concern.
You took a peek outside the window by the door, the sight you were greeted with confirmed Dottore’s words.
A thick blanket of snow completely covered the ground outside which gave absolutely no room for any individual to walk on and considering the fact that Dottore’s residence was just outside Snezhnograd meant it was far from your place and definitely farther from Zapolyarny Palace—the place you were deciding to sleep at tonight since you had a scheduled meeting with Her Majesty first thing in the morning.
The outside world beyond the glass was nothing but white violence—wind howled and frost spiraled in sheets thick enough to swallow entire buildings.
“It would be rude of me to do so.” It seemed like a pain having to navigate through a snowstorm but staying the night in Dottore’s house was even worse.
The place didn’t exactly feel cosy—honestly, you didn’t know what you expected but it definitely wasn’t this; piles and piles of documents and books decorated the entire space, not in a messy way but there was just so much of them that the scent of paper invaded your sense of smell.
As for decorations, there wasn’t much as well, his personality nor taste in design wasn’t present in his home. You concluded the place as an extension of his laboratory, only this time, instead of being equipped with machines and chemicals, it had furniture.
The wind slams against the window and the glass trembles faintly in its frame as if to further counter your reply. You hesitated for a while and turned to face Dottore who now stood a few steps away, back in his proper form, “I’ve navigated worse.”
“Visibility has already collapsed. If you decide to heed my words, there is a spare room located on the right side of the corridor.” He left it at that, calculated footsteps retreating to his study.
You stood in silence for a minute or two, debating on your next move. The risk of getting severe frostbite seemed like a bother and recovery would be an even bigger headache, it would only serve as a hindrance to your routine. Despite your better judgement, you followed Dottore’s advice.
Surprisingly enough, the spare room was . . . okay, it housed a spacious queen bed decorated with crimson sheets, and to its left was a simple wooden night stand with a singular lamp.
On the right was a grand floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that contained a variety of ancient texts and novels—a mix of Snezhnayan and Sumerian books.
Oh, that’s right, you’ve almost forgotten The Doctor was originally from Sumeru.
The next few minutes consisted of you reading titles from book spines, even going as far as skimming the texts inside before ultimately deciding to retire for the night, overcoat long unfastened and draped over the foot of the bed; you didn’t want to spend another minute being aware of where you were right now.
Inside his study, Dottore mindlessly scribbled in his notebook—experimental findings, new hypotheses and errors, he wrote them all down.
The fireplace to his left illuminated the dim room, hues of warm oranges and reds decorated its walls like a fiery painting; the sound of fire cracking, wind howling, and pen to paper was all one could hear. Even though his hand diligently wrote each sentence, Dottore’s mind was elsewhere.
Though, not far off, just down the darkened corridor.
At the thought of you, an inexplicable feeling deep within his chest resurfaced. It wasn’t the first time he felt this way, it's as if a seed had been planted inside him, took root in his veins, and slowly blossomed with every passing day. Every time it grew, it stabbed at his chest as if to tell him it wasn’t supposed to be there.
Inhale. Exhale. Dottore had more pressing matters to deal with than to idly think about the Harbinger a few metres away. The Harbinger who had just pleasured him. The Harbinger who somewhat infuriated him.
The Harbinger who couldn’t seem to escape his thoughts. A prisoner of his mind.
Dottore scribbled some more notes. Then some more ‘til he realised he had started to write something completely different, not your Fatui title nor the name Her Majesty bestowed upon you—your real name.
Dottore had accidentally written your real name amongst countless paragraphs of important information.
His vermillion gaze traced each and every letter of your name, with intent, the same way his hands roamed your body during intimacy. He let his pen clatter against the wooden table, then, his body moved without thought—chair pushed back, its legs scraped against the floor, each hurried step led him closer and closer to the room you resided in.
The door wasn’t closed, a small opening revealed your figure fast asleep on the bed. He stood there for a minute or two just observing the way your chest shallowly rose and fell, a steady rhythm. The snowstorm had subsided a bit but wind persisted against the glass windows, begging to be let in.
Despite his better judgement, Dottore quietly stepped inside and made his way over to your side of the bed.
Moonlight illuminated your face, casting gentle shadows upon your features; he loomed over your sleeping figure akin to monsters children talked about at night—tall and unsettling.
He knelt down to bring himself closer and reached out a hand to brush stray hair away from your face. His own was devoid of any expression, as if he were merely reading an experimental report but Dottore knew something inside him was wrong, deeply wrong.
He gave into greed and let himself linger a while longer, observing the way your tranquil beauty flawlessly shone under the moon; even going as far as ghosting a digit over the slope of your nose, down to the curve of your lips.
Then, as if realisation hit him, Dottore curled his hand into a fist before abruptly returning to his feet to leave.
His mind wandered no further into the foreign sensation within his chest. After all, he had more pressing matters to tend to.
The next morning, you left without announcement, Dottore would understand, you assumed he was still cooped up in his study due to the door being shut. Though, it wasn’t like you were required to tell him, anyway. The journey from Dottore’s place to The Zapolyarny Palace was quiet, too quiet but you appreciated it nonetheless; the opportunity to bask in cold silence wasn’t granted very often.
Though, one exception was when knelt before Her Majesty.
The throne room was quieter than the rest of the Palace; sunlight peeked through tall frosted windows which casted pale reflections across the marble floor. Ice climbed the pillars in slow, crystalline veins. With one leg bent, you knelt before the dais, posture straight, head lowered out of respect. Before you, upon an elevated throne of frost and silver, sat the Tsaritsa.
“Prevaricator,” She began, cold and calm yet weighted with intention. “I require you in Fontaine.”
“For what purpose, Your Majesty?” As if on cue, a lower ranking Fatuus handed you a lone document which contained a map. A shipping network, ports, warehouses and trade routes which stretched from Fontaine’s docks all the way to distant coasts.
“At the center of this is an organisation known as the Commercial Registry Guild. They are not soldiers nor investors—they are regulators.” Upon her words, your eyes narrowed in interest.
“In Fontaine, no large-scale shipment moves without documentation. No mechanical device leaves the harbour without proper certification, and no foreign entity establishes long-term infrastructure without registry approval.”
In simpler terms: the Commercial Registry Guild controlled paperwork and in Fontaine, paperwork was power.
“The Guild oversees import permits, maritime insurance bonds, mechanical patent filings and cross-border tariffs—they decide what is taxed, what is delayed, and what is quietly expedited.” The Tsaritsa explained and you immediately understood her intentions.
“They can slow our operations or accelerate them.” You muttered, Her Majesty nodded, completely delighted at how swiftly you caught on; she always admired that about you—sharpness.
“Indeed. For months, Regrator has attempted to secure a preferential trade agreement with the Guild but they have refused.” Her tone shifted.
“On what grounds, Your Majesty?” “They claim neutrality. They insist they cannot appear politically aligned with Snezhnaya.”
“So, they fear reputational damage? Yet they negotiate with other nations.” It made sense, an organisation that handled important paperwork not only for Fontaine but for the whole of Teyvat, being biased to one nation would stain their reputation which would ultimately lead to decrease in business.
Basically, a losing situation.
The Tsaritsa nodded once more, “But those nations approach them through diplomacy. We approach them through leverage."
You were aware of how Regrator operated, he excelled in numbers, pressure, and long-term financial dominance. He offered investment shares, exclusive contracts, and profit margins too tempting to ignore yet the Guild remained unmoved, stubborn and firm.
“They don’t want to be bought.” You stated. “Precisely. You understand well, Prevaricator.” A faint smile graced upon the Tsaritsa’s lips.
The Commercial Registry Guild thrived on perception, their power lied in appearing impartial. If they openly favoured Snezhnaya and the Fatui, they were at risk of losing the illusion of neutrality and therefore, their influence.
“Regrator has offered them reduced tariffs for Snezhnayan exports and access to northern trade routes.” She continued.
“And they declined?” “Indeed.” “What do they gain by refusing the Fatui?”
The Tsaritsa answered, “Bargaining power to keep the Fatui desperate.”
You nodded, “If we secure their cooperation, what changes?” “Our shipments would pass Fontaine’s ports without delay. Our mechanical imports would clear inspections within hours instead of weeks, and our financial transfers would bypass secondary audits.”
That meant the Fatui operation within Fontaine would be much smoother and harder to trace—no confiscated cargo and absolutely no sudden ‘random inspections’.
The Tsaritsa added, “We would operate as though we belonged there.” That was the true advantage, the idea Regrator had been trying to achieve for months.
“Regrator has become rather . . . impatient. Which is why I believe the Guild should be approached differently.” It made sense, he had attempted to overwhelm the Guild with lucrative proposals and in return, it was interpreted as aggression from the Fatui.
What they required was reassurance—not bribes.
“They fear that aligning with us will compromise their image so we shall offer them something that enhances it instead.” You carefully pondered, already thinking of strategies to approach the organisation. That was what you were good at—enhancements.
Normally, you served the Tsaritsa by working in the backline as a combat medic for injured operatives during elaborate missions, other days you would work on Fatui armoury to enhance its design in battle. It was rare of Her Majesty to assign you in a negotiation deal with Regrator as the latter primarily dealt with it alone
Though, your skills in smooth-talking and winning over clients weren’t unknown to the Fatui, which is why as a last resort for negotiations, they’d turn to you for assistance. After all, persuasion built on lies was your forté.
“You shall depart tomorrow and accompany Regrator to Fontaine. Bring me the Guild’s signatures and Fontaine’s ports become our gateway.” After another round of briefing concerning different matters such as Project Stuzha, the meeting was officially dismissed.
Acquiring cooperation from Fontanian ports? That would be easy enough.
After exiting Her Majesty’s throne room, you rounded a corner—in deep thought about possibilities and approach—before your hasty figure accidentally collided against someone else’s. The impact wasn’t intense but it sure did startle you.
“Columbina! My apologies, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings.” Your eyes widened at the individual before you. The Third stood there, unsettling as ever, she let your apology linger in the air for a while as if she hadn’t heard the words come from your lips.
Then, she shook her head in a dainty dismissal, “It’s quite alright. I, too, wasn’t paying attention.” Columbina murmured, voice soft and icy.
You shifted your weight from one foot to another; she was kind and quiet yet the inexplicable aura she carried along summoned shivers down your back. Not to mention how her eyes were always closed behind the ivory fabric she donned, even so, one could still feel her ominous gaze.
There were times when Columbina sang down the corridors of Zapolyarny Palace—beyond the door to your quarters—it was an exquisite melody yet it completely lost its beauty during ungodly hours of the morning where you would be reviewing laboratory reports; her voice would suddenly emerge from the silence, akin to a ghostly apparition.
“Are you here to see Her Majesty as well?”
She absentmindedly nodded.
“Well, I won’t keep you for long. I’ll see you around.” You bid her a goodbye and headed your way, important matters awaited you.
Fontaine smelled different from Snezhnaya, the scent of salt and steam invaded your senses. This wasn’t your first time in the Nation of Hydro but you could never get used to its smell.
The Court of Fontaine hummed with motion everywhere—aquabus rails glided across elevated waterways, mechanical lifts ascended and descended between stone terraces, and Fontanians went along their day, busy as ever.
Tucked at the south of the city, inside a high-ceilinged office that overlooked bustling streets below, Regrator stood near the tall windows, gloved hands clasped behind his back. His expression was pleasant—a kind smile painted on his face—but rather strained at the edges.
From where you sat, you could already see the tightness in his jaw, clearly annoyed.
Across from you, sat two representatives of the Guild, they donned tailored fabric which hinted at their seriousness, and polite smiles sharpened by habit, “We have reviewed your tariff concessions. While generous, they do not address our primary concern.” The blond male spoke up, he introduced himself as Monsieur Rochefort during formalities earlier.
“Which is entirely abstract.” Regrator turned to the representatives, a hint of sharpness laced within his indifferent tone. “What do you gain from denying the Fatui? We’ve already offered generous incentives.” The Ninth gestured towards the stack of neatly piled documents placed atop the table.
