— warnings. — fem! reader, toxic behavior, tw yandere, mentions of baby trapping (dottore's part), rough syx, mentions of blood (pantalone's part), biting/marking, dirty talk, brat taming, jealousy
⚝ ZHONGLI
zhongli's grip on your waist tightens as though the weight of his soul hinged on the shape of your hips as he whispers your name like a sacred hymn, his lips tenderly grazing over the hollow of your throat— and morax cannot stop repeating himself, mine, you hear it? he mouths it against your skin so sensually, mine in this life, mine in the next, mine across every cycle of erosion.
his cock carves into you with a loving patience that amplifies the fire in his gaze, he wasn't one to fuck you rough and deep right away, not at all, because zhongli was far too old for haste, you know? instead, he buries himself slowly so you can feel it all, with a god's hunger for persistence.
you swear you can feel his every vein graze through your walls, his slow but consistent pumps rocking into you further and attempting to dissolve into your very body as his forehead rests against your own, sweat pearling where your bodies are fused, and his eyes— amber, ancient, stare straight through your soul.
"do you think i could forget this?" he groans above you, his voice aching from pleasure, though his thrusts were gradually becoming more brutal now, "do you think i could ever let you leave, now that i've felt you like this?"
your spine arches at his filthy choice of words and you can feel how soaked you were at this point, your slick dripping around his length in humiliating gushes with every new thrust, your cunt pulsing desperately as he moans out your name, archons, moans— as if your need were his own suffering.
zhongli goes all the way in, fucking every inch, every thick, pulsing vein through your cunt until it's all messily shoved inside you, forcing your walls to stretch around him like they were never meant to, like your body had no choice but to take it. fuck, yes it burns, of course, he's part dragon after all and it's too much yet at the same time, not enough.
you can feel his tip scratch against your most aching spots repeatedly, rubbing them apart and pushing up against the limits of what you could take as he made you twitch and clamp around him like you're choking on the intrusion as your nails drag across the large expanse of his toned back.
zhongli groans at the sharpness digging into his skin as his fingers squeeze your hips bruisingly, tight enough so it's not considered gentle anymore, not tender nor sweet, yet hungry, completely fucking gone.
"even stone," he gasps, no, he breaks, his voice torn from the pit of him, as if his divinity was talking through him, "even stone breaks with time, but not me, not for you, i will not erode, i will remain with you forever," your walls clench around him as he crumbles, forehead crashing to your shoulder with his breath hot and shaking against your wet skin, resembling your complete warmth being the altar and his body the offering.
⚝ DOTTORE
your body utterly rewires with dottore's hand's around your throat— not tightly, not choking, but claiming, like a collar held by his master, with his breath coming in through harsh, delighted pants against your ear as he forces your legs wider with one knee, sinking into you with merciless, almost scientific precision.
"oh, how you weep for it," he laughs, his voice alight with that hideous brilliance, the unholy thrill of unraveling something delicate and divine. dottore continues watches you sob beneath him with eyes as big as saucers, your overwhelmingly broken noises turning his face in awe like a laboratory specimen gone beautiful as he laughs, his expression bright with mania.
"such a reaction— such exquisite collapse," he groans before tenderly licking the tears off your cheek like he's tasting a drug synthesized just for him, so slow and lewd it made your cheeks burn as his tongue trails down to your tensed jaw and gulping throat, obviously where your pulse pounded like it's trying to escape.
"your body tells me the truth," your pulse flutters where his voice settles, rasping low like a warning, "it opens for me even as your mind screams or begs, perhaps? you begs so sweetly," as he thrusts into you again, your hips immediately betraying you and rising up to meet his blows with no mercy for your own good.
"you would never betray me, correct? say it," he echoes mockingly as his warm exhales bleed over your neck, "no, no, this is devotion, this is biology," as he cups your face like a holy relic, feigning any kind of love and fondness within his eyes as for a moment, it could truly be believed that you mattered to him.
if he could, dottore wants to stay in your body forever, not just for this moment, but as a permanent echo as every thrust was a question carved into your velvety insides—will you keep me? will you survive me? as your cunt answers without mercy, sucking him in and trapping him within a tight constriction, fluttering tight, shamefully eager to please your lover.
and to be frank, the friction was slowly about to become unbearable and you do not remember for how long the both of you were going for already as you're full past your capacity, your nerves screaming and shriveling at his dangerous, rigid thrusts that landed with slick, guttural slaps on slaps on slaps which sounds like sin itself, fuck— you feel so filthy with dottore on top of you, it's so wet, loud and nasty that your body was taking him with a noise that should humiliate you, yet it only made you crave him harder.
your back arches, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets yet he doesn't consider stopping anytime soon as he fucks you sharp and unforgiving, each drag of his cock slithering through your walls was calculated to make you scream out in pleasure— it's designed to be too much, every inch of him stretching you wide and cruelly slow as though he's measuring exactly how far he could push you before your body gave up on its stamina.
every step dottore took shook you to your core, yet when he suddenly presses a kiss to your temple, feeling as though he was deranged with fondness, your body shakes underneath his comforting cold, "there's no version of reality where you'll leave this bed without me staining your womb," words fall out of him as his voice drips with venom and delight, "i'll cut your name into my skin if it means you'll never forget mine."
⚝ CAPITANO
all you could hear was the sickeningly loud sound of your bodies connecting and becoming one with the mess between your thighs serving as a reminder of hours gone by as capitano breathes deeply into his chest— each inhale awakening a tremor through you and each exhale hovering hot against your mouth.
capitano doesn't say much to you aside from watching you intently, because you see? the harbinger doesn't have to, in fact, the silence coils around you like a chain, thick with intent, heavy with the gravity of his presence alone as words would only cheapen it— this unbearable, suffocating stillness where only his breath echoed something shallow on top of you.
his gaze pins you down without his weight even trying to, his eyes darker than sin and steadier than death when you realize— no voice could ever claim you the way his silence already did. capitano possesses you with absence, commands you without a sound and without a doubt, your body would always obey him, through chains and trembles, welcoming him open and spread.
his cock forces its way deeper now, each rock of hips impossibly thick as you bite down on his shoulder just to keep from moaning so loudly as you're shaking through the overstimulation he caused, completely wrecked, and yet he hasn't said a single word yet.
instead, his massive hands held your hips in place, his thumbs bruising into your bone as he pushes in again— slowly, even slower than before, not to mention cruel as you swear you can feel him in your lungs.
the weight of his body crushes the air from your lungs as then—finally, the voice of a man who rarely spoke, yet when he did, the world stilled to listen, "this is what your body was built for."
⚝ PANTALONE
"do you have any idea what it costs me to behave?" pantalone spits out as he shoves you flat on your stomach, one hand forcing your cheek into the mattress, the other kneading the flesh of your ass.
by this point, you're drooling, legs kicked open and cunt stuffed, your arousal and his cum leaking down your thighs, "what costs you not to ruin the moment? tell me, for you to stop smiling at someone who isn't me?"
he slides in with a wet, agonizing stretch as you welcome him with your back arching off the mattress when one arm loops around your body to pull you closer. his cock bullies its way impossibly deep thick inside you, and every move of his was screaming rich and cruel as pantalone fucks you like he negotiates— with control and precision, aside from enough venom to bleed you dry, every slap of him scraping you raw from the inside out.
his voice was like a hiss in your ear, thoroughly sharp with jealousy, "you're mine, everything you have is mine, your cunt, your moans, the pathetic way you soak the sheets— all of it," as he belittles you, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of it all almost drowned out his voice.
you sob into the pillow as he repeatedly slams into you, again and again, losing control as you're too occupied with salivating in the feeling of his thick cock pounding you relentlessly hard, fucking into you so deeply with everything he's got as his fingers dig into your hips, your stomach caving in from how deep he hits your insides, from the unforgiving stretch and the endless mess between your thighs.