Next to Monsieur Rochefort, a woman—Madame Moreau—spoke this time, “Which is what entirely makes this whole negotiation worse. If we accept those incentives along with the deal, it would look like we’ve been bought—bribed to be in favour of Snezhnaya and the Fatui.” That was the problem Regrator couldn’t see, in his mind, money and value were everything; he viewed the world around him as assets that could be bought and if that didn’t work, he’d simply increase the price.
But money wasn’t convincing the Guild.
Silence and tension stretched far, just below breaking point. Everyone in the room looked on edge—Regrator appeared as if he were two sentences away from unleashing his temper while the representatives subtly trembled in their seats, afraid of what two Harbingers could do to them if angered. You, who had not said a single word from the start, finally spoke,
“The Guild is afraid of how this will look, and if you sign a deal with the Fatui, it looks like favouritism, correct?”
“Yes.” Monsieur Rochefort sternly nodded, as if to say: ‘Finally! Someone gets it!’ A hint of amusement clouded his gaze, one far too much for your liking.
“So, don’t sign a deal with the Fatui.”
Everyone in the room paused at your words, you could already feel your colleague’s hard gaze on you. If you were to guess, he was most likely thinking you just blew off the negotiation. At the representatives’ confused expressions, you continued,
“This isn’t a trade alliance. It’s a logistics improvement initiative.”
“Located at the heart of Teyvat, Fontaine handles more trade than any other nation. If shipments get stuck in port, the Guild—and Fontaine’s—reputation suffers. The company would look inefficient.” Now, they were listening to your words, interests piqued upon hearing your narrative.
Good. You got them hooked—right into your palm.
“What we’re offering aren’t incentives, think of it as funding to help the Guild process international shipments swiftly. The company remains in control and from the perspective of the public, this is simply a strategy to upgrade Fontaine’s trade system. No bias and therefore no reputation damaged.”
Monsieur Rochefort and Madame Moreau exchanged glances, ones full of consideration and thought. They privately muttered among themselves which you gave them privacy by averting your gaze; your eyes landed on Regrator who returned your stare with partial delight.
Of course, celebration was still out of the table until ink met paper and documents were signed.
“And what does Snezhnaya gain?” Monsieur Rochefort asked. “Faster imports and exports, and predictable timelines for approvals. That’s all.”
“And if we decide this negotiation no longer serves us?”
“The Guild is free to withdraw, agreement renews annually.” Regrator’s brows furrowed at your words. What a bold concession. He thought. Both representatives relaxed at the reassurance. Organisations like the Guild were predictable, they were the type to easily bend once they got their way.
Both of them murmured among themselves once more, full of animated gestures and nodding of their heads, “If this is presented as a Guild-led modernization effort then we can proceed.”
Upon words of confirmation, tension inside the office disappeared instantaneously, as if a deep exhale was let out. Regrator smiled, genuinely, this time, at you and at the Guild representatives.
Without wasting another time, pens were brought forward and documents were finally signed— just like that, Fontaine’s most important trade office had begun working closely with the Fatui.
After necessary formalities, you and Regrator left the building, walking side by side; the late afternoon skies greeted you both, hues of light rose and coral intertwined above your heads. It had been a long day, as soon as you and Regrator reached the docks of Fontaine, you went straight to the Guild’s office.
“Congratulations, Prevaricator. Your value has appreciated.” He chuckled lightly, soft voice weaving its way above the background noise. You shrugged, “I only gave them a story they were comfortable telling the public.”
“Ah, how modest of you. Say, since you’ve managed to single-handedly close the negotiation that has tormented me for months, why don’t we drop by Hotel Debord for dinner? All on me.”
Confusion slowly formed on your face, you looked up at him, brows knitted and eyes narrowed; Regrator? Offering to shoulder dinner expenses? That was new. Not that you were short on mora or any other factor but it was rather rare for him to offer such things.
Furthermore, you weren’t close enough with him to even consider dining out together nor did the two of you work closely; you even have no recollection of past encounters with him—not that you really paid any attention to the Ninth.
Though, you accepted. The day was slowly drawing to a close and you weren’t given the chance to indulge in a full meal since departure.
As the evening rolled in, Hotel Debord shone in elegance. Crystal chandeliers hung high against its pristine glass ceiling, musicians played something light which eased every customer into the mood of luxury as they murmured over wine and Fontanian delicacies. Delicious aroma wafted through the air, bringing nothing but pure delight.
Tonight’s celebration was discreet—a rather trivial one between you and Regrator.
At a table in the upper level of the Hotel, the latter swirled crimson wine in his glass, watching the reflections bend against its surface,
“To efficiency.” He chuckled in delight, lips stretched in a mischievous smile. You sat opposite him, posture straight, hands rested atop the fine tablecloth,
“To efficiency.” You repeated.
The two of you brought your glasses together before taking a sip of wine—it was bitter and bold but it had a rather pleasant aftertaste which lingered on your tongue.
The background noise of the Hotel swelled and softened like a distant tide, not too distracting for conversations but also not too quiet for awkwardness. For a brief moment, you simply observed the room—watched as elite customers animatedly conversed and toasted their drinks over matters worth celebrating, completely unaware that Fontaine’s most powerful regulators fell right into Snezhnaya’s hands.
Regrator sat his glass down, “You realise that this success will not go unnoticed, the Tsaritsa will be pleased.” “She most definitely will be. After all, I did not travel here only to return empty handed in Snezhnaya.” You finished your wine then shifted your attention over to the duck confit.
“And Dottore?” He asked casually, as if it were a mere afterthought. There was a slight pause in your movement at the mention of the Second but Regrator was observant enough to notice—he always noticed everything.
The expression painted on your face remained unchanged, indifferent. Why was he suddenly asking about his friend? His question felt . . . out of place.
“. . . What of him?”
“He will definitely find practical use for expedited shipments, he always does.” There was something knowing in his gaze, you didn’t like the way his eyes lingered. You shifted in your seat slightly, heat slowly crept up your neck and onto your ears, it was uncomfortable, the feeling akin to a thousand needles poking at your skin. Though, not because of Regrator’s stare but at the mention of Dottore.
Calmly, you replied, “Then The Doctor should be grateful.” Regrator’s smile widened, “Oh, I suspect he will be.”
You didn’t speak further. The conversation died down which left both of you to clear your plates. It wasn’t awkward, though, it's as if it was some kind of shared understanding between you and Regrator; you appreciated this side of him, one that did not speak numbers nor value—this way, he was actually quite tolerable.
The soft melody continued in the background, candlelights flickered and danced beneath the diamond chandeliers. Outside, the skies darkened as the sun dipped further and further into the horizon, the two of you took this as a cue to retire for the night. Tomorrow, there was another meeting with the Guild to discuss its funding.
As you and Regrator walked down the streets of Fontaine, for a brief moment, your mind impulsively wondered what Dottore was up to. Last you heard from him, his experiment wasn’t going too well.
Back in Snezhnaya, pure anger engulfed Dottore’s entire body, it seeped into his covered skin and down to his very bones. He was absolutely fuming.
For the second time, his experiment failed miserably—it was the same result as the day before, an explosion of substances which once again covered the floors of his laboratory and therefore needed thorough cleaning. Thorough cleaning meant forced time away from the laboratory, in other words, wasted time.
Dottore muttered a curse under his breath before carefully stepping over spilled liquid; firm, calculated steps echoed throughout the dead silent laboratory, each one of his subordinates didn’t dare utter a word.
One look at his stiff expression beneath the mask and they knew not to cross the thin line. Without another word, Dottore exited the laboratory, his subordinates could clean up that mess.
He crossed the building in a swift manner—legs moved without stopping, feet carrying him down an extramely familiar path within the Experimental Bureau. A corridor that led straight to your laboratory.
As if he owned the space, Dottore swiped his access card; he watched as the heavy metal door hissed, it slowly opened upwards. He impatiently tapped his foot against the ground, and as soon as the gap was big enough, he swiftly ducked down and entered your laboratory—he didn’t want to stand around waiting for the large door to fully open.
The sight he was greeted with was just like any other—a standard laboratory, and inside were your subordinates who diligently worked on Fatui armoury. Except you. Dottore slightly tilted his head in confusion, earring swaying along with the movement. The entire room paused, their attention now directed at the Second Harbinger, confusion on their faces.
“Where is she?”
In all honesty, the reason of his sudden visit was unknown and unclear, its as though his feet had a mind of its own which carried him all the way to the other side of the Experimental Bureau. But what upset him even more was the fact that you weren’t present—he spent all that time walking to your laboratory only to be met with nothing? How inconvenient.
The edge in his tone was noticeable and every person in the room stiffened.
“L-Lord Dottore! What a pleasure to have you here. Unfortunately, our Lady Harbinger isn’t present right now. She is currently away on a mission in Fontaine with Lord Regrator per Her Majesty’s orders. They left yesterday morning.” Someone finally spoke up after a moment of silence.
Dottore stood there, dumbfounded. Mission in Fontaine? With Pantalone? Why was your presence needed in Fontaine? Endless questions plagued his mind, they were all unanswered which irritated him further. In academics, unanswered questions were a scholar’s worst enemy and apparently to him, the same applied when it came to you.
Indeed, he was aware of Pantalone’s departure to Fontaine but the latter didn’t mention your company. There was no time to dwell on this matter inside your laboratory. With a dip of his head—an acknowledgement of your subordinate’s words—he turned around to leave.
Surprisingly, Dottore ended up in Zapolyarny Palace, specifically outside the door to your personal chamber. Yet again, the reason for his visit was unknown, it's as if an invisible rope had somewhat tugged him here.
With a gloved hand, he reached for the knob and stepped inside; the room was tidy and put together, a striking contrast to when the two of you got rather heated in here—Dottore swore he could still hear your breathless moans and grunts even as pure silence greeted him. He closed the door behind him and leaned on it, entire body resting against it as he closed his eyes.
It was dark inside but he did not care. Frankly, the darkness somewhat put him at ease. Strangely enough, despite the lack of your presence, the room held your scent—the sweet, intoxicating aroma that drove him mad.
Dottore let out an exhale, something within him stirred in response to your fragrance clouding his senses; his right hand balled and opened repeatedly, the leather groaned and squeaked at the movement. That sound was the only factor that grounded him because right now, his mind was stained with thoughts of you, and only you.
Akin to morning fog that cleared in the afternoon sun, the failed experiment and today’s worries were long gone—dissipated into thin air as if it never existed. Oh, how you could single handedly wash away all the stress he felt with the use of your mouth . . hands . . cunt.
Dottore swallowed thickly, he tried to ignore the growing heat between his legs but it was rapid—almost like a petty retaliation against his own judgement. What had gotten into him? Sure, he had been intimate with you more than once but what happened inside the room always stayed there, his thoughts never once wandered back to the past to fantasize about you.
This was a first. Was he sick?
Dottore inhaled then exhaled. Once. Twice. Thrice. But the tent in his pants only grew further, embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin. One hand reached down between his legs, he let out a sharp hiss as he palmed his clothed boner, knees buckling at the sudden sensation that shot up his spine.
When . . . was the last time Dottore shamelessly touched himself at the thought of another? Never. He always deemed such matters as immature nor did he ever entertain feelings of lust.
He repeated the motion several times—groping and slightly squeezing at his hard cock but it didn’t feel as intoxicating as your touch, it’s as if Dottore knew his body less than you did and it frustrated him.
Both emotionally and sexually.
For one, you were all the way in Fontaine which meant he had to deal with his carnal needs alone.
Impatient, he undid his belt with trembling hands then pulled both pants and underwear in such haste which caused his hard cock to slap against his lower abdomen.
The fabric pooled around his ankles, icy air met his naked legs, leaving goosebumps; he shuddered at the coldness against his warm skin. With the use of his teeth, Dottore expertly bit at the tip of his right glove, successfully stripping his hand clean of the material.
A wanton moan escaped his lips as he rubbed at the sensitive cockhead, it leaked an embarrassing amount of pre-cum, globs of it rolled down his blunt tip, it gave his cock a pearlescent sheen beneath the faint moonlight that seeped into your room.
From tip to base, Dottore spread his pre-cum all over his cock—several languid strokes that had him cursing into the still silence.