"you wanna be greedy?" pantalone sneers, "you want more? more cock? more cum? i'll give you everything, i'll fill you so full, it'll spill out every time you try to walk away from me," as his rhythm breaks down into desperate, needy thrusts as he bites your shoulder hard to somehow contain himself.
without a doubt, the harbinger fucks like he owns time itself— as if he bought it? truly controlled and luxuriating in every inch of your body like it's the spoils of an empire. yet when he loses it at last, oh, and when the mask cracks you ask? his rhythm shatters into frenzied, gasping thrusts, each one an obvious confession of everything money cannot buy.
at last, he cums with his lips hovering over your throat before sinking his teeth into your shoulder sharp and punishing, almost brutal until a faint amount of blood blossoms under his mouth like a signature as he moans into the subtle wound, his breathing ragged and body spent
"you belong to me, do you understand? i’ll never let you go," how befitting of pantalone to fuck you like he's angry at you giving someone else a faint amount of attention— if he could even claim for it to be the reason still when in reality, the harbinger simply wanted to put you in your place.
SYNOPSIS : Transported into a video game, then to be cast out as an imposter and left for dead, you survive what should have been final. As Zhongli’s devotion twists into obsession and Dottore claims you as his own, divinity proves to be nothing but another vulnerability.
WARNINGS : SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Gender Neutral, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment / Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour.
Zhongli had waited six thousand years for the Creator.
Somewhat to his own embarrassment, his first impression upon their arrival was how unlike anything he had imagined they were. The scriptures had described them in meticulous detail, yet words were finite, limited in their ability to capture a being such as this. No passage could have prepared him for the reality of them standing before him.
And then there was the truth of it— undeniable. They were cruel.
That, however, was not a problem. Zhongli had waited six thousand years. In that time, he learned how to shape himself, his views, his convictions, even the core of his being, into something that might better suit the Creator’s tastes. Devotion, after all, was an act of constant refinement. At times, he allowed himself to daydream. He imagined presenting them with his life’s work and waiting, measured and silent, for their judgment. Would they approve of Liyue as it stood? Of the way he had ruled, the choices he had made, the sacrifices demanded across millennia? Would they find fault in him? He decided it would not matter. If they were displeased, if there was anything they wished changed, he would see it done. Land could be torn asunder. The heavens themselves, which tethered the world to the sky, could be challenged and overthrown. Should the flaw prove to be himself, then he would correct that as well. Thus, when an imposter was discovered, and the Creator’s displeasure became unmistakably clear, Zhongli did not hesitate. As a faithful servant ought, he took it upon himself to remove the problem.
His first impression of you, however, brings his carefully laid plans to a halt. A week after the announcement of your existence, he finally finds you. The moment his eyes settle on you, he freezes, utterly still, as though the world itself has paused around him. His heart sinks, an unfamiliar weight settling low in his chest as he watches you seated by the riverbank, the quiet radiance of your existence rippling outward through the water. For a fleeting moment, the instinct to kneel nearly overtakes him. He suppresses it at once. That impulse is misplaced. Reverence belongs to the Creator alone. What unsettles him now is nothing more than the sight of your reflection trembling in the current, a trick of light and water that stirs something it has no right to.
That must be it.
Surely, it is only your mirrored image, one that reflects the creator, that confounds his loyalties—nothing more.
His second impression of you is this: you are frustratingly difficult to kill.
At first, he makes easy work of you. There is nothing dramatic about it, just red blood spilled, the abrupt drain of colour from your skin, a heartbeat that falters and fades far too quickly. If he wished, he could have ensured it was final. He could have ordered your body burned, or cast from one of Liyue’s many cliffs, erased so thoroughly that even rumour would struggle to remember you. But it was late. He was expected to return before sunrise, and the inconvenience of further effort outweighed its necessity. The matter seemed settled enough as it was. He would attend to your body in the morning, once the light had fully left your eyes and there could be no lingering doubt. It was not as though you could cause any further trouble in his absence.
One can imagine, then, his surprise when he returned the following morning, no less than twelve hours later, to find you gone. Not merely absent, but erased, without a single trace left behind. Were he anyone else, he might have called it a miracle. The blood had vanished as though it had been dissolved into the earth itself, or carried away by the river that thundered against the rocks where he had left you. Nothing to suggest a body had ever lain there at all. The likelihood of scavengers having found you was far lower than he would have preferred to believe. And that, more than the emptiness of the riverbank, unsettled him.
His instincts prove correct soon enough, as word of you reaches him from Inazuma. He ought to feel relieved. The matter is no longer his to resolve; it has passed into the hands of another nation. He is free to return to the Creator’s side, where he belongs, unburdened by unfinished duty. This should be a blessing. And yet— A single, treacherous thought coils in his mind. Why is it them, and not him? Zhongli knows he should not indulge such feelings. Jealousy has no place in devotion. If there is anger stirring within him, it should be directed at you, for slipping beyond his grasp, for unsettling the Creator with your continued existence. That is the proper interpretation. That is what he tells himself.
Still, the nights stretch long and restless. He lies awake, thoughts circling where they should not, imagining what it might be like to find you again—to stand before you once more, and lay his eyes upon your visage with nothing left between them but truth.
His third impression, he decides, is one of hate.
You occupy his thoughts with an unforgiving persistence. Despite how little he truly remembers of you, you consume every waking moment, and the moments that should have been given to sleep. Nights find him kneeling before the small shrine he has built for the Creator, hands steady, posture reverent, as if ritual alone might absolve him. He knows himself to be a righteous man. That certainty changes nothing. He can feel you. He can see you as you were—sunlight caught in your hair, warmth spilling across the river’s surface, the glow of your presence almost caressing his form as you gazed down at your own reflection. The memory is unbidden, vivid, intolerable.
This is not his fault. He refuses to believe it is.
It is you, the deviant, who sparked this flame. And so he prays. No, he begs, for your fire not to sear him to flesh and mind, even as it continues to burn him all the same. He prays for his creator to deliver him from this sin, he stays kneeling at the shrine for the better half of the nights coming, as he can almost feel the fire burning him.
Meanwhile, you lie half-dead in the white snow, the aftermath of Inazuma’s failed witch hunt etched into every trembling breath you take. The cold has numbed you to pain, leaving only a dull, drifting awareness as shadows loom overhead.
A man stands above you, his face hidden behind a mask, his gaze unreadable as it settles upon your broken form. Without haste, he bends and gathers you into his arms, disturbingly gentle in contrast to the violence that brought you here.
After all, you are in need of a doctor. And his services, he decides, are open.
Dottore’s first impression of you, however, is a simple one: you had been outcast.
News of an imposter was hardly remarkable. Such rumours surfaced whenever devotion curdled into excess, when those zealous in their loyalty to you, or rather, to the deceiver wearing your name—rushed headlong into outrage. To be hunted like an animal and yet survive it was no small feat. Even he could acknowledge that it required a formidable mind. He is not surprised when the truth reveals itself so plainly: the true god lies broken in the snow, while the false one sits comfortably upon a throne. That your people failed to recognize the difference speaks less to your deception than to their lack of rigor. Disappointing, really.
He could almost sympathize with you, almost. With the sheer amount of time and energy you had poured into this world, with everything you had endured simply to survive within a place you had once cared for, just to make it this far. He finds himself wondering whether you had ever considered giving up. Surely the repetition, the endless cycle of pursuit and survival, must have worn you down eventually. But you did not surrender, instead, you fled. In his opinion, that was the wiser choice.
He makes easy work of you. There is nothing poetic about it, blood spilled, colour draining from your face, a heartbeat faltering and fading. A flaw, yes, but a correctable one. Were it anyone else on his table, survival would have been impossible.
And yet.
Despite his certainty, despite the precision of his work, he finds himself surprised when the following morning arrives, no less than ten hours later, to find you alive. Very much alive, in fact. There is a heartbeat, faint, erratic, but it exists all the same. Your pulse is nearly imperceptible, so weak it takes two fingers pressed firmly into the side of your throat to coax it into being. The touch of ice-cold skin against your warmth draws a response from you at last. You stir, barely. A twitch of your fingertips, a subtle flutter beneath your eyelids, minimal reaction, but functional nonetheless. His gaze travels with quiet precision, bruises bloom along your arms in mottled shades of violet and yellow, mapping violence in the abstract. Near your collarbone, a scar curves like a bolt of lightning, jagged and unmistakable. He pauses there, curious. He wonders, not for the first time, how you found the strength to reach Snezhnaya at all, let alone endure its winter for so long in such a state. His musings did not matter in the end. They do not change the fact that the world that had once adored you had treated you most cruelly—and he could fix that.
His second impression settles in with unexpected clarity.
You are endearing. Like a frightened little rabbit, bloodied and shaking, still running despite the certainty of pursuit. Prey that refuses to lie down and die, even as the predators, unsated, relentless, follow the trail you leave behind. It is almost cute, he thinks, in a pitifully misguided way. A futile, stubborn instinct for survival clinging on long after it should have been extinguished. If he were a lesser man, unburdened by reason, he might have called it a miracle. He almost does. For what else could your continued existence be? You live as though the heavens themselves have intervened, not in the way of the blessed, but in the way a wounded rabbit lives when surrounded by starving wolves. Only instead of a forest, you awaken in a laboratory.
And that is where you remain.
Not that you ever truly had a choice.
Despite his adamant insistence that you were not what they accused you of, leaving would have placed you at the mercy of others—and, in truth, there was no mercy to be found there at all. After everything that had followed your arrival in this world, falling into a game only to be branded an imposter, hunted, and treated as though you were not human, the last person you ever expected to save you was Dottore. Even days after your near death, you still could not make sense of him. What he deemed worthy of his time and what he dismissed as frivolous waste seemed governed by a logic entirely his own. You supposed you should be grateful that you had fallen into the former category. Otherwise, your body might have been the next one laid out upon his vivisection table.
Lately, all your mornings begin the same way. You wake two hundred or so feet below ground,(at least that’s what he told you), buried beneath satin sheets in an otherwise empty bed. Blearily, you force yourself upright and stumble onto the floor, grimacing as the cold bites into your bare feet—the thin rug doing little to soften the shock. Snezhnaya’s temperatures rarely rise above freezing, and while the doctor appears wholly unbothered by the cold, you are not so resilient. The chill serves as an unwelcome reminder of your fragility, of your mortality, made painfully clear since your arrival here. Your gaze drifts to the bandages wrapped firmly around your arms, and your mouth tightens. On the bedside table waits a cup of tea, milky and rich, its familiar blend offering a small, fragile comfort to your mornings. You learned, not long ago, that it is not brought by the doctor himself, but by another version of him—after waking one morning to find a face with no eyes, only metal, staring down at you.
After you finish the tea, you spend the next stretch of the morning resting in bed, strict orders, ones you do not dare to disobey. You read, when you can be bothered, which isn’t often, but when you can you can choose one of the many books he has left for you to stave off boredom. It startles you, at first, to realize you understand the words on the page without ever having learned the language. There is little else to occupy your time. You could, in theory, join him while he works, linger at the edge of his presence. But the laboratory repels you. The cloying scent of rot and preservatives turns your stomach the moment you cross the threshold, and the dark, congealed puddles on the floor burn themselves into your vision long after you look away.
You choose the bed instead.
Sleep, however, refuses to come. Ever since the hunt, you have been trapped in a hollow state of wakefulness, an endless limbo of insomnia. No matter how long you lie upon the soft mattress, your body twisting restlessly beneath the sheets, rest remains just out of reach. You yearn for sleep with an aching intensity, but it never answers you. It isn’t as though it bothers you all that much. Most days, simply getting up and moving feels like an insurmountable task. It’s not that you don’t know you should, you do, but there’s a persistent fog in your mind that dulls every intention, makes effort feel distant and unimportant. And so, you remain in bed.
You no longer feel like yourself—if that’s even the right way to put it. The truth is, you don’t feel anything at all. It is almost like screaming without ever hearing a sound leave your mouth.
Occasionally, Dottore comes himself to check on your condition, carving out time despite the countless experiments demanding his attention. The doctor increases your medication. Beyond the usual painkillers, he takes it upon himself to administer various vitamins, an occasional sedative to coax you into sleep, and other substances you eventually stop asking about. He replaces your bandages with practiced efficiency, and sometimes, unasked, he helps you wash. Unallowing to let you wallow in your own filth. You never want him to. The first time, even through your hoarse, broken voice, you refuse as firmly as you can. It makes no difference. You find yourself wondering whether he ever feels embarrassed. After all this time in such close proximity, you imagine that if you were to ask him outright, he would launch into one of his long, indulgent lectures, how a true scholar stands above such trivialities, how emotions like embarrassment are inefficiencies best discarded, how he is untouched by sentiment altogether.
You do not believe him. There must be something, buried somewhere beneath the layers of intellect and calculation. He is simply very good at hiding it. Otherwise, you cannot fathom why he would have saved you that day at all.
In that regard, your first impression of him is nothing like what you expected. When you played Genshin, you knew Dottore only through fragments and reputation, the conflict with Diluc, the countless lives taken, the long list of atrocities catalogued neatly in the lore. It was easy enough to acknowledge those horrors from a distance, from the safety of a world that could be exited at will. Living inside it, however, is different.
Here, he is not the caricature of a villain you anticipated. There are moments, rare, fleeting, where something almost like kindness surfaces, if you squint and catch him in the right light. It unsettles you more than outright cruelty ever could. You tell yourself he must be gaining something from this—that it is only a matter of time before your guard slips and you find yourself laid out upon his vivisection table. The reasoning is sound enough in your mind. And yet, as time passes and nothing changes, no hidden cruelty revealed, no sudden turn toward violence, the excuses you cling to begin to crumble.
There is always a brief moment of silence when Dottore enters the room, as though he is observing you before deciding to approach, before the routine resumes.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, every time. As if you are both still caught in those first days, when he had found you broken in the snow and you lay unresponsive after the surgery. You manage a half-hearted reply, thin and automatic, and that seems to satisfy him.
He guides you toward the en-suite bathroom, the bath already drawn. You do not remember hearing anyone come in to prepare it, but memory has become unreliable these days. You are not entirely present anymore. You undress with reluctant, mechanical movements. Despite everything, your weakness, your dependence, there remains a stubbornly human part of you that understands embarrassment. By the time you lower yourself into the tub, without clothing and dignity, the water closes around you as if an embrace.
He is oddly gentle with you. He forgoes a sponge, choosing instead to use his hands, lathered with a soap that lacks the sharp sting of chemicals—likely chosen to avoid irritating your sensitive scars and still-healing wounds. His touch moves methodically, ensuring no stretch of skin is left unattended. He never asks for permission. He simply lifts your arm above your head to wash beneath it, efficient and precise. He is not rough. And perhaps, in some distant, numbed part of you, there is a strange relief in not having to do anything yourself. Eventually, you close your eyes.
The silence settles between you, as it always does. The doctor moves his hands along your sides, deliberate and precise. Your eyes remain closed, but you imagine what you would see: the unblinking figure of him, the mask rendering his gaze impassive yet unnervingly attentive, studying you as though committing every detail to memory. Every muscle that tenses, every subtle shift of your body, nothing escapes him. Perhaps it amuses him, the knowledge that he can elicit a reaction from a god with nothing but his own touch, bending you, contorting you, shaping your response to suit him. He has always been fascinated by such things: the way bodies betray themselves, the predictable mathematics of stimuli and reaction.
Perhaps, had this been when you first arrived, you would have been tense—unable to meet his eyes, barely able to resist flinching at his touch. Now, if you were to react the same way, you can almost hear his voice, dry and precise, the same as when you first came to him: “And here I thought we had moved past your naïve embarrassment.” You imagine the faint lift of his tone, the implied amusement. But now, your mind is occupied with everything and nothing all at once, an oxymoron that makes even the simplest thought slippery. It is frustratingly difficult to name your emotions when they exist as one undifferentiated mass. Back then, you might have felt shame, disgust, fear, anger, sometimes all at once. Yet even those labels never quite fit. Now, at this moment, you do not have the capacity, or perhaps the desire, to look any deeper into yourself.
Once he deems you clean, he steps back, leaving you bare, exposed in the cold air. Every inch of you falls under his scrutiny. You cannot see his eyes behind the mask, but you feel them, red, unblinking, meticulous, tracking each tremor, each involuntary twitch you make standing there. The weight of his attention presses down on you, making the room smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, you almost want to sink back into the bathwater.