Hearing his moan by itself felt degrading, usually, your sounds would interlace with his own to create a sinful melody that he could bask in but alas, the tune of his immoral song was lonely. With his eyes closed and a vivid imagery of you splayed out on the bed—all in your naked, unholy beauty—Dottore pumped his cock, starting out with a slow pace. He imagined you softly raking your hands through your bare torso, up and down in unison with the stroke of his own; you brought both hands up to your chest, squeezing and groping at your own breasts.
“Mhm—Haah!” Fuck, he could hear how your dainty moans rolled off your tongue perfectly.
As if you were there, Dottore moaned your name in response—not Prevaricator. It fell into the broken silence like an unanswered prayer and hit the cold floor rather intensely, it served as a painful reminder of your absence.
Nonetheless, he tightened his fingers around his cock and stroked himself a little faster. Raw pleasure gnawed at his skin and weakened his legs. He desperately bucked into his hand as you began to touch yourself, a lone digit teasingly rubbed at your wet slit. You inserted a finger and Dottore swallowed thickly, incoherently cursing at the expression painted on your face.
Oh, how insanely exquisite you looked with your eyes rolled back and lips parted to let out the most beautiful whimpers.
Sweat beaded beneath his pointed mask, despite the crisp temperatures, he felt warm and stuffy; the fabric of his clothes around his torso uncomfortably stuck onto his skin. Dottore hated the feeling but the bliss that engulfed his whole body was very addicting—its as if he were experiencing oxytocin for the very first time.
“Ngh! Prevaricator—Ah!” He grunted. You added another finger inside your sopping cunt, this time you thrust your digits with haste and desperation. Pornographic wet sounds echoed within the room and it only fuelled him further.
Dottore followed suit, hand moving at the same pace your fingers did, a forceful groan escaped his parted lips as if he’d been punched in the gut by pleasure itself. At this point, he was quite literally tugging at his cock from how tight he gripped it—his knuckles were painted ivory and jaw hard as stone which meant orgasm loomed dangerously close.
Dottore’s colourful moans turned into short, desperate pants, his arm burned at the repeated movement but he couldn’t bring himself to stop, not when pleasure was mere seconds away. In his mind, your climax was also close—he could hear the way your moans ended in dainty whimpers, a subtle occurrence whenever you neared your orgasm.
“Dottore!” You whimpered, back arching off the mattress, face contorted into the most beautiful pleasure-drunk expression. Tears welled your eyes and your mouth parted in a silent moan as your orgasm came crashing down. Dottore grunted, strokes faltering a bit before reaching his orgasm; hot, white pleasure engulfed his vision—his climax was so intense that he swore he briefly blacked out and if it weren’t for his grip on the door knob next to him, he would’ve met the floor face first with how weak his legs had become.
With a loud moan of your name, hot cum spurted from his cock and spilled onto the floor. Dottore pumped his sensitive cock three more times to ride out his high, primarily focusing on teasing his slit. He let out a low curse, hips stuttering at the overstimulation. Heavy breaths filled the room, it settled into the air the same way shame weighed on Dottore’s sweaty skin—heavy and uncomfortable.
Another curse slipped past his lips. In all honesty, he did not know what to make of this whole situation nor was he willing to address his carnal fantasies. It was normal, right? Dottore had only been having sex with you which meant you would be the only object of his desires—the very concept of stimulus and response; the external stimuli would be engaging in raw intimacy and his natural response would be to seek more.
Yes, desiring for one was all part of human nature. Nothing out of the ordinary. But why did the sensation inside his chest feel the complete opposite? Dottore didn’t dwell on the feeling further, he had more important matters to worry about like tomorrow’s experiment.
Fontanian mornings were chilly but they weren’t as crisp as Snezhnayan ones, the relief of not having to dress for a colder climate was something you absolutely were thankful for—no heavy Fatui overcoat, no thick scarf around your neck, no frostbites.
The meeting with the Guild wasn’t until afternoon which meant you and Regrator had a bit of free time, prompting you to think about the idea of visiting the House of the Hearth and hopefully Arlecchino if she was around. It wasn’t unusual for you to drop by the orphanage when in Fontaine during missions or personal travel but you were rarely in the Nation of Hydro.
The familiar building stood austere among the city’s narrow streets and upon stepping foot inside the orphanage, warmth and the scent of polished wood greeted your senses. There was something nostalgic about the House despite not frequenting it much, you couldn’t place your finger on it, though.
Chaos filled the walls, children laughed and ran around carelessly with genuine smiles plastered on their youthful faces, your echoed footsteps fell silent upon the song of frenzy. The scene before you was a breath of fresh air compared to the stillness of Zapolyarny Palace—in there, it felt suffocating, as if one constantly walked on thin ice.
The main hall was alive as always, cushions were scattered around like a friendly reminder that everyone was welcome in the House. Its walls were adorned with a variety of paintings—landscapes and colourful sketches which told stories of the past.
“O-Oh! Miss Prevaricator, I didn’t expect to see you here today . . . Are you looking for Father?” A familiar quiet voice drew you out of your idle thoughts. Your gaze landed on the timid blonde before you, despite the shyness laced in his soft voice, his eyes never left your own.
“Hello, Freminet. Yes, is Arlecchino around? I’ve come by to drop some gifts.” You briefly looked down at the stacked pastry-filled boxes in your hand, neatly wrapped in an ivory satin bow.
Before he could reply, the sound of heels clicking against the wooden floor cut through the momentary silence inside the House, “Oh? To what do I owe this pleasure?” Arlecchino stood beside Freminet—who subtly gave her space despite the ample amount available—her arms crossed over her chest yet a rather pleased expression was painted on her face.
“I’m here with Regrator per Her Majesty’s orders. Thought I’d drop by and give something to the children.”
The Third nodded at your brief explanation before ordering Freminet to carry the boxes into the dining hall, the latter quickly obliged, excusing himself and quietly retreating further inside the House, pastries in hand.
“Care for some tea? Though, if you’re busy, I won’t hold you back any longer.” Arlecchino proposed. Today wasn’t particularly busy and the meeting was not until afternoon, so there was ample time to spare—a cordial catch up with her wouldn’t hurt.
“I’ll take up on that offer.”
The scent of Bergamot tea and faint woodsmoke embraced your senses. Arlecchino’s office was not a mystery but it always fascinated you whenever you stepped foot inside—tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, they were decorated with crimson curtains which danced along the morning breeze. Porcelain vases and delicate ornaments decorated her office, adding an exquisite touch to the place.
Near the fireplace, a low round table had been arranged with care, an assortment of sweet Fontanian delicacies decorated the three-tier dessert; from Fontanalia Mousse to Pâte de Fruit, it seemed like every bit of the Nation’s sweets was right there in front of you. Beside it, two fine porcelain cups rested atop gold-lined saucers, steam curled upwards, giving off a pleasant aroma.
“How are you? Anything interesting as of late?” Arlecchino brought the cup to her lips, she blew on the hot beverage a few times before taking a small sip. Through the wisp of steam, her vermillion gaze remained locked on you. There was a hint of something behind it, as if she knew a vital piece of information, even her sentence alone weighed differently.
“I’ve been well. Busy in the laboratory as usual.”
You didn’t react despite your mind revisiting the last two months with Dottore. The slight shift in your seat was all Arlecchino needed to confirm but she was curious, “Childe told me something a few weeks back,” The latter started and you watched as she set her cup down with a faint clink to grab a Pâte de Fruit. Childe . . ? What did he rope himself into this time? Last time you heard of him he was recovering from his wounds. Though, somehow, it felt like what she was about to say next wasn’t about the Eleventh..
Wordlessly, you slightly tilted your head to the side, offering her to finish her sentence. Arlecchino swallowed the sweet, a hand over her mouth out of etiquette before speaking once again, “I’ll spare the . . . details but he mentioned you and The Doctor are quite close.”
Silence followed, faint sounds of joyous children beyond the office walls echoed along with the slow ticking of the grandfather clock tucked in a corner. Childe mentioned what? Pure confusion engulfed your entire body, a hint of panic also arose. What could he possibly mean by that? Did he manage to catch a glimpse of you and Dottore together?
As far as you knew, only The Captain did, on accident. You swallowed the feeling of embarrassment as you momentarily recollected the awkward encounter with The Captain in the balcony—that was a factor you needed to deal with.
“I’m . . not sure I follow.” Playing it safe was the only option you were left with and besides, whatever Childe said to Arlecchino could be a million different things, right? After all, you and Dottore did previously collaborate on an experiment per the Tsaritsa’s orders which and therefore practically saw one another almost everyday of the week.
She met your indifferent gaze with a deadpan expression—one that screamed ‘Do not attempt to lie to me, I know everything.’ If anything, she expected this outcome from you, being a deceitful individual was in your nature so this response was of no surprise. Although, Arlecchino would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a little disappointed, sharing a bond beyond mere colleagues, she would’ve expected you to forego that façade of yours and act truthfully.
Nonetheless, she could clearly decipher the reasoning behind your actions. Very much so. The only individual who didn’t shy away from his close involvement with The Doctor was Regrator.
With a sigh, your posture stuttered, a sign of defeat, “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Arlecchino.”
That was the truth. Yes, you and Dottore engaged in a physical intimate relationship but you were both consenting adults and as far as you were concerned, the ‘arrangement’ was not actively harming the Fatui nor was your private relationship anyone’s business. Her Majesty could not care less about her Harbinger’s personal matters, as long as each Harbinger executed their tasks, she was satisfied.
Therefore, Arlecchino had no place to confront you about Dottore.
Despite your indifferent demeanour, what you felt inside was panic. No one really associated with the Second apart from Regrator which was purely formal and contractual, yours on the other hand . . . was different. Was it embarrassing on your end? Yes and no. Yes, because it was Dottore, everyone knew of his eccentricity—he was a madman; at least with The Captain or even Childe, one’s tastes would not be questioned, besides, The Captain was a highly esteemed individual. And No, because you were an individual free to do whatever you desired even if it meant getting intimate with Dottore.
At the very least, Arlecchino should understand where you were coming from; she was probably the most understanding and sensible in the group after The Captain.
She shifted in her seat, one leg crossing over the other as she contemplated her reply, “I know you must be thinking that it is none of my business and you are right, it isn’t. But from a friend to another, I must warn you, nothing good ever comes from associating yourself with Dottore, even if it is purely . . . physical. You’re a capable individual but just be careful, okay?” Genuinity laced her words, it comforted you like a warm embrace. In all honesty, you were quite thankful Childe ratted you out to Arlecchino instead of Sandrone, the latter would have definitely cursed you in a hundred different ways for developing a ‘relationship’ with Dottore outside forced project collaborations.
Still, you wanted to interrogate Childe once you returned to Snezhnaya. For him to gossip about your affairs like that . . . completely childish.
“But really? Dottore?” She added, a rather distasteful expression painted on her face. You shook your head in response, shame gnawed at your bones—maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to visit the House after all. “Don’t . . . even ask. I’m not sure what I got myself into.” Another sigh escaped your lips, you tried not to think about Dottore.
Tea with Arlecchino went on for an hour, random topics arose and dissipated along with every pour of Bergamot tea, and soon enough, you had to bid goodbye as the meeting with the Guild neared. Both of you parted ways without much formalities nor grand exits, just a simple nod of acknowledgement towards one another. As you walked to the doors of the House, a few of the children accompanied your short journey, thanking you for the sweet treats, and eagerly asking when you’ll be back for another visit.
You didn’t mind visiting in the near future.
The meeting ran smoothly, it primarily consisted of heavy business talk which you had to admit, lost you at some point mainly because it wasn’t your expertise—you only acted as a persuader and a negotiator—so most of the time, Regrator proudly took the lead. You were more than sure he didn’t mind, after all, he liked working alone with the sole reason of having every pawn neatly tucked in his palm.
“Thank you for your time Monsieur Rochefort, Madame Moreau. I assume we will be seeing the two of you in Snezhnaya at our upcoming banquet?” Regrator gently grabbed Madame Moreau’s delicate hand, gently placing a chaste kiss at the back of it. Formalities.
The banquet. You almost forgot.
The upcoming banquet was a grand gathering between the Fatui and its business partners, it was luxurious and far from simple but it held no significance apart from further strengthening Snezhnaya’s relationships with each organisation. Think of it as an annual gathering arranged by the Fatui to maintain their subtle authority over those businesses. If the banquet wasn’t compulsory, you wouldn’t have attended any of it but alas, mingling with important individuals came with the job.
“Ah, I’m afraid Madame Moreau won’t be accompanying me to Snezhnograd. However, Monsieur Valmont will be attending.” Monsieur Rochefort animatedly explained, briefly looking over your way. Thèodore Valmont was the owner of the Commercial Registry Guild, the individual you and Regrator were supposed to meet but after several fruitless meetings your colleague had with him in the past, Monsieur Valmont refused to attend yesterday’s meeting, fully expecting it to advance no further.
Regrator smiled. Even better. He thought; Valmont was absolutely far more valuable than a mere Guild representative, he had no qualms with that. “What delightful news, Monsieur Rochefort. Please, pass on my regards to Monsieur Valmont. I shall give him a warm welcome upon his arrival.” He chuckled.
It didn’t take a detective to piece that Regrator was in a delighted mood—the corners of his lips reached his eyes, it wasn’t the usual cunning smile he wore daily.
After extended formalities and proper goodbyes with the Guild representatives, you and Regrator headed towards Fontaine’s docks, ready to depart for Snezhnaya. Neatly tucked inside the latter’s leather briefcase was a document inked with the signatures Her Majesty sought after.
The trip back to Snezhnaya was peaceful, only the hum of the boat’s engine and its body against the tides could be heard; neither you nor Regrator spoke to one another but you didn’t mind. Conversing for the sake of replacing silence didn’t interest you, besides, ever since he spoke of Dottore’s name, a weird inkling in your chest bloomed.
Returning back home was devoid of anything grand, you and Regrator were immediately summoned to Her Majesty’s throne room upon arrival which consisted of an hour long meeting where future plans with the Guild were discussed. After that, you and Regrator parted ways where you ended up being whisked away by The Jester in an impromptu meeting, much to your dismay.
Though, it didn’t drag on, he had briefed you about urgent tasks assigned such as designing Fatui uniform suited for Nod-Krai’s kuuvahki since operatives were more than susceptible to overexposure, and thus would hinder their performance.
An important project concerning Nod-Krai had long been a topic in several Harbinger meetings—there wasn’t much you knew about it since you weren’t tasked to oversee anything there but you were aware of the fact that a Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau was being built on Paha Isle. Considering the long years it had been in discussion, the expansive structure would see its completion soon.
The next week consisted of being locked away inside your laboratory or office in the Experimental Bureau, you were surrounded by mountains of materials ready to be turned into uniform specifically for the Nod-Krai mission; the Director did express the urgency of the project assigned to you so any personal tasks were put on hold, and your subordinates worked over time to help meet the deadline—you even sent some of them to Nod-Krai to test out the first few batches.
Being this busy meant there was no time to rendezvous with Dottore but you didn’t mind, besides, the last you heard of him was before you left for Fontaine. It wasn’t like your arrangement with him held any significance, anyway. But your mind did occasionally wonder what he was up to.
A firm knock against the door to your office jolted you out of your thoughts; you had been reviewing past notes about personal projects you’ve researched about as a way to try and relax for a moment. The document tucked between your fingers consisted of neatly written information about the Moon Marrows.
Despite your interest in the ancient relics, only the location of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow was known and the lack of information regarding the Iridescent Moon Marrow and the absence of the Frost Moon Marrow subsequently led you to abandon the research for good.
It was a shame because you were truly passionate about it, you believed that its powers would greatly benefit the Fatui.
“Come in.”
A subordinate stepped inside, he knelt before you, “Lady Prevaricator, we have received results from the unit you dispatched in Nod-Krai.” At the mention of results, your ears perked up, the document in your hand long forgotten, “Good. Let me take a look at it.” He swiftly got back on his feet and placed a thick brown folder on the desk before exiting your office. The sheer thickness of it was enough to make one dizzy, this was going to be a long day.
After a rather gruelling week, the annual banquet finally rolled around and here you were inside the Palace, wrapped in an exquisite yet daring dress to compliment the Grand Hall’s luxurious aesthetic. The plunging backline of your dress was definitely one for attention.
The Grand Hall gleamed with cold opulence at night, its high arched ceilings were painted in hues of silver and blue which resembled a frozen sky at dawn. Crystalline chandeliers above hung like icicles, they gleamed like everlasting stars. Long banquet tables draped in fine ivory silk stretched the length of the Hall, frosted glass centerpieces faintly sparkled beneath the lights which illuminated the luxury Snezhnayan dishes laid upon the table. The air was crisp, it smelled faintly of aged wine, expensive perfume, and cold marble. To top it all off, a soft, elegant melody weaved its way across the faint chatter of guests, leaving no room for silence.
Important guests from all over Teyvat donned layered furs paired with exorbitant textiles to boast their social status—this was a gathering of elites, after all. And these elites happened to be under the Fatui’s control.
You nursed the Fire-Water in your stemmed glass, watching as the clear liquid swirled and gleamed beneath the crystalline lights. Before you, stood Regrator, Monsieur Valmont and Monsieur Rochefort engaged in a light conversation about the Guild.
Of course, in the name of formalities, there was no option but to mingle with the familiar group, it only made sense after recently securing an agreement with the Guild.
There were times you chimed in the conversation but majority of the time, the three men spoke amongst themselves. Not that you minded; standing idly was enough to pass time. Though, Monsieur Rochefort seemed to notice your lack of participation which led him to open a one-to-one conversation with you. He stepped closer, further reducing the distance between your bodies. You stiffened briefly but didn’t let on, he was too close for your liking.
“I was deeply amazed at how you handled that meeting back in Fontaine. You’re certainly a wonderful woman!” He laughed boisterously, head tipped back with an amused expression, the crimson liquid inside the glass he held swayed vigorously at his animated movements, threatening to spill.
“You are far too kind, Monsieur Rochefort.” A polite smile merely graced your lips yet it was enough to send the man laughing once again. Slightly uncomfortable at his odd behaviour, you looked around in slight embarrassment, afraid that his uncouthness had garnered unwanted attention.
Though, upon your brief scan around the Hall, a familiar masked figure caught your eye. Dottore. He stood in a darkened corner near a tall stained glass window, tucked between his gloved fingers was a stemmed glass devoid of any liquid inside. Your breath hitched. His gaze was already on you. Both of you stood there in silence, locked in a mutual stare where neither one dared to look away.
Dottore watched as the strange man next to you boldly leaned in, even going as far as resting his filthy hand on the small of your bare back. And you didn’t dare step away? His jaw hardened at the sight before him. Something inside his chest grew dangerously—an emotion full of negativity and anger. Dottore gripped his glass a little tighter, the fabric of his gloves squeaking at the subtle action.
You broke the stare, swiftly returning your full attention to Monsieur Rochefort. God, did he need to be so close? The scent of heavy alcohol clouded your senses, you stepped back in response which only pressed your back further into his palm.
“I’d like to get to know you mo—” “Ah,” Dottore cut into the conversation smoothly, tone full of edge, emptied glass long discarded in a servant’s tray.
“You’ve monopolized my colleague long enough.”
Despite the annoyance brewing inside him, he didn’t scowl, instead, he simply stood closely by your side—a little too close—his tall stature loomed over you and Monsieur Rochefort.
How did he get here so quickly?
Dottore’s sudden intrusion gained not only yours and Monsieur Rochefort’s attention but also Regrator’s and Monsieur Valmont’s whose conversation was cut short. It didn’t take much for the Ninth to realise what was about to unfold, and with a subtle smirk, he led the Guild’s owner elsewhere, away from lightning that was about to strike. Regrator had deep respect for his friend but he did not need Dottore’s foolishness tainting the Fatui’s name in front of Théodore Valmont.
“Dottore.” You greeted, calm and collected. The sensation inside his chest briefly stuttered as his name spilled from your lips. For a moment, he had forgotten the sole reason he rushed by your side but alas, it was short lived as the strange man’s infuriating voice pulled him back to reality,
“Oh, hello. We were merely—”
“I’ve no interest in idle chatter. I am simply here to discuss matters with my colleague. Privately.”
Caught off-guard, Monsieur Rochefort wordlessly nodded, excused himself before stammering to sit on one of the tables. Dottore carefully watched as the former walked away, he scoffed before turning to you; the expression on your face was indifferent yet the pierce of your gaze held weight, “You didn’t need to do that.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, it had been a while since you’ve last seen one another and this was how you greeted him? How cold.
“He was enroaching.” “And I was handling it.”
You turned to fully face him, eyes narrowed with annoyance, “Why does it bother you?” It shouldn’t. Logically, it shouldn’t bother Dottore at all yet something convoluted and territorial had been simmering in his chest since the moment that strange man leaned dangerously close. Despite his better judgement, he needed to act on it, simply ignoring it felt . . . wrong.
“You are careless with proximity.” He waved a dismissive hand. You tilted your head slightly, challenging his reasoning, “That’s not what this is about.” In response, Dottore stepped closer, not enough to touch your body but enough for the music and chatter to fade behind the tension brewing between the two of you.
“You allow others into your space without assessment.” “Then why are you standing this close?”
Because I want to. The thought arrives uninvited but he didn’t dare speak it into existence, simply doing so would . . . complicate things.
Instead, he replied with, “Yet you’re not denying me either.” You fell silent at his words. He was right, you weren’t. Why weren’t you? For a moment, you pondered about it ‘til you realised you were displeased with him.
“You’re changing the topic, Doctor. I do not care whether ‘I am careless with proximity’, it still does not give you the right to interrupt my conversation with Mr. Rochefort.” At least Regrator was sensible enough to lead the Guild owner away from what was about to happen.
The partnership with Théodore Valmont was fairly new and if they were met with something they did not like, the Guild could easily withdraw benefits they granted Snezhnaya. Thankfully, Mr. Rochefort was probably drunk enough to overlook Dottore’s sour attitude.
Before he could reply, the Director stepped in—he must have sensed the tension between you and Dottore, “If the two of you are going to start bickering like children, take it elsewhere. You are Her Majesty’s esteemed Harbingers, do not taint her name in her Palace.”
That was how you and Dottore found yourselves away from the Grand Hall, inside the Palace’s expansive library, drinks long forgotten and the liveliness of the banquet faded into nothingness.
“You did not notice his intent. That’s vulnerability.” He sharply uttered into the silence; Dottore stood near the shelves, eyes absentmindedly scanning each spine, back turned to you. A few feet away, near one of the wooden tables, you stood behind him, a slight scowl on your face.
“Whether he had intent or not still doesn’t justify your actions. Unless . . . you’re jealous, Doctor?” Crossing your arms over your chest, you watched as his back stiffened imperceptibly. Clearly, he didn’t like your words but his reaction—as small as it was—amused you.
Dottore scoffed, “Jealousy is an inefficient emotion.” “Inefficient as it may seem yet I do not see you denying, Doctor.”
“Oh, do not make this about me, Prevaricator.” He finally turned to face you, an evident scowl painted beneath his mask. “No, I will make this about you. Would you have reacted the same if it were any other Harbinger? Arlecchino, for example?” You took a step closer, the soles of your heels clicking against the tiled floors.
Silence occupied the space as your words hung in the air. No. Dottore knew he wouldn’t have done the same if it were any other Harbinger. Merely thinking about it exhausted him already.
At his lack of response, you spoke once again, “I know we have an arrangement, Dottore but that doesn’t excuse how you treat individuals I interact with. You do not have authority over me and I certainly do not belong to you.” Dottore’s behaviour was odd, to say the least but just because you’ve been having sex with him—and vice versa—didn’t mean you claimed one another and he knew that. He knew the arrangement between the two of you did not involve any sort of feelings, it was only for the sole purpose of sexual gratification.
Of course, this was all speculation on your end as he had not specified anything yet but from his behaviour, you could conclude that it stemmed from the same root.
“You’re getting rather bold, aren’t you, Prevaricator?”