You shift uneasily from foot to foot, your muscles tight, your skin crawling as if aware of his invisible hands still cataloguing you. Perhaps he will circle you, but he does not. He waits instead. Then comes the faint, deliberate click of his tongue, the sound of approval.
“Your condition is improving. Good.”
It is different from before, when he would prod and test your wounds and scars, studying the way skin and flesh healed under his scrutiny. But Dottore is never predictable; he is too clever to fall into that pattern twice. Dottore’s satisfaction is quiet but still evident. You feel it in the faint curve of his lips and the subtle shift of his posture. Although, around you he always appears to be rather pleased with himself.
After his careful observation, he gestures for you to step forward. Without a word, he takes the towel and begins to dry you himself. Every movement is deliberate, measured, his hands moving over your skin with the precision of a sculptor shaping clay. There is a strange reverence in the way he touches you, a quiet devotion that borders on worship. He attends to every limb with the same meticulous care, and gradually, you go limp in his hands, your body surrendering to his methodical attention. When there is nothing to soften your grief, it ends up softening you to the one before you. When he kneels to dry your legs, your hands find their way to his shoulders almost instinctively. He does not flinch, does not shift, does not react, yet the stillness of his acceptance presses in on you, and you are aware of every careful motion.
It is during moments like this that Dottore considers himself truly fortunate. Perhaps, for once in his life, he even entertains the notion that fate is real. That he was cast out from his birthplace, only for the creator of this world to fall victim to that same cruelty—how neatly the pattern aligns. How alike you are. He wonders if you are, in some sense, his creation: a being exiled from your natural environment, stumbling through the world like a new-born, instinctively imprinting upon him as the first figure you encountered upon waking. The thought is… pleasing. Perhaps that is a lie.
Perhaps it had always been the other way around. Perhaps he was the one born into a world that rejected him, and it was you who held him, unknowingly, unknowably, in your arms. Perhaps it was he who imprinted upon you.
It is only after he has finished drying you, back in your room, your bed layered with silks, soft throws, and warm blankets, your nightclothes returned to you, that he allows himself a look that can only be called fondness. One hand traces small circles over the skin of your collarbone peeking through fabric, while the other tugs the blankets snugly around you. His eyes drift over your form one last time before it is hidden, as though committing the sight to memory, savouring every detail as if it were the most fascinating thing he has ever encountered.
But it is not fascination in the way mortals might understand. Divinity, he reminds himself, is reserved for him alone, as he is starkly reminded as his gaze lingers on you, lying there in the bed before him. Still, it takes all his willpower not to break into a grin.
You are, he realizes, utterly perfect for him.
It is almost exhilarating, knowing your life is entirely in his hands, your divinity, your very existence, your very self. His fingers tighten around the blankets. Really, he thinks, he deserves this. After everything he has endured, after all he has accomplished, having his own divinity delivered almost effortlessly to his doorstep is more satisfying than he could have imagined.
You do not realize your eyes have closed, drifting into a dreamless sleep. Dottore remains hovering over you, unbothered by your sudden surrender to unconsciousness. His hand, long released from the blankets, rests in your hair, fingers tracing through it as if memorizing its texture. He murmurs to himself, low vibrations threading through the quiet room, and though you cannot make out the words, the sound is oddly comforting as you sink deeper into slumber. For a fleeting instant, you imagine waking tomorrow in your own bed, finally home.
But you know the truth. With the memory of his hands resting on your collarbone, threading through your hair, you will awaken not in safety, but in the laboratory. And there, as always, is where you will remain.
A/N: I’ve always loved the Imposter Cult SAGAU because the concept is genuinely horrifying. You’re thrown into something you know is a game, hunted to within an inch of your life, and then, after being killed or watching the truth come out and the imposter be executed right in front of you, you’re expected to just forgive everyone? Of course I love it. Who wouldn’t have a complete mental breakdown after that? In this version, after the Reader is killed, Teyvat simply respawns them in a different area and hopes for the best. At that point, prayers and wishes are the only things holding the Reader’s sanity together.
One night, Rex Lapis returns to your shared chambers after an evening of revelry with his fellow Archons—tipsy.
The god opens the doors to your bedroom with a grander flourish than his usual gentle-natured disposition, beaming.
“My lord, you’re back!” You hop out of bed and bound over to him eagerly. “How was the- oof!”
Rex Lapis engulfs you in an intense bear hug, the smile never leaving his face. “Ah, my dearest sweet,” he hums, “how long has it been since I have embraced you like this? Decades have passed since our last meeting.” His horns and tail have manifested, the latter wagging intensely like an overgrown puppy’s.
You squirm in his tight grip, finally catching a whiff of the wine on him. That Barbatos… “No, it’s only been a few hours. If decades had passed I’d be old and wrinkly!”
“And I would still savour the taste of you every night,” the Geo Lord coos, relentless in his cuddling. His tail does not stop.
Your face turns hot. “A-anyway! Please let me go and I can help you with your…current state!”
“There is nothing that can sate my affection for you,” your divine lover declares, although his grip does thankfully loosen, “except by engaging in fierce, passionate lovemaking until tomorrow’s morrow’s dawn breaks.”
The day after tomorrow?! “My lord, you’re drunk!” you cry out. “None of that until you’re sober again!” Wriggling free from his grasp (and dodging his sloppy grabby hands), you usher him to the edge of the bed and sit him down, which he does so with surprisingly little resistance.
Rex Lapis lets out a huff. “Very well.” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes and waits silently.
You frown. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting until I am sober.”
“My lord…” You stifle a giggle. “Wait here while I get you something to eat, okay? And…perhaps a bucket in case you retch.”
“Are you saying I appear a wretch, my dear?”
“Retch!” you repeat. “As in, throw up.”
But the god droops and looks down at his palms. “Wretch…” he repeats morosely, tail thumping sadly against the bed.
You shake your head in exasperation and make to leave, but he grabs your arm. “Oh, what now, my lord?”
He fixes you with a gaze so intense, the gold of his irises gleam in the comfortable dimness of the room. It’s smouldering, the strict curve of his lip almost intimidating… “I demand a kiss before you go. I cannot remember the last time you gave me a kiss.”
“Oh, please. You have impeccable memory which should tell you I kissed you just before you left for the Archon gathering.” You roll your eyes but peck him on the cheek anyway, then worm out of his hold before he can demand another one.
“Fine, at least hear me out.” His gaze turns even more intense than before, an incandescent mountain.
You turn to face him again. “Yes, my lord…?”
He eyes you from head to toe. “I love you.”
“Awww! I love you, too!”
Giggling, you slip out of the chamber to bring back the necessary remedy, leaving a thoroughly disgruntled god sitting on the edge of the bed with his tail thumping petulantly.
The next day, Deus Auri vehemently denies any memory of the night prior.
NOTES. I have been fantasising about this for a while. No explicit infidelity but boy, will some of these men certainly try.
Childe
This man does NOT care in the slightest. If anything, he’s excited by it.
Childe finds the whole situation entertaining in a way that's almost endearing if it weren't so utterly disrespectful. He doesn't see your wedding ring as a stop sign. For him, it makes things more interesting because now there's an added layer of complexity, an actual obstacle. And Childe has never backed down from a challenge in his life.
He’ll send you lots and lots and lots of gifts. Intricate bouquets of flowers, expensive jewellery, and little notes with cheeky messages that make your face burn. It's infuriating because he's not even subtle about it. He knows you know. You know he knows. And somehow that makes it worse, or better, depending on how you look at it. Childe is utterly shameless, so good luck reeling him back.
When your spouse is around, Childe shifts into a different gear entirely. He becomes aggressively polite in a way that's more insulting than rudeness. He'll compliment your spouse's choice in you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. And Childe is petty, so he’ll be extra condescending to your partner: “Wow, they must have been feeling pretty generous when they chose you, huh?” Your spouse is sitting there fuming, but what are they gonna do? Challenge a Fatui Harbinger? Lol, good luck.
Childe will touch your shoulder when passing by. He'll remember small details about you that your spouse has forgotten. He'll show up at your favorite places and act surprised to see you, like the universe just keeps throwing you together. And through it all, that infuriating smile never wavers, because Childe knows exactly what he's doing and he's having far too much fun to care about the consequences.