“Call me every name you wish to, I’m not the one conducting myself to look like a fool.” You were just about fed up with him. First, he had interrupted your conversation with Mr. Rochefort, potentially tainting the newly built partnership between the Commercial Registry Guild and the Fatui, now he was getting mad at your reaction to his uncouthness.
The absolute audacity of him.
“I beg your pardon?” Dottore took three steps closer. More than anything, he loathed being deemed a fool—to others, your insult may not have hit hard but it was a completely different story for him. His voice dipped dangerously low as if urging you to try to challenge him and see what would happen. Fortunately for you, that was exactly what you wanted to do. Just because Dottore outranked and overpowered you didn’t mean you’d submit to him.
“Then beg, Zandik.”
Silence grew thick. Beneath the pointed mask, his brows twitched at your words—you didn’t see it but you sensed the sudden shift in his demeanour. The use of his real name was an . . . interesting choice from you, it definitely caught him off guard, and it wasn’t the pleasant kind.
Something inside Dottore snapped, and within seconds, he was able to close the great distance between you and him. His familiar scent invaded your senses—it was as electrifying as lightning with the way it awakened every single cell inside you, as though your body had programmed a natural response to him. Have you always felt this way? You didn’t know.
“I wonder, has anyone ever taught you the consequences of such careless words? Or has the concept of restraint always eluded you?”
A gloved hand firmly held your chin, tilting your face towards him. Silence stretched between the two of you, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far corner could be heard, and despite your proximity, your breaths fell deaf to each other’s ears.
Neither of you knew the reason why—was it because of the closeness? The soles of your shoes rooted to the tiled floors beneath, you didn’t reject Dottore’s touch nor did you invite it.
“You speak so confidently of restraint as if you’re aware of what you’re talking about. Tell me, Doctor, when have you ever exercised restraint, hm? From our past . . . encounters, you were never one to submit to it.” The expression on your face remained unchanged but he could see the way your eyes glimmered with challenge, a sense of superiority within the depths of your gaze.
Dottore leaned in, the pointed tip of his mask mere centimetres away from your lips, “You’re right,”
“Perhaps . . . that’s exactly what is needed right now.” He growled, the grip on your chin tightening just enough to gain control. The tone his words carried made your knees weak—you absolutely knew what would come next. He tilted his head to the side, angling his face so that his mouth hovered over your own; his hot breath fanned the plush of your lips, akin to a ghostly caress.
Dottore’s face was close enough to the point where even breathing felt intimate—far too intimate. A shiver ran down your naked spine and with the way Dottore’s mouth curled at the edges, he noticed your subtle reaction.
Finally, he gave your lips a chaste kiss—innocent and tame, a contrast from his usual kisses. Albeit soft, a hint of hunger lingered behind his action, he pressed into you heavy and with much haste as if to signify his unspoken feelings. Before one could process the whole thing, he swiftly pulled away, leaving you somewhat chasing for more. As embarrassing as it was to admit, Dottore’s lips were far too addicting; they were plush and velvety despite the sharp words it naturally spewed.
“Bend over that table for me. I won’t be taking no for an answer.”
Even if he was, you wouldn’t object. Excitement rushed through your body as you carried yourself to the nearest table within your vicinity. The feeling of shame intertwined with the iciness of the wooden surface beneath your forearms as you positioned yourself over the table. Shame is a part of human emotions and therefore normal. Yes. It certainly is normal.
Sharp and calculated footsteps which echoed within the quiet walls of the library drew you out of your thoughts, each click of a sole was louder than the last. “How exquisite.” You felt Dottore’s presence behind but didn’t dare look back.
The heat his body radiated absolutely drove you mad, it didn’t help how his crotch was only a few inches away from your rear.
The sight before him had his cock twitching—the daring plunge of your dress exposing most of your back was sin itself, it should have been illegal for wandering eyes to lay upon the beauty of your skin so casually, and to think that filthy Fontanian man had the audacity to touch you . . . It had Dottore feeling such unspeakable emotions.
A gloved finger languidly traced the path of your spine—from your shoulder blades down to where fabric met your skin. It moved with fine calculation which roused a violent shiver from you, “Sensitive now, are we?” He let out a deep, amused chuckle, clearly delighted at your involuntary response. You huffed but didn’t reply, though, you didn’t really need to as he swiftly moved on to lift the fabric of your dress.
Goosebumps formed as the crisp air kissed your exposed lower half, Dottore couldn’t help but whisper a curse into the silence. For a brief moment, it sounded dangerously close to a plea, a prayer to whichever heavenly body cared to listen.
He caressed the skin of your ass and gave it a gentle massage—squeezing and groping—which had your cunt greedily tightening around nothing. Your palms balled into fists at Dottore’s ministrations, it was only the start yet you already caught yourself letting out heavy breaths.
Then, leather met skin. Swift and harsh; you shamelessly gasped at the sharp sensation it left behind, it stung hard and spread like wildfire but gods did it feel sinfully delicious. He had spanked you without an ounce of mercy.
“What an interesting reaction you have, Prevaricator. How about we conduct a brief experiment on your cognitive capabilities? What I’m going to ask of you is simple: using your words, count each slap I give you—loud and clear. Surely you can perform such an effortless task?”
“You can’t do it yourself?” You finally looked over your shoulder, gaze filled with lust and a hint of mockery.
Dottore didn’t like the way your lips curled in fierce confidence. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that look off your face. To get a better view, he swiftly removed his pointed mask, mindlessly chucking it somewhere on the table where it landed with a sharp thud. Dottore slapped your rear once again—harder than the last—it had your body jolting against the surface beneath you, arms quivering as it held your weight. A whimper escaped your lips, head facing forward once again, dipping ever so slightly as pain pierced through your skin like a thousand needles.
“Count.”
A brief silence.
“. . . One.” “Good.” His praise went straight to your core, causing you to disappointingly clench around nothing.
Before Dottore proceeded further, an idea presented itself. Without another word, he reached for his leather belt, expertly removing it from his pants in one fell swoop. He bent it in half, his right hand securely wrapped around the ends of his belt—then, with a pull of his arm, he swung it across your rear which drew a jolt of surprise from you.
A sharp hiss escaped through gritted teeth—your face contorted in pure pain—the familiar sensation spread across once more. Fuck. Dottore wasn’t going easy on you.
“T-Two.” You stammered.
In circular motions, he gently rubbed in over the spot he had assaulted; you held back a small whimper between your lips as his fingers ghosted over the clothed entrance of your wet cunt. It lingered there for a while—two long digits caressing up and down your slit but if anything, his ministrations tested your own restraint only because his fingers pressed into you just enough to feel its presence yet it didn’t quench the thirst of your greedy cunt. In other words, you needed hard friction.
“It’s fascinating how your body readily responds to my stimulus.” The growing wet spot on your underwear had Dottore’s cock twitching in his pants. Gods, how gluttonous you were for him; it gave him a sense of pride that only he was capable of bending your façade.
The serpentine and indifferent Prevaricator, the Tenth Harbinger of Snezhnaya, adept at weaving her path with fables and manipulation. Or so the Fatui called you. It was laughable because right this moment, the ‘indifferent Harbinger of Snezhnaya’ was now bent at his mercy.
Impatient, you took the initiative to push back into his fingers but your shameless attempt was futile as it only earned you another harsh slap. The belt swiftly cut through the air with a whistle before it hit you, indicating the strength of Dottore’s swing.
A pathetic whimper decorated your parted lips, “Three.” So far, you’ve only received three strikes but you were already at your limit.
Thankfully, he only gave you seven more—which were all equally painful—totalling to a number of ten slaps but you did manage to say each of them without fail. Though, your sanity slipped with every count.
By the tenth, your rear was undoubtedly inflamed and hot from all the spanking it had taken, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to sit properly tomorrow. Dottore took the time to grope the globes of your ass—palm spread on each cheek—to give a bit of relief from the sting; he didn’t shy away from playing with them.
“You’ve done well, results showed secure cognitive abilities despite being under influence of a stimulus.” Dottore bent down to place open-mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades, pulling a shudder from you. Soft, wet sounds filled your ears with each sloppy kiss that decorated the length of your spine; he slowly moved downwards, savouring the feel of your blazing skin against his velvety lips.
As Dottore reached the end of your spine for one last kiss, his index finger slipped beneath the band of your underwear, he pulled the flimsy fabric down, down, down, causing it to fall on the tiled floor around your heels. Then, his hand circled around your left ankle, he slowly guided it upwards ‘til the entirety of your leg rested atop the smooth surface of the table along with your torso; he didn’t bother slipping your heels, it would only be a waste of time. You bit back a small moan as iciness kissed your hot entrance, eyes momentarily closing from the sensation.
Dottore stayed sitting on his haunches, he observed the way your cunt glistened beneath the warm lighting of the library. Not only was the sight before him intoxicating but so was your sweet, sinful scent; akin to an awakened beast hungry for its prey, he salivated at your unfiltered beauty. At this point, his cock begged to be let out and buried deep within the velvet of your tight walls.
As tempting as it was to just dive in, something in him wanted to savour your body as long as he could. It was a great contrast from usual roughness but nonetheless, he decided to take his time.
Dottore gave your entrance a generous lick—his tongue pressed flat against your slit as he slowly dragged it upwards, successfully gathering your slick on his tastebuds.
Oh, how divine you tasted. You let out a wanton moan, nails digging into the heart of your palms, sensitive was one way to describe your current state. It had been quite a while since Dottore had pleasured your body so any stimulation pulled eager responses from you.
He licked once, twice, thrice, up and down until his senses only knew you, and you alone. The gloved hand which rested on your left ankle pushed your elevated leg further up the table, allowing better access to slot his lips around your cunt.
Dottore sucked at your entrance with fervour—akin to a starved madman, his tongue darted past your folds to explore the sensitive warmth within. The sounds he made were beyond shameful and uncouth, it was sloppy and wet but he didn’t care, the sinful song that slipped past your lips was music to his ears.
Your back curled in pleasure, angling your hips in a position that further exposed your cunt. Dottore took the opportunity to work his free hand on your clit, he rubbed the sensitive nub in fast, tight circles resulting in your body to jolt and thrash around a bit from pleasure. The feel of smooth leather against your clit was foreign but it didn’t hurt given how wet you were, though, it did provide a hint of subtle friction that bare fingers could not.
At his unforgiving pace, you rested your forehead on the surface beneath, panting and whining his name. Balled fists opened and closed, unsure of what to do—where to hold on to—as bliss slowly gnawed its way through your feverish skin.
“D-Dottore! Yes—haah!”
At your words, Dottore curled his tongue the way you liked it, he rubbed the tip along your velvety walls, moaning into your entrance at how it tightened and pulsed around the wet muscle. Your moans filled the space within the library’s walls, it weaved its way between ink-stained pages of ancient books and found home between paragraphs where it wrote a veiled story for none.
As Dottore continued his pleasured torture, it didn’t take long for you to reach climax and come undone on his tongue. A broken grunt of his name forced its way past your lips as you stiffened and unceremoniously convulsed upon your orgasm; shocks of ecstasy ran down your spine and settled on your sensitive entrance. Dottore hummed, clearly pleased at the saccharine taste you’ve generously given him, he eagerly lapped up all your essence, careful not to waste any. The simple act of genuine appreciation had your legs shaking as you began to feel overstimulated.
He briefly pulled away from your quivering cunt—a translucent, sticky string forming which connected his lips to your entrance—before giving it sloppy, open-mouthed kisses with his tongue occasionally darting out to lap at your wetness. A few more messy kisses and Dottore completely pulled away much to his dismay; a light sheen of your essence mixed with his saliva coated the lower half of his face, it wasn’t common to witness The Doctor in such an improper state but heavens did he look strikingly beautiful even with filth on his face.
“Lie on your back and move further up for me.” Dottore stood up.
Slowly, you moved and did what you were told, once your back rested atop the wooden surface, you positioned yourself further up. Now, the entirety of your body lay on the expansive table, the long skirt of your crimson dress hung off to the side like a pair of limp wings.
With a lust-filled gaze, you watched as Dottore—who stood at the foot of the table—took his lengthy cock out of his pants, he pumped it slowly, smooth leather against skin as he spread his pre-cum from tip to base. It stood proudly against his clothed abdomen, a deep shade of blush you were more than familiar with. He groaned silently between breaths, as if pleasuring himself without you was a forbidden act that called for punishment.
Then, Dottore’s crimson gaze lifted to meet your own. Without breaking eye contact, he positioned himself on the table, it rocked beneath his weight but you trusted it enough to hold both you and him. Slowly, Dottore made his way up inch by inch, leaving chaste kisses all over your body—clothed or not—‘til he reached your face where he gave your lips a searing kiss.
It was passionate but it wasn’t rushed nor did he greedily consume what your mouth had to offer—it was deep, full of prisoned emotions. Trembling arms immediately wrapped around his neck, your fingers intertwining with his azure locks as you melted into his lips. After a heartbeat, Dottore slowly pulled away—panting from the lack of oxygen—he gently nudged your nose with the tip of his own before resting his forehead against yours.
The two of you remained in that position for a minute or so, just basking in the closeness of each other while your breaths interlaced. Truth be told, he could stay like this forever, albeit a little uncomfortable but it didn’t compare to the strange emotion he felt.
“I . . .” He trailed off, unsure what came next—he didn’t even know why he had spoken in the first place.
Dottore sat up and with the use of his teeth, he expertly pulled both gloves from each hand and mindlessly tossed them somewhere on the table. He would never admit it out loud but he’d rather feel your skin beneath his palms and right down to the tips of his fingers—raw and true. It was a shame he was too caught up in pleasuring you earlier that he didn’t think to remove them.
He returned to his previous position, one bare hand resting beside your head to support his weight while the other slipped between your bodies and bunched the fabric of your dress at your waist to position his hard cock against your sopping entrance. Dottore’s lust-filled gaze never left your face as he teased his sensitive tip up and down your slit, he watched with hooded eyes as you bit down on the plush of your bottom lip at the feel of his raw cock.
As Dottore slowly slipped inside inch by inch, he took the opportunity to suck on the spot just below your right ear with his tongue occasionally lapping it up. A wanton moan slipped past your lips—you were unsure whether it was because of his mouth or his cock but nonetheless, what you currently felt was pure ecstasy.
Once fully sheathed inside your velvet walls, Dottore dipped down to lick a messy stripe up the column of your neck and at the same time, he languidly pulled his hips back ‘til only the tip remained. As he thrusted back in, his mouth worked on your neck by decorating it with gentle bites.
Dottore’s pace was . . . different. Indeed, it was slow and pleasurable—nothing novel—yet it had meaning behind it, every roll of his hips, every press of his tip against your sweet spot, and every low grunt that resembled your name, it felt foreign. You couldn’t decipher what the meaning was but it was there and made itself known, all you knew was that he had you trembling under him.
Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his clothed waist and interlocked behind his lower back, your heels clicked at the movement, bumping against one another in the process. “Y-You feel so good . . . Mhm!” Your breathless confession had Dottore’s cock twitching inside your cunt; he grunted in response, followed by a particularly harsh thrust.
His large hand gently cupped your cheek, he met your gaze once more without breaking his measured movements—it was nothing but an endless eerie pit of deep crimson that beckoned you into pleasure. Even just the sight of his rubied pupils was enough to have you tightening for a good few seconds. Dottore cursed, hips stuttering in response, you found it rather amusing how a simple movement could easily bend the Second.
It was a weak spot only you knew of. A spot with your name carved deep.
Every steady stroke forcefully pulled oxygen from your lungs, it left you panting like a desperate common whore and it didn’t help how your limbs clung onto his body which left little to no space between the two of you.
“More—! P-Please, Dottore!” You whined.
Dottore groaned, burying his flushed face in the crook of your neck, the perfume you wore invaded his senses like a sweet plague, it made him dizzy yet for some reason, he wanted more. At your shameless pleas, he altered his movements a bit; the pace he followed remained slow but every time his cockhead neared your sensitive spot, he forcefully thrusted inside so that the tip firmly pressed against it.
“Mine. Mine—Haah! Mine. How dare that Fontanian dog lay his sordid hand on you—on what’s mine.” Dottore growled. Pure venom seeped from his tongue and stained his words, the bitterness of his tone was so evident you almost felt it on your tastebuds.
Too fucked out to even comprehend his words, you absentmindedly nodded along, pleasure completely took over every single cell in your body. Your head lolled to the side as Dottore pressed his face further into your feverish skin, he whispered the same set of words over and over like a madman.
And you responded to each of them, “Yours. Yes . . . I’m yours, D-Dottore—!”
Despite the iciness of the library, the air between you and Dottore turned thick and warm, and housed thousands of unspoken words. Aside from the latter removing his gloves and mask—and your forgotten underwear on the floor—both of you remained clothed which added to the warmth in the air. A light sheen of sweat had already formed along Dottore’s forehead, resulting in his azure locks to stick. It was stuffy to say the least and you were more than certain that you looked a complete mess but you didn’t find yourself caring right this moment for he deliciously ravaged your body to the point where you felt it in your soul.
Each slow drag of Dottore’s heavy cock and each press of his bulbous tip had your half-lidded eyes rolling far back into nothingness. Your nails raked along his scalp which pulled deep groans from him in the shape of your name.
“Say it again—let me hear you speak it into existence once more.” Dottore panted; he stilled his hips deep inside your cunt, cock pressed rather eagerly into your sensitive spot as he awaited your response.
A garbled moan was all you could muster from the amount of pleasure he gave you but he wasn’t having it, “Use your words, Prevaricator. You’re an intelligent individual, surely doing so won’t be much effort?” He pushed his hips further into your own which allowed his cock to sit deeper inside your walls.
“Mhm—ah! ‘M yours, Dottore! All yours . . . no one else’s.” Tears welled in your eyes as you sobbed.
Pleased, Dottore muttered a praise beneath his breath before swallowing your sobs with a messy kiss. He started moving in and out once more, determined to bring you both into an orgasm. Both of you moved in sinful unison, bodies rocking in perfect rhythm as though the two of you were simply . . . meant to be.
Dottore repeated that same mantra of claiming you in between kisses along with every deep roll of his hips, resembling a record in need of dire fixing, though one wasn’t sure if fixing was what he desired. If anything, he seemed rather content in his fragmented state.
After a few more languid thrusts, the two of you simultaneously came. Dottore swallowed your wanton moans with a long kiss, he groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering before they stilled and buried his cock deep inside. Thick ropes of ivory coated your quivering walls and you couldn’t help but whine into his lips at the feel of his hot cum inside your cunt. For a minute or so, Dottore remained sheathed until he shallowly drew his hips back to fuck his cum deeper.
Overstimulated, your legs around his waist tightened in an attempt to halt his torture but only resulted in the opposite as it pushed him further into you. A humourless chuckle slipped past his lips at your futile effort but fortunately enough, he did stop.
“And if I see that Fontanian freak lingering around you outside business-related matters, he shall deal with my hand.” Dottore breathlessly spoke into the growing silence. You let out a breath, “. . . I’m not interested in Mr. Rochefort, Dottore, and I simply cannot control whether he lingers around me or not outside business matters.” Somehow, the mention of his name and that fool’s name in the same breath didn’t sit well with him but he let it go—just this once, he was far too spent for another argument.
The next few minutes consisted of awkwardly making yourselves presentable for the banquet but with your face a mess and hair dishevelled, it took quite a long time to return to your proper state. Dottore, on the other hand had a far easier task for he merely fixed his azure strands and put on his discarded accessories—pointed mask and leather gloves—he didn’t have to worry about unsolicited stares on his face as he hid it behind a mask.
Once ready, you stepped out of the library first, legs trembling with every heavy step taken; the soles of your heels clicked unnecessary loud against the marble floors of the corridor. With the banquet confined to the Grand Hall, the Palace corridors were devoid of any people wandering about which lessened your worries about curious ears that happened to listen in on what happened a moment ago.
As you hurriedly walked down—with Dottore who followed closely behind—a familiar figure came into view at the end of the hallway. His striking auburn hair was enough to tell you who it belonged to.
“Prevaricator? Dottore? What are you two doing out here? I saw how Pierro approached you two earlier in the Grand Hall, is something the ma—” Childe paused mid-sentence as realisation hit.
You. Dottore. Away from everyone else. Alone together. It could only mean one thing based on his previous encounter.
A horrified expression slowly crept its way to his face, the Eleventh tried not to imagine what had transpired between the two of you moments ago but the vivid past stared right at him, begging to be addressed. It was a little over two months ago during the time you and Dottore worked on Cryo experiments tasked by Her Majesty—Childe didn’t mean to pry but the day he paid a visit to your Palace quarters seeking a friendly spar, he was met with . . . unpleasant sounds.
It wasn’t foreign for the Eleventh to ask of his comrades to spar, and with you being a whole rank higher than him, he normally sought you out more than anyone else. There were days you’d accept but most of the time you’d turn him down due to your unending projects; though, constant rejection didn’t seem to discourage him from asking you in the future.
From what Childe could make out, the lewd sounds mostly came from you. Frankly, he couldn’t care less that you were getting laid—it was a normal part of human nature—and like a sane individual, he planned on leaving to give way for privacy but that was until he heard you moan Dottore’s name.
Anyone in their right mind would be confused. Dottore? Really? Was he even capable of sex?
Childe stood there for a good minute or so before ultimately deciding to leave, the idea of sparring with you thrown out the window. He honestly couldn’t believe you’d let Dottore near you—or was the correct term ‘inside you?’ Ah, that didn’t matter right now, he needed to tell someone.
“You know what,” Childe started. “I . . . don’t even want to know.” He raised his gloved hands in defeat and swiftly turned around to escape the growing awkwardness.
“Ajax.” You called out, tone full of ice.
As if on command, he halted mid-step, every muscle in his body froze. You only ever used his real name whenever you confronted him with a matter—which was a rare occurrence. Was Childe afraid? Maybe. It wasn’t like you were one to unleash your wrath over something trivial, right? Ah, maybe he shouldn’t have told Arlecchino! Last he heard, you were in Fontaine with Pantalone which also happened to be where the Fourth was. He was certain she most likely told you about what he’d found out.
“I’d like to speak with you. In private.” A subtle glance back at Dottore was all he needed from you before he continued walking down the corridor, leaving you and Childe behind. The former didn’t pry—not that he wanted to—any matter that involved the Eleventh was out of interest for him, it was probably something trivial, anyway.
Childe wordlessly watched as Dottore left, out of nervousness, his cerulean gaze darted between you and the Second. Maybe if he reasoned that Capitano was looking for him, he’d be able to get out of this—Oh, that’s right . . . Capitano was currently in Natlan. Maybe Pierro, then?
Once Dottore was out of sight, you spoke up, “Arlecchino told me.” Unfortunately for Childe, your words pulled him out of his thoughts which meant no options to run away anymore. He swallowed thickly, eyes fixated on the wall to his left to try and avoid your icy stare; the Eleventh never did enjoy your soulless gaze, looking into it felt like he was inviting something dangerous. So most of the time, he did his best to avoid it. It was nothing against you—in fact, he even looked up to you but he’d just rather . . . not stare into your eyes.
Especially not when it hid anger.
“I-I can explain!”
You sighed, “There is no need to explain. While I understand the reasoning behind your actions, I’m disappointed you didn’t confront me first—you know, the primary person involved in what you witnessed.”
Gossiping wasn’t your habit yet if you heard something as scandalous as Childe had, you might just speak on the topic as well. Maybe even with Arlecchino, too.
The Eleventh briefly met your gaze before he looked away in shame, guilt gnawed at his bones as he realised that he should have confronted you first about it, not Arlecchino, not anyone else. It’s just that he was overcome with shock that he completely forgot his actions might not be the most sensible. Indeed, Childe had a lot to learn when it came to composure.
“Sorry . . .” He scratched the back of his head in shame, a blanket of rose covered his cheeks. Your gaze softened, “Well, what’s done is done. I’m not mad at you, Childe.”