"Hey gorgeous, married life treating you right? Because I could do better."
Lohen
Married? That's hilarious. Lohen finds out you're married and his first reaction is genuine, unrestrained laughter. Like you've just told him the best joke he's heard in weeks. A challenge. An actual obstacle. This is the most fun he's had in ages. He doesn't see your wedding ring as a boundary; he sees it as the opening move in a game he's about to play.
He shows up everywhere after that. And there is absolutely no subtlety in it. He does not even pretend to try that he is not courting you. He'll find you during your day with that sharp grin, pull you into dangerous situations for the sheer thrill of it, and act genuinely hurt when you try to push him away. "Come on, where's your sense of adventure?" He reads people too easily to miss how conflicted you are, and that just makes it more entertaining to him. Aw, did you just blush when he pulled you close? That’s just more ammunition for him to continue.
When your spouse is around, Lohen doesn't bother with politeness. He's openly dismissive in that sharp way of his, looking at them like they're a minor obstacle. He'll call out the weaknesses in their stance, mock their choices, make it abundantly clear he thinks they're beneath him. "You picked them?" he'll say to you, gesturing at your spouse with barely concealed disdain. "That's disappointing."
He challenges your spouse to duels constantly, Actual calls to prove themselves. "Come on, show me what you've got. Or are you too scared?" There's no pretense of friendliness, just that chaotic grin and the very real threat underneath it. He wants to test them, wants to prove he's stronger, faster, better in every way. And when your spouse declines or hesitates, Lohen laughs like they've just confirmed what he already knew. That they're not worthy of you.
And if they accept? Yeah, that fight is anything but clean. Surely, you don’t mind if he hurts them only a little bit, right? They’ll recover… in a couple weeks. You can spend that time with him!
"Married to someone that dull? Lucky for you I'm around to make things interesting."
Pantalone
Your marriage is a curiosity to him, nothing more.
Pantalone hears you're married and it barely registers as information worth filing away. He's made it abundantly clear through his entire existence that social conventions are for people who can't afford to ignore them. He has money, taste, and a level of charm that makes your marital status seem almost quaint by comparison. Why would he care about a contract that costs nothing and binds you to someone ordinary when he can offer you everything?
He pursues you methodically, the way he pursues everything worth having. Invitations arrive on expensive paper—to galas, private auctions, exclusive dinners at restaurants. He sends you jewelry that's clearly meant to be worn, flowers that bloom in impossible colors, bottles of wine older than most towns. Each gift is calculated to make you feel like you belong in his world, because in Pantalone's mind, you already do.
When you decline his invitations, he smiles like you've said something amusing. "Oh, a pity. I was so looking forward to it." He pauses, studying you with that sharp gaze. "Though I suspect you'll change your mind eventually. People usually do when they realize what they're missing."
When he meets your spouse, there's no acknowledgment of the relationship at all. He treats them like furniture. Polite enough, but utterly unremarkable. He'll talk past them, direct his attention entirely to you, and make it abundantly clear through sheer indifference that your spouse's existence is beneath consideration. He isn’t cruel, per se, but the stone cold apathy is shocking. But I mean, what else did you expect from the Regrator?
He'll invite you to exclusive events, knowing full well you're married. He'll compliment you in ways that are technically innocent but absolutely not. He'll make you feel like the most interesting person in every room while your spouse fades into background noise. And he does it all with such practiced elegance that it's hard to even be angry about it. And Pantalone doesn't acknowledge obstacles he doesn't consider obstacles.
"Darling, there's an exhibition opening tomorrow. Quite exclusive. Pity you felt obligated to refuse."
Varka
The moment he finds out you're married, Varka accepts it with genuine respect that comes from someone with actual principles. It’s to be expected of course, from the Grandmaster of the Knights. He backs off immediately—no flirting, no lingering touches, nothing that crosses a line. He means it too. His sense of responsibility is too strong to entertain anything else. You're off-limits. He respects that.
Except he's absolutely terrible at actually following through on it.
He'll catch himself mid-conversation laughing at something you said, and the laugh is too warm, too genuine, like you've just said the funniest thing he's heard in weeks. He volunteers for patrols he doesn't need to go on if he knows you'll be there. He flexes his muscles without thinking about it—lifting heavy things with one hand, rolling up his sleeves when you walk by, that casual display of strength that he tells himself has nothing to do with you being present. He's just proud of his physique. It has nothing to do with wanting you to notice. Definitely not. And yeah, so what if Varka tries to be the funniest person in the room whenever you walk in? He’s just naturally charming, that’s all.
When your spouse is around, Varka shifts into his easygoing charm. He's genuinely friendly, treats them like any other person he gets along with, makes jokes and offers drinks like there's no tension at all. But then you'll say something, and for just a moment his eyes linger on you a little too long. He'll compliment you in a way that sounds casual but carries weight underneath it. He catches himself doing it and looks away quickly, uncomfortable with his own slip-up.
You notice it every time. The way his shoulders straighten when you walk into a room. How he unconsciously positions himself so he can see you better. The split second where his mask drops and you catch something genuine underneath before he remembers himself and shifts back into friendly, easygoing Varka. He's trying so hard to be respectful, and that effort itself is what makes it obvious that he's fighting something. You see the conflict, the way he's wrestling with his own nature, and somehow that makes it worse.
It's not intentional. That's the thing about Varka—his pride in himself, his easy confidence, his strength—it all comes out around you whether he wants it to or not. He's trying to be respectful. He really is. But his nature keeps betraying him in small, unguarded moments.
"That's great, really. You picked someone solid. Still, if you ever need anything, I'm around."
Zhongli
Being the God of contracts, he accepts your marriage to be a fact set in stone. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that stone can’t be moved, is it?
Zhongli will curb his overt courting rituals, like asking you out to dinner or kissing your hand upon greeting. But his more gentleman-ly side is always evident when it comes to you. He walks you home in the evenings. And sure, he’ll keep a respectful distance but all it takes is one particularly strong gust of wind or a merchant’s cart veering too close to you for his hand to come up to your side and pull you near him. He’s so kind about it too that you aren’t sure if this is meant to be anything at all.
He invites you over for tea (alone, just with him). Zhongli knows exactly how you make your tea, the amount of sugar you like, and the type of brew he should prepare. And so what if the tea takes four hours to make? You and him are just having polite conversation. It’s not as though your spouse knows the way you take your tea either, so this is really just a way for you to relax!!
When your partner is around, Zhongli simply smiles. He’s seen many relationships in his time, and to be frank with you, he does not exactly see what is so special about your partner lol. Nevertheless, he would not cross any lines, but he is just an extra bit nicer, a tad bit more courteous, his words just a little sweeter with you when they are around. He really wants to show your partner what true devotion looks like.
“Married? I see. Well, contracts can be renegotiated, given the right circumstances. Until then, consider me a reminder of what else might have been possible.”
──── 𝐜𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐱 ˊˎ -
⊹₊ masterlist / rules
꒰ pairing: Pantalone | Feofan x Reader ꒱
꒰ word count: 0.7k ꒱
꒰ c.w: MDNI, suggestive content, reader hates the smell of cigarettes ꒱
ᯓ✩ 𝒑.𝒔: I know I said I'd post this days ago but I've been working overtime this week sobs. Here it is now though! Also, yes, I like the band hehe
You hate cigarettes. More specifically, the smell of them.
A cruel irony, given that your banker fiancé is a chainsmoker who’s already received a new pair of lungs once before. You’re constantly luring him into the shower with you to scrub the scent of tobacco from his hair and skin between more heated activities; the estate uses up more fabric softener than ever before and there’s no shortage of work for anyone in the area who doesn’t mind working as a laundry maid; bowls of mints are placed in strategic places throughout the building: the table by the master bedroom balcony, the chest of polished hardwood drawers in the foyer, the desk in his study… and his nightstand.