The latter had a sheepish expression painted on his flushed face, “ . . But Dottore? Really, Prevaricator? I’m gonna have to say I’m a little disappointed, Comrade.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. Even if it seemed like he was a little afraid of you, he considered you a friend; you weren’t one for conversations but he appreciated how intently listened to his ramblings as trivial as they were.
A tired sigh escaped your lips, you shook your head absentmindedly, “Don’t start.”
“All jokes aside though, be careful, okay? I know us Harbingers are colleagues and all . . . but you just can’t trust that guy and I’m sure you’re aware of that too.”
It wasn’t like you trusted Dottore, right? Aside from physical attraction, you felt nothing for him. Yes. Nothing. The arrangement was merely a shallow bond created from lust and nothing else. Everything was going to be fine—in fact, if he were to sever ties with the Fatui, you’d feel indifferent.
Besides, there was nothing Dottore could possibly use you for.
As the banquet came to a formal close, the next event was the opening of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau where most Harbingers—yourself included—and other high ranking Fatui were present in Nod-Krai to celebrate its launch of operation. The Bureau had been a long-standing project and seeing the grand building in its expansive glory showed how much time had passed since the project was established.
Though, after the brief celebration, you headed back to Snezhnaya along with the rest of the Harbingers excluding Columbina, Sandrone, and Dottore who remained in Nod-Krai for an assigned mission.
That was the last you heard of The Doctor.
It had been two months since you last saw him—which was back in the Bureau opening—and it was safe to say that things had been a little . . . mundane. Meetings and experiments were what made up most of your daily routine; though you didn’t quite mind, Dottore’s absence was a force itself and without his physical help to de-stress you, everything felt rather bland.
But of course, first and foremost, you were a loyal Harbinger of Snezhnaya which meant swallowing your own lewd desires to focus on meetings and assigned projects and with Project Stuzha slowly coming together, there was no room to fall behind. If anything, focusing was your only friend. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise to have Dottore away from you, any more time spent with him in close proximity might have yielded unwanted results.
During the period between the banquet and the preparation for the Bureau opening in Nod-Krai, Dottore frequented your laboratory by occasionally paying brief visits. It was an inconvenience at first since you were certain he had much more important matters to tend to yet he had the time to dilly-dally in your research space—every time, he asked a bunch of trivial questions which were left unanswered. At that point, you knew your subordinates were talking behind your back with how much they encountered him in the laboratory.
The most bizarre one, however, was when you found Dottore inside your office—he lounged comfortably in your chair as if he owned the space. Naturally, you asked him to leave which he—strangely enough—obliged without putting up a petty fight. If it weren’t for exhaustion in your system, you would have asked him a million questions as to why he had invited himself.
Shortly after Dottore left your office, you remembered Arlecchino and Childe’s joint concern: Nothing good ever came from associating oneself with Dottore.
And somehow their words proved to be the truth because right now, you were back in Nod-Krai for an entirely different reason: Dottore was wreaking havoc in the borderlands. The sky burned a pale, unnatural blue, almost as if to say it was sick; citizens hurried along broken streets to safety while Fatui soldiers did their best to aid them.
It doesn’t take an intelligent individual to conclude that the situation was a mess—Dottore’s energy fields quite literally swallowed almost all of Nod-Krai with every passing second. It looked daunting but you weren’t surprised that he was capable of committing such an act.
“. . . He has the tri-lunar authority in his hands! Is he insane?!” You were pulled out from your thoughts at the sound of Childe’s ramblings; the two of you were dispatched to aid all affected individuals caused by Dottore’s actions, and as much as you desired to confront him, you were assigned a task by Her Majesty. Wait. Tri-lunar authority? The three moons? You’ve always known he was interested in kuuvahki but never the three moons. Most importantly, how did he manage to concentrate the tri-lunar authority in his hands?
Was he out of his mind?
Before you could reply, an operative called out to you, “Lady Prevaricator! We need your help! We’ve found some of our people who had recently escaped from The Doctor’s private research institute and one of them is gravely injured!” You nodded and moved with precision, you’ve done this a million times yet the feeling of dread never really left.
“Lay him here.” You instructed.
They quickly obliged and gently set the soldier’s wounded body on the ground but before you could assess his state, the air around you shifted, causing you to pause momentarily. At first, it was subtle—a faint distortion akin to one’s reflection on rippled water. Then, the world bent, sound vanished, and everything blurred.
Instinctively, your hand reached out to summon your blade but the ground beneath your soles folded inward as if space itself had collapsed, and in the blink of an eye, Nod-Krai vanished. No Fatui soldiers, no chaos from citizens trying to flee, nothing.
Silence. Pitch black.
Then, a sea of blinding lights greeted you. No, not lights, a sea of bright ivory clouds underneath your feet which reflected the bright sun above. Where were you? How were you suspended mid-air? You straightened instantaneously, eyes narrowed as you assessed the vast space ahead.
“Prevaricator.” That familiar voice. Dottore.
You quickly turned around and summoned your blade as your gaze landed on him, specifically on the crescent-shaped device that floated behind his head like a false halo, it hummed a soft melody and shone a strange hue of blue. “Drawing your sword already? How hostile of you, I just want to talk.” He stepped closer, completely unfazed at the sharp edge of your blade pointed at him.
Was your sword summoned because you wanted to eliminate him? No. It was summoned to defend yourself. But . . . were you even capable of killing Dottore? The thought alone placed you in a strange predicament—one you did not like.
“Tri-lunar authority? Are you a fool? How did you . . .” You trailed off, a million questions surged through your mind. How was he able to obtain the power of all three moons? As far as you were concerned, only the Eternal Moon Marrow’s location was disclosed and as for the Iridescent Moon Marrow, Arlecchino had explained to you how it came into her possession.
As for the third marrow, you knew it did not exist at all. So, how did he . . .
“How did I synthesise a false moon marrow you ask?” Dottore—who was now only a few metres away—stepped closer. In response, you stepped back, the sword tucked tightly in your right hand still pointed at him. If it were any other day, he would have enjoyed the conflicted look on your face but you gazed at him with such disdain as though he were a monster.
He tilted his head, “My, has the process of teleportation messed with your mind? I assumed you would have pieced everything together.” His cryptic response sent an icy shiver down your spine, somehow, you felt you wouldn’t like the truth. Nonetheless, you wracked your brain for answers—anything, everything. What did Dottore mean by that?
False. Moon Marrow.
“You act as if false creations aren’t your expertise, Prevaricator.” His words landed heavy and you were hit with an intense realisation of what he implied.
No. He couldn’t have . . . but this was Dottore, he would and he most certainly could.
“You . . You stole my research?”
To create a third false marrow, he had stolen your research notes about Moon Marrows which dove into the topics of synthesising a third one using the existence of the original marrows. At best, you were interested in the relics because you deemed it useful for the Fatui, not to concentrate the tri-lunar authority into your own hands as he had done. The thought of your own theoretical calculations contributing to such atrocities caused by Dottore made you sick.
This was never what you intended.
“Stole is a bold accusation. I like to think of it as borrowed. You truly are a genius—using a harmonic field to equilibrate the extracts of kuuvahki so that one would be able to wield it without destabilisation? Only a mind like yours would come up with such a concept. For that, you have my thanks.”
Suddenly the air felt thinner and you couldn’t breathe properly, it was as if the atmosphere had its hand around your neck, slowly choking you with each passing second. Hesitantly, you shook your head, denying every praise that Dottore handed. Panic inside you gradually arose causing your breath to quicken—you had partial responsibility for this and it weighed heavy on your shoulders. How could Dottore use you like this?
A turmoil of emotions was one way to put it, you weren’t sure whether to be angry at his betrayal or feel hurt at the fact that he used you as a mere pawn. Was this the primary reason he had been lingering around you from the start? To use your mind for his atrocities?
“Nod-Krai is in destruction because of you.”
He humourlessly laughed, “Oh, Prevaricator. You speak as if you don’t have blood on your hands. Let me ask you this, exactly how many Inazuman war soldiers perished from your Delusion? Hundreds? Thousands? Condemnation does not make you any more better than I and it certainly does not purify your crimson-stained hands.”
You hated it. You hated how Dottore was completely right—at the end of the day, you were a Harbinger of Snezhnaya who has caused devastation without an ounce of remorse. If anything, you and Dottore were two sides of the same coin.
“I’m not here to purify my hands. I’m here under the Tsaritsa’s orders to—” “To what? To kill me? That would be an interesting performance but it isn’t my task to harm you.”
It was rather vain of you to draw your sword against Dottore, both of you knew doing so would only result in your demise—even without the tri-lunar authority, he greatly overpowered your combat capabilities even with a Delusion. But if doing so asked for your demise then so be it, you were partially responsible for all this and that was the only price worth paying for your foolishness. Even if your entire soul begged not to.
Despite your better judgement, you moved first; your boots cut through the sea of clouds as you lunged forward, blade flashing precisely meant to force Dottore backwards. The strike was fast—perfectly calculated but the latter did not dodge, instead, he raised a gloved hand.
The moment your blade entered striking distance, gravity twisted, air around your sword warped violently, the space in between folded like glass under pressure. Your calculated strike veered sideways as if pulled by an invisible force, it scraped against nothing yet sparks formed.
Swiftly, you pivoted, turning the failed strike into a spinning slash aimed at his ribs. Dottore effortlessly stepped aside, this time it was his turn to strike. The crescent halo behind him hummed as he summoned a weapon out of thin air—a blade much larger than your own. He didn’t hold it with his own hand, no, instead, he manipulated gravity to wield it.
“Is that all you’ve got? Face me with ferocity, Prevaricator.”
You leapt back in defense, the edge of his blade just narrowly missing your stomach. Once again, your sword flashed before the distance between you and Dottore greatly lessened in a split second. Steel met steel as you drove the pointed edge toward his throat, he had swiftly caught it with his own blade.
The impact rang across the expansive space.
For a brief moment, the two of you stood inches apart, two completely contrasting expressions painted on your faces. Then, the air intensified instantly as if the weight of the entire sky slowly suffocated you. Your posture stuttered slightly and Dottore leaned closer, “My, look at you.”
A grunt slipped past your lips as you thrusted your blade forward with heavy force, it slid dangerously close to the edge of his shoulder. For a brief moment, it broke his guard. The space beneath you shattered as it folded violently, a wave of lunar energy exploded outwards causing it to launch you backwards. Your body unceremoniously rolled through the sea of clouds, searing pain shot everywhere.
But you didn’t dare back down, you rose from your spot, sword at your side once again as you dashed forward—this time, much faster. Metal flashed in a storm of precise strikes, each one aimed at a lethal point: throat, ribs, spine; your blade moved like liquid in your hand, forcing Dottore to take several steps back.
For the first time, he had to actually defend. Metal repeatedly rang as he deflected your deadly attacks.
“That’s it! Wield your blade like you mean it! You’ve been holding back, haven’t you? I wonder why . .”
Have you been holding back? You didn’t notice but you were certainly aware how stiff your attacks were, as if your body protested against your mind.
Suddenly, you swiftly twisted, reversing the angle of your sword and driving its edge towards the seam of his mask, the blade stopped a hair’s breadth from his face. Dottore had caught your wrist,
“I think it's time we put an end to this.”
Panicked, you attempted to break free of his firm grip but it proved to be useless. The azure halo behind him hummed as he drew his free hand back, his weapon moved in unison.
A surge of bright light instantly invaded your senses to the point where you couldn’t make out what was ahead of you anymore. Then, darkness grew.
“██ █████!?”
“█ ██ ██!”
“L█ █va██tor!”
“Lady Prevaricator!”
Your eyes shot open, body that was previously thrashing around stilled instantly as you took in your familiar surroundings—judging from the blue fabric above, you were inside a Fatui tent. Your chest heaved as inhaled and exhaled deep breaths, “What . .”
“Lady Prevaricator! You’re finally awake. You’ve been out for almost two weeks.” What? You thought. Two weeks? But mere moments ago you were just fighting Dottore. “Explain.” You rasped.
The soldier before you nodded, “Well, we were back in Nasha Town and when I had called you over to treat a wounded soldier, you suddenly collapsed. We had to quickly rush you into one of the tents and ever since then, you’ve been out cold. We were all worried about you. We had one medic assigned to look after you while the rest helped civilians.”