He knows of your hatred but doesn’t go too far out of his way to accommodate you – he’s centuries old and has cut down from 20 sticks a day to 8 after all, a great improvement in his opinion. This is a very old habit that he believes will die only with him. That being said, he’s not a complete asshole either – not to his sweet fiancée that he loves to spoil rotten. He hardly smokes indoors the way he used to now, opting to stand by an open window or sit in the gardens, lounge on a balcony or the terrace, even. A leather, fig and sandalwood cologne helps to cover the scent of smoke that clings to his clothing and hair, he accepts that the price of kissing you after a smoke is a mint on his tongue first.
While you curl into his side upon dark indigo silk sheets, he takes a moment to admire the rapid rise and fall of your chest, your lashes shut over pleasure-glazed eyes. This is a familiar routine, you getting so dazed from orgasm that it takes you a few minutes to come back down. He tenderly tucks a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear. He’s covered in a similar sheen from getting so hot and carnal with you, silvery scars from past surgeries glistening across his chest.
Pantalone sits up and slips on a silk robe, picking you up bridal style to set you down in his lap as he sits down in the window seat of the bedroom, cracking the window open. When you shiver against the chill of the outside air, he rubs his palms over your arm and grabs a light blanket from nearby to cover you with. His chin props atop your head while you curl into his bodyheat, your side pressed to his chest and your knees brought up, legs over one of his thighs so you can look at the winter snowscape outside, gardens dusted with white. Your eyes close again though, still on a high of hormones from the orgasms he gave you.
With his arms still around you, he frees his hands and you hear a metallic clink, the quietest of roars from the sound of lighter fluid burning. You let out a small huff as the scent of tobacco fills the air after he takes a drag. His fingers pet your hair as if to placate you, not unaware of the way your nose has scrunched in that adorable way. You press your nose to the silk of his robe to try and evade the terrible smell.
“You’re terrible…” You grumble and he simply smirks as he takes his next drag, blowing most of it out of the window but saving the last part to aim towards your face. “Feofan!” His laugh echoes in the room and his lips press to your temple.
“Forgive me, my love. You look far too adorable when teased. I’ll stop.”
“Smoking?”
“Don’t push your luck.” He quips, aware that you know that’s not what he meant. He lounges against the rest of the seat while you curl into his chest, tucking your face into his neck so closely that it’s like you’re trying to crawl into his skin to evade the stench of tobacco.
“My sweet girl…” He muses as he smooths your hair back with his free hand, tapping his cigarette outside the window given the lack of an ashtray here. “I’ll have to make up for it, won’t I? Maybe some new cor lapis earrings for you, how about new winter dresses? I’ll have Chiori herself commissioned just for you.” He grins with the sort of a pride only a wealthy man who loves to spoil his woman possesses when you let out a noise of approval and nuzzle your nose gently below his ear.
The cigarettes are a small price to pay, really, despite how much you hate them.
⊹₊ liked it? why not:
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Synopsis - Being a secretary for the 9th Fatui Harbinger comes with its ups and downs. Pantalone likes you a bit too much, and he shows it. But all hell breaks loose when Dottore also takes an interest in you. You'll have your hands full now
Tags - OOC Dottore and Pantalone/ Jealousy/ D and P hate each other/ Part two/ Sexual tension/ Both smitten but wont admit it/Time to spice thing up a bit/ The reader actually has a voice/
Full series here
The office was quieter than usual.
Not empty—never empty when it belonged to him—but stripped of the usual rhythm of movement and purpose.
Papers were stacked with exact precision across Pantalone’s desk, ink bottles aligned, ledger books closed but not yet shelved.
He was not seated.
Neither was he relaxed.
He stood near the tall windows instead, gloved hand loosely resting behind his back as he spoke.
“And yet you continue to interfere.”
His tone was controlled.
“I have made it abundantly clear that my time with her is not to be disrupted.”
Across the room, Il Dottore gave a quiet, irritated exhale—something between a sigh and a scoff.
“You speak as if she is an appointment.”
“She is my secretary.”
“Mm,” Dottore hummed, tilting his head slightly. “And yet she does not appear bored of me.”
That made the air shift.
Pantalone’s gaze slid sideways.
Dottore continued anyway, almost lazily, as if enjoying the reaction he was provoking.
“She laughs more when I am present,” he added. “That alone suggests a deviation in preference.”
Pantalone’s smile did not change.
But it sharpened at the edges.
“Your definition of ‘preference’ is remarkably self-serving.”
“And yours is remarkably delusional.”
A pause.
Then Pantalone turned fully.
“Do not mistake her politeness for interest.”
Dottore’s visible expression—what could be seen above the mask—shifted slightly.
Amused.
“I do not mistake anything.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“She is intelligent.”
Pantalone’s gaze flicked toward him again.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Dottore added, almost as an afterthought:
“And attractive.”
That earned him a long, very pointed look.
Dottore did not seem bothered.
If anything, he seemed entertained by it.
“She processes information quickly,” he continued. “She questions things instead of accepting them. That alone is rare.”
Pantalone exhaled softly through his nose.
“She also works herself to exhaustion if not monitored.”
“That is not a flaw.”
“It is inefficient.”
Dottore shrugged slightly.
“It makes her interesting.”
That word lingered.
Interesting.
Pantalone did not respond immediately.
Instead, he turned back toward the window.
The conversation, for a brief moment, lost its sharpness.
Because beneath all of it—there was the same uncomfortable conclusion neither of them wanted to fully acknowledge.
She was not easily replaceable.
Not in work.
Not in presence.
Not in attention.
And worse—not in interest.
Dottore spoke again, quieter this time.
“This is not like usual arrangements.”
Pantalone’s expression tightened faintly.
“No.”
A pause.
Neither of them liked that answer.
Dottore tilted his head.
“We are not in control of the outcome.”
That sentence landed heavier than either of them liked to admit.
Because it was true.
And neither of them was accustomed to truth standing outside their influence.
Pantalone’s voice lowered slightly.
“She will decide.”
Dottore gave a faint hum of agreement.
“And neither of us can ensure the result.”
Silence.
For once, neither filled it immediately.
Then Pantalone said, almost calmly:
“That is… inconvenient.”
Dottore’s reply came just as flat.
“Yes.”
A knock interrupted the moment.
The door was already open.
She stood there.
Holding a small stack of folders.
As usual.
Perfectly placed in the rhythm of the office without realizing she had become part of it.
Pantalone moved first.
Immediately.
Any tension from moments ago vanished behind practiced composure.
“Come in,” he said gently.
Then, softer—“You didn’t need to bring those personally.”
“I was already passing by,” she replied, stepping in.
He crossed the room to her in a few unhurried strides and took the folders from her hands with care.
His fingers brushed hers briefly in the process.
“Thank you,” he said. “As always.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly at that.
Then—she noticed Dottore.Standing off to the side.
Watching.
A faint tilt of his head.
And then—a small, almost playful wave of his fingers.
She stiffened.
Immediately flustered.
Heat rising fast in her face.
Pantalone did not see it.
Dottore’s mouth curved faintly behind the mask.
Pantalone, meanwhile, gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.
“You can sit for a moment.”
“I’m fine—”
“You can sit,” he repeated, still polite, still soft, but leaving no real room for refusal.
She hesitated—then lowered herself into the single plush chair positioned directly in front of his desk.
Dottore leaned lightly against the desk edge nearby.
Pantalone stood just behind it.
Framing her without meaning to.
Or perhaps meaning to very much.
She looked between them, suddenly uncertain.
“…Am I in trouble?”
Dottore answered first.
“No.”
Then, after a beat:
“Not yet.”
She blinked.
Pantalone shot him a look.
Pantalone ignored him and turned his attention back to her fully.
Something shifted in his posture.
Not dominance.
Not control.
Something more careful.
“…We wanted to speak with you,” he began.
A pause.
Then corrected himself slightly:
“About… moving forward.”
Her brow furrowed.
“Moving forward?”
Dottore sighed lightly, as if deciding patience had officially expired.
“He means this is becoming complicated.”
Pantalone exhaled quietly through his nose but did not correct him.
Dottore continued, stepping forward slightly now.
“We like you.”
Simple.
Direct.
“No correction needed,” he added. “An absurd amount.”
“And,” Dottore went on, voice calm but sharp underneath, “it has become inefficient to continue competing in this manner.”
Her stomach tightened slightly at that phrasing.
Competing.