“I was assigned to clean up the space since troops are slowly returning back to Snezhnaya. You were thrashing around in your sleep and thankfully, you woke up!”
Two weeks. You’ve been sleeping for two weeks. How did that happen? You were certain Dottore was about to land his last strike. Your head couldn’t seem to wrap around it. Unless, he wasn’t meant to kill you and simply teleported you back the same way he teleported you to him. He did confess he wasn’t interested in killing you.
“What . . What of The Doctor?” Slowly, you used every ounce of strength in your body to sit up. At your question, the soldier held a shocked expression beneath his mask but immediately got rid of it.
“The threat has been neutralised but Lady Marionette perished in battle.”
Threat—Dottore, neutralised. Sandrone, perished.
Two Harbingers, dead.
“I’d like to be alone.” “As you wish, Lady Prevaricator.” Silence shortly followed as the soldier stepped out of the tent. Your breathing quickened, they were gone—dead, Sandrone and Dottore were dead and you didn’t know what to make of it. First, it was Rosalyne and now Sandrone . . . Just how many more of your friends would perish?
As for Dottore, you never once considered him as a friend yet your chest hurt at the thought of his demise; you didn’t know how to grieve.
A slow exhale left your chapped lips as realisation settled, it came out uneven and shallow. Your hands began to tremble and that alone was enough to unsettle you. Years and years had been spent mastering control, whether it be over assigned missions, over subordinates or over yourself; sadness was something you watched in other individuals, not something you experienced.
Yet now, the tremor refused to stop. You stared at the wall of azure before you, unfocused. Then, you lowered your face into the heart of your palms—at first, it was skin against skin, just the pressure of your hands pressing against your eyes as though you could physically force the thoughts out of your mind. But pressure didn’t help because every time you closed your eyes, you saw Sandrone and Dottore.
Your breath hitched and almost instantly, you tried to swallow it down, tried to steady yourself the way you always did—indifferent and unfeeling. But what did it mean if you were simply brimming with . . . feelings. A small sound escaped your throat, broken and almost sounded like it didn’t belong to you. From there, everything poured, your tears, emotions and every single feeling you’ve ignored. You hadn’t cried in years.
Was it justifiable to cry over Dottore as well? Closeness was the last thing the two of you had and you weren’t quite aware of what you harboured for him to feel such immense grief.
In the next few days, you were back in Snezhnaya, heavy snowfall poured nonstop and the Palace was emptier than usual when you requested an audience with Her Majesty. You had told her of your indirect involvement with Dottote’s plan and even asked for punishment to atone for the grave destruction caused upon Nod-Krai.
But Her Majesty—the ever benevolent archon she was—pardoned you and deemed your involvement unrelated. Were you thankful you didn’t have to face punishment? Yes. But maybe you desired to be punished because now Sandrone and Dottore were gone. If the latter hadn’t learned of your research notes regarding Moon Marrow then maybe both of them would still be here but then again, Dottore was more than capable of constructing one with or without your research.
After the meeting with Her Majesty, you shortly went on leave to process everything.
Now, you resided in a small cabin near the mountains a long ways away from Snezhnograd—Zapolyarny Palace, the Experimental Bureau, your home. All those places reminded you of him. Albeit only your accommodation for the next few days, being away from everything and everyone greatly helped.
Days were spent cooped up inside the cosy space tending the fireplace and occasionally wild animals that crossed your path, other than that, you were content with watching the snow capped mountains in the far north.
This particular night, nothingness accompanied you once more. The snow had stopped hours ago, leaving the town buried beneath a smooth, ivory silence; even the song of wind had withdrawn, leaving you completely alone. Inside the cabin, you sat at a small wooden desk by the window, a lamp casting a muted circle of light across scattered papers—they weren’t reports nor important documents, instead, the pages contained your thoughts and feelings. Sandrone once told you that she recorded a handful of matters on a notebook, kind of like a diary, so you decided to try for yourself.
Halfway through a sentence, your pen paused against the paper. Something shifted outside. Even though it was dark out and only illuminated by a singular lamp on the porch, you noticed instantly. It was subtle—a movement in the corner of your vision, just beyond where light from the lamp thinned.
You lifted your gaze. At first, there was nothing, only the quietness of the mountains ahead and bare trees which stood rigid beneath Snezhnayan frost. But as your eyes settled, you could make out a figure standing beneath the black branches. The distance and darkness hid every detail but there was no mistaking the silhouette. Tall. Composed. And most importantly, the faint outline of a mask caught beneath the pale moonlight.
Your chest tightened. Dottore . . ?
No, this must be a mere hallucination, after all, sleep barely visited you at night. Unless . . he wasn’t a hallucination but a phantom. Unlikely. Were you finally going mad?
The figure didn’t approach the door nor did it move—it just stood there amidst the trees as if to merely observe. Curious, you rose slowly from the desk, crossing the room without haste in your steps. As you reached the door, you opened it with caution—one hand on the knob while the other summoned your blade. Wood creaked beneath your feet as you stepped onto the porch, you felt like a fool for going outside, Dottore was dead, there was no logical reason for him to be outside the cabin at an ungodly hour of the morning.
Despite your better judgement, you called out to him, tone full of hesitation, “. . . Dottore . .?” Even uttering his name sounded idiotic, it was like praying to a god who wouldn’t answer.
The blackened figure moved and your fingers instinctively wrapped tighter around the hilt of your sword. You watched carefully as it moved closer with the same familiar gait The Doctor had. As the figure moved closer to the light, it slowly revealed Dottore; your breath quickened, heart rate spiking at the sight of the all-too-familiar man before you.
A million questions surged through your mind. What? He was proclaimed dead.
You raised your blade, the sharp edge pointed at him, it trembled a little, “I do not know if this is some kind of sick caper but I am not amused.” Yes, this had to be an elaborate cruel joke—that was the only way to explain it, right?
“Prevaricator.” He sang your name the same way he did back in Nod-Krai yet only this time, it was softer around the edges. No. No. No. It couldn’t be. A big part of you didn’t want the figure to be Dottore, not after what he did in the borderlands and how he used your research. But a small, twisted part of you—specifically inside your chest—hoped it was him, even if it did not make sense at all.
As much as the truth hurt, you spoke up, “You’re . . supposed to be dead.”
“Indeed.” Your eyes narrowed at his brief reply, “Explain or you will meet the end of my blade once more.”
“The ‘me’ you encountered and ultimately fought in Nod-Krai was my last remaining segment.”
“Segment? I do not seem to follow?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my crowning achievement, Prevaricator? I synthesised eight segments of myself. Unfortunately, seven of them had to be destroyed.”
Crowning achievement? Your eyes narrowed. Eight segments? Oh, it sounded like Dottore alright—only he would create segments of himself. After a while of trying to fit pieces together, broken memories started coming back to you.
Indeed, someone—you couldn’t remember who but you were certain it was from a long time ago—had told you of Dottore’s eight different segments, he built them after years and years of research into puppet-making techniques.
As for what the foundational blueprint was, you couldn’t recall at all.
How could you have forgotten about his segments? Well, it wasn’t like you ran into The Doctor frequently back then nor did you bat an eye at his successful projects. If anything, you mainly kept to yourself. But now that segments were part of the equation, it raised a question,
“Then . . which of you was it?” Despite your vague question, Dottore knew exactly what you meant: Between the real him and the segment, which one shared intimate moments with you.
He answered almost instantly, “Every single encounter was with me only, I never allowed him near you. The Omega build may be the most selfish out of all segments but he cannot—and will not—surpass my own selfishness when it comes to you. After all, I am the original.”
Something inside your chest stuttered.
You swallowed thickly, “Why are you here? Why show yourself before me? I can easily alert Her Majesty of your whereabouts—”
“Would you, Prevaricator? Would you really? Your words seem to differ from what you truly feel . . . I sense a hint of hope in them.”
The blade in your hand lowered and your grip loosened a little, “I mourned a colleague. Despite it all we . . I lost a colleague.” You couldn’t quite speak for everyone on your behalf since you were more than certain Dottore’s death did not sadden them at all. As for you, foreign feelings arose—violent ones that could not be ignored.
“Oh but you seemed rather eager fighting my segment did you not?”
“Because I knew I had no chances of surviving against you—your segment. Killing . . you was something I was aware I could not accomplish alone.”
“A death wish, then?”
“Could you blame my actions? On top of causing chaos in Nod-Krai, you stole my research for your own selfishness. I am well aware our physical relationship was transactional but it does not invite you to use me as a pawn.” You took several steps closer, the tip of your sword dragging against the wooden boards beneath.
Dottore mirrored your actions, he stood at the opening of the porch, right before the wooden steps, “Are your feelings hurt, Prevaricator? Did our physical relationship mean something to you?”
Using your own words against you. That was the same question you asked him months ago in the Palace.
“You’re changing the topic.”
“And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I am of no obligation to do so.”
“Then, I will take that as a ‘Yes’.”
Oh, he was infuriating as ever. “Why are you here? To rub in everyone’s faces that you’re still alive and everything that happened in Nod-Krai was all a lie?”
“I’m here with a proposal. Our recent collaboration—well, albeit out of your own will—made me realise how two minds alike can achieve great power rivalling those with divinity.”
“What makes you think I’ll work with you?”
“Why not? Limiting your intellect under the authority of the Cryo Archon is a waste. Tell me Prevaricator, are you content with slaving away despite being aware your mind can do much more than what she asks of you?” Dottore slowly climbed the steps, wood creaking beneath his weight.
The thought of doing much more beyond the Fatui has never once crossed your mind. From what you can recall of the past, it has only ever been the Fatui for you; countless experiments, projects and meetings—all for the betterment of Snezhnaya and never for yourself. There wasn’t anything personal going on in your life apart from your role as a Harbinger.
You could never admit to it but you envied Childe and how he was able to live a normal life outside of being in the Fatui—from Sandrone’s tea parties, you heard countless stories from him about his younger siblings and family. It was foreign to say the least, he was the only Harbinger who had family and engaged in mundane human tasks.
“Take your place by my side, Prevaricator and we shall accomplish great feats with our intellect.” You watched him outstretched a gloved hand.
If Dottore had been talking to your past self, the answer would have been quick and sharp—no—yet after your entanglement with him, the decision didn’t come easy. An invisible force beckoned you towards him and the mere thought of being apart from him gnawed at your very bones.
They never mentioned it to your face but you could tell Arlecchino and Childe had become wary of you ever since they learned of your involvement with Dottore, Rosalyne and Sandrone were gone for good, and Columbina had retired which meant there was nothing else that tied you to the Fatui except your loyalty to Her Majesty.
You didn’t notice snow had begun falling once again ‘til you saw Dottore’s palm decorated in ivory, you watched as they fell from the skies and found home in his hand.
“You could easily refuse and walk away right this moment yet you have made no effort to do so, it seems inefficient to pretend you do not see me by your side, and if someone intends to claim your time and attention, it may as well be me. Don’t you see? I’m sure everyone around you has already kept their distance . . Childe, Arlecchino, and maybe even Her Majesty hold a hint of disdain towards you for aiding my plan in Nod-Krai.”
“If you were a truly valuable asset for the Tsaritsa, she wouldn’t have granted you leave—aren’t you supposed to be involved in Project Stuzha? From what I recall, its launch draws near yet they don’t need your help? It’s only a matter of time the Fatui kicks you off to the side.”
Dottore was correct. Project Stuzha was set to launch soon and Harbingers involved in such projects are prohibited from taking personal leave unless absolutely necessary. With Her Majesty approving your leave amidst the start of Project Stuzha, it almost seemed like an indirect message that she, in fact, did not need you anymore.
Yes, that was what it all meant.
Silence stretched briefly before you took his hand in yours.
With quiet certainty, you understood that whatever existed between you and Dottore was not loyalty, not trust and certainly not romance—it was something far less stable. Two minds too sharp to deceive themselves. Yet somewhere within the cold silence of the outside, you realised the most unsettling truth of all.
That you and Dottore would ruin each other eventually, and neither of you intended to stop it.