Pantalone spoke now, more carefully.
“There are limits to what can be… shared.”
Dottore gave a small nod.
“We tried.”
A beat.
His voice dropped slightly.
“It nearly resulted in physical violence.”
That made her eyes widen.
“…What?”
Pantalone did not look pleased at the admission, but he did not deny it.
Instead—he spoke quietly.
“So we have reached a conclusion.”
Her grip tightened faintly on the arms of the chair.
“…Conclusion?”
Dottore straightened slightly.
“You will choose.”
Silence.
The words landed cleanly.Unavoidable.Her brows knit together.
“Choose what?”
Dottore blinked once, as if the question itself was unnecessary.
“Between us.”
Pantalone added quickly—slightly too quickly for him:
“There are no obligations or expectations regarding the outcome. We simply—”
She cut him off.
Cleanly.
Immediately.
“Neither.”
She stood there in front of them, arms crossed tightly over her chest, breathing uneven—not from fear, but from frustration so sharp it practically radiated off her.
For the first time since either of them had known her—she looked angry.
Not flustered.
Not embarrassed.
Not quietly overwhelmed.
Actually angry.
Pantalone blinked once.
Slowly.
As if recalculating everything he thought he understood.
Dottore tilted his head slightly, watching her with an unreadable stillness.
“…You didn’t understand the question,” Dottore began carefully.
She cut him off immediately.
“I understood it perfectly.”
She stepped forward half a pace, still holding that tight, frustrated posture.
“You asked me to choose between you.”
Pantalone’s brows lifted slightly.
“Yes.”
“And not once,” she continued, voice sharpening, “did either of you ask what I want.”
Silence.
Dottore opened his mouth.
She immediately pointed at him.
“No.”
He paused.
Pantalone exhaled faintly through his nose, as if already sensing where this was going.
She continued anyway.
“What if I don’t even like you like that?”
Both men went still.
Dottore’s posture shifted first.
“…You do.”
It wasn’t a question.
She shot him a look so sharp he stopped speaking.
“And what if I didn’t?” she pressed. “What if I was just being polite? What if I was just—just doing my job? What if I was—”
She hesitated, then added quickly:
“What if I was a lesbian?”
There was a beat.
Then both men spoke at the same time.
“…What?” Pantalone said.
“…Are you?” Dottore added, suddenly far too alert.
She groaned in frustration.
“No! That’s not the point!”
Dottore relaxed—slightly—but not fully.Pantalone, however, looked faintly unsettled for the first time.
“…I see,”
he murmured.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped immediately. “Because you don’t know anything about me.”
She turned slightly now, pacing one step as her frustration spilled over.
“You’re asking me to pick one of you when you don’t even know basic things about me.”
Her gaze snapped back to them.
“What’s my favorite color?”
Silence.
Dottore blinked.
“…I don’t recall you stating it,” Pantalone said carefully.
She let out a humorless laugh.
“Exactly.”
She pointed between them.
“What am I allergic to?”
Nothing.
“What’s my favorite food?”
Still nothing.
“What movie do I rewatch when I’m tired?”
Silence again.
Her voice rose slightly now, not shouting—but firm enough that neither interrupted.
“What song do I hum when I’m stressed? What do I do when I can’t sleep? What did I want to be when I was younger before all of this?”
Nothing.
Not a single answer.
Her arms tightened across her chest again.
“And you expect me to choose between you?”
Dottore tried again, softer this time.
“That is not—”
“No.”
The word snapped cleanly through the air.
He stopped.
She shook her head.
“No, don’t do that. Don’t explain it away.”
Her breathing steadied slightly, but her eyes were still sharp.
“You don’t know me.”
A pause.
Then quieter, but no less firm:
“And I don’t know you.”
Pantalone’s gaze flickered at that.
She continued, voice steady now, controlled anger replacing the earlier spike.
“You think you can show up with gifts, and charm, and attention, and I’ll just—what? Fall into it?”
She gestured vaguely between them.
“Like some kind of prize you win by being the most persistent?”
Dottore’s fingers tightened slightly at his side.
Pantalone said nothing.
She stepped forward again, just slightly.
“I’m not that.”
A beat.
“I don’t work like that.”
Silence stretched again, but this time it felt different.
Less heavy.
More… exposed.
She exhaled.
Then looked between them one last time.
“If you actually like me,” she said quietly, “then you’ll stop treating this like a competition.”
Her gaze hardened again.
“You’ll get to know me. And I’ll get to know you.”
A pause.
“And if, after that, I still like either of you?”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“Then we can talk.”
Her hands dropped from her arms at her side.
“I need to get back to work.”
No one stopped her.
The door clicked shut behind her a moment later.
Silence returned.
Thicker than before.
Pantalone stood perfectly still for a few seconds.
Then—very slowly—he exhaled.
“…Good lord,” he murmured.
A pause.
“That woman…”
Dottore hadn’t moved.
But something was different.
His posture was still.
His head slightly tilted down.
And then—very faintly—he laughed under his breath.
Not mocking.
Not amused in the usual way.
Something sharper.
Stranger.
“…Fascinating,” he murmured.
Pantalone glanced at him.
“…You are smiling.”
Dottore didn’t deny it.
Instead, he adjusted his gloves slightly, as if trying to regain composure that had already slipped.
“She’s correct,” he said simply.
Pantalone’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Dottore continued, quieter now.
“We approached it incorrectly.”
A pause.
Then, almost reluctantly:
“And she is… considerably more compelling when she is angry.”
Pantalone sighed through his nose, looking toward the closed door she had vanished through.
“…Yes,” he agreed softly.
Then, after a beat—
“She is going to be significantly more difficult than anticipated.”
Dottore’s head tilted again.
A faint, almost dangerous edge returning to his tone.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“I like it.”
‐--------
I hope yall enjoyed this chapter! I need some ideas on how to go from here.
ノㅤ﹕ft. Dottore x gn!readerᆞreader is an assistant to Dottoreᆞreader is pretty cold & deadpanᆞambiguous relationship they are not officially dating but they're kinda soft for eachother
ノㅤ﹕CONTENT WARNING ⋮ this fic contains themings of surgery and descriptions of organs, please view with caution and take care ♡
ノㅤ﹕wc ⋮ 1.4k
You can't exactly recall when you two became so gross. You're intertwined, almost codependant now, and utterly weak.
Did it start when you could stand to be in eachothers presence, doing nothing? Just sitting in silence, breathing, existing, simply being together — did you taste iron on your tongue when you realized how natural it felt?
Or was it when when you tasted iron on his tongue as your teeth clashed for the first time?
Experimental, testing the waters and trying to decide where the delta of longing begins and where it melts; where it seeps into the nothingness that is the ocean of simple human intimacy, the need to be as close as your mortal cages allow you, to feel — to understand — every inch of eachother in and out. You tasted iron on your tongue at that moment too, didn't you? When you bit too hard at those dry lips.
No matter, something needed to moisturize them, it just so happened to be his own blood. You lied to yourself that it was nececary.
How did you even get so close? By sheer force of fate? Nonsense, how destructive is the world to be bringing you two together? Nevertheless, you ended up working closely together, mostly fueled by your shared intrests, thoughts and opinions.
That same pair of the past would question this closeness between the present two of you. In all honesty neither of you understood the appeal of this attachment back then, finding it to be just another weakness, another fatal flaw that managed to scurry past evolution of humanity.
But something changed your opinions when you let him drag his teeth over you pulse point. It finally let you understand — the trust, the push, the pull, and the power.
Having him there, worrying the skin with sharp teeth that with one wrong move could cause you to keel over and croak. This time, Zandik was the one to taste the familiar flavour of old, weathered coins. Feeling how the pulse of your heart beat through your flesh, the way he could so easily bite down, watch you bleed out. Alas that would be waste of a perfectly good test subject and lab partner.
He had half a mind to burst out laughing, and to think closeness was this intoxicating! And that neither of you had never realised it, too! To think that the perfect ginnea pig had been standing across the operating table all along as just a mere lab assistant.
But maybe seeing that very same assistant laying on that very same operating table was much more appealing to a certain mad man.
Which is where you are lying currently. With your thoughts rushing a hundred miles a minute trying to figure out why or how you had agreed to this.
Its a cold, metal table that you are laying on. It is much akin to Zandiks touch. With how cold he runs, it usually leaves goosebumps in it's wake. Albeit it is kind of ironic how the table has warmed from your own body heat faster than he does.
You watch The Doctor from the corner of your eye, as he carefully prepares his instruments; diligently polishing each one, one by one. He's stalling, you note.
(Funny that a man who so adamently declines his humanity is reflecting typical human behaviours. Best to note that too, could be useful.)
"Doctor," you begin, the sound of your voice in the near silent lab serving as a perfect announcement for what you wish to say; The sedative is half-assing it's work. This causes Dottore to pause in his stalling, he hums for a moment as he ponders his next course of action.
He turns around to face you, pinching at various points of your arm, "Feeling anything?"
"No." It's a short, curt response; one you would usually consider a waste of breath. But when you attempted to shake your head, you noticed that you had difficulty doing so.
"Conscious, yet numb... Intresting..." he mutters in thought to himself as he moves to begin the procedure. He reaches back behind himself, grabing the iodine with practiced ease.
It's clear proof that you're not the first person to grace this table, The Doctors exact knowlage of the whereabouts of his tools was proof enough of his many encounters with the body — but it does bring a small sense of comfort to know that he has done this enough times that, even if something does go horribly wrong, he will be able to manage it perfectly fine.
Yet you are, once again, rudely pulled out of the cushy seat of this train of thought, this time by an iodine-soaked cotton ball. It's warmer than it usually is, as Dottore does not typically bother to have it warmed, leaving another oddity to note. You observe the way it drags across your skin, how the orange substance stains it near instantly.
It's a familiar process, one you've done on patients and subjects dozens of times, but this time theres a glaring difference — He is stalling again, draging the disinfectant slowly, you would think he was doing this leisurely if it was not for how quiet he was.
You hear him let out a small huff of a laugh as he catches your unamused glare, a surefire way to signal for him to get on with it.
He does thankfully, his motions smooth and almost graceful if it were not for the subject matter at hand.
And in his hand lies a scalpel; lightwight, standard issue, and familiarly cold. It glistens in the light, spotless metal slowly coming into contact with the skin of your abdomen. Thank those blasted Gods for the sedative, otherwise instinct would have caused your breathing to go wild — a pesky instinct you just cannot seem to get rid of.
The sharp, icy edge causes you both to pause, more or less preparation of what is to come next. To most, this brief moment of collection would not appear to last more than maybe three seconds; to a mad heretic and his right hand it feels much more akin to three minutes. The intimacy behind that three second stall is something that neither of you could bare to ponder more for than those very few seconds; the very idea of feeling lingering behind actions brings back that iron taste in your mouth.
Finally, the thin blade pierces the first few layers of flesh. You do not feel it, thankfully; still the sight of being flayed alive is not something anyone else would consider appealing.
Well, apart from The Doctor here; who cares naught for the norm of natural reactions.
Drops of crimson start to sprout like flowers along the path of the blade, their delicate forms fall apart when the many layers of skin and tender muscle are pulled back. The Doctor is careful with his proding, uncharacteristic for someone who revels in disruputing the natural state of many things — the human body a primary example.
So when he peers inside what should be a familiar cavity, what lies inside it leaves him momentarily stunned. Dottore gazes at the fleshy pinks and browns, the way veins spread across in the same way vines do on cobblestone walls.
One part of him dares not peek further, for he may never comes acorss such a perfect specimen again, while a different part of him yearns to dig deeper, to count the many tiny branches of your lungs in astonishment as they add up to be perfectly equal and symmetrical.
You watch him keenly, with your heavy stare you can almost see through his mask; how his eyes have lit up akin to how a childs do when they enter a candy store.
"...Any findings, Doctor?" you speak up eventually, gaze lingering on how he paused in his exploration (usually he continues on with surgery when asked this question, what has gotten into him to stall so much?)
He lets out the smallest of amused chuckles, "Oh, plenty," he points to your lungs, rising and expanding with every breath, "See here, notice how the lungs are perfectly shaped? And how the liver is perfectly smooth?"
His pointer finger trails over to your stomach, he smiles upon seeing its lining adopt a rosy colour, "Oh, and this reaction happens flawlessly."
"Your point being?" You stop him in his observations, watching how his motions still as a smile creeps across his face.
"It's all perfectly textbook. I cannot find a single thing wrong within you."
You pause, silence hung between the two of you once more. The Doctor reaches for his needle and thread, and his next words slip past the cracks of a smile:
"Since everything here is in order, I say we pick your brain a bit instead, hm?"
ノㅤ﹕QUIN'S NOTE ⋮ not too sure how i feel abt the final product tbh, kinda wanted it to be weirder. still, hope you enjoyed reading!! i'll try to post more often since im on summer vacay now, yippe!!
Just a small Drabble about 18 who jerks off so. Fucking. Much.
He’s definitely the most hormonal out of the adult segments, and let’s say this is before Prime gives his segments the green light to have his lover as well.
The segments get a few breaks between experiments, and without fail every time, 18 disappears from the lab entirely. Some assume he’s just getting some fresh air, and others know much better. Once he’s gone from the lab, he’s coming back looking a little more flushed and sweaty than when he left.
He’ll lock himself away in his quarters and fuck his fist to the thought of whatever arousing fantasy happened to overtake his mind that particular day. Sometimes he thought about Prime’s lover. Sometimes Pantalone. Sometimes the other segments.
He’d stroke himself into overstimulation a lot of the time, knowing he wouldn’t really get another chance to do this the rest of the day, just fisting his poor, weeping dick until it stung to touch even slightly.
He had a nasty habit of hiding behind corners when Prime was getting sexy with his love (or, contrarily, the other segments with each other), cover his mouth, and fuck his fist to the sounds of moans and the slaps of skin coming together, imagining himself between whomever was getting him off in that moment. He wanted to fuck and get fucked so badly.
He could see himself on top of Prime’s spouse, watching his cock disappear into their needy hole while pinning their arms down to either side of the bed. At the same time, he wished that Prime would put him in his place and fuck him hard and raw while he was bent all the way over, growling in his ear about how naughty it is to eavesdrop.
His lab boners were endless too. He’d try to hide them away beneath tables or by shifting his position when he was working, but the other segments (delightfully) noticed, exchanging amused glances with one another.
They’d find cracked doors where 18, bottomless, was humping a pillow and drooling on she sheets while he whimpered different names each time, sometimes trying to finger his own hole while stroking his cock with his other hand.
18’s slutty habits were starting to rub off on the other segments, who would moan a little extra loud or fuck a little extra rough if they sensed him nearby, especially if he was eavesdropping and thought he was being slick about it.
Pairs of underwear from segments, prime, and his spouse would randomly go missing too, only to be found in his laundry covered in dried cum. The pervert was sneaking into their rooms too!
In any case, soon enough, they would finally invite 18 to join in on all the fun🥰
In the new Sandrone animated short, they mentioned that Dottore and Pantalone went to go see the opera together. They're gay, Your Honour.
Anyway, them going there repeatedly because they both have one favourite actor/singer/ballet dancer there, and they simply must attend all of their performances.
But it's just such a hastle to go specifically to the opera house. The cold of Snezhnaya is something that both of them find rather bothersome and they would rather avoid going outside whenever possible. And the tickets add up, you know, especially the best seats in the house. Yes, they are the Fatui and their bank accounts and budget is basically a bottomless pit, but at some point someone's going to raise an eyebrow at just how many times these show tickets get written off as a "business expense." And the crowds just get so annoying to deal with, what with how they take up so much room and chatter with each other.
Clearly, the only reasonable solution is to "offer" a generous opportunity for you to work for Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. No preformer worth their salt would possibly decline, even if you never seem to be in the same room as the Cryo Archon, but with two of her Harbingers instead. They insist that this is merely a "trial and preparation period" and you will be brought in front of the Tsaritsa soon enough. But it's already been two months of day-in-day-out practice and you have yet to see any progress on those promises.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who first met you in the library, reaching for the same book in the House of Daena.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who was insisting that he was first and therefore he gets to take it.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who sees the other books you gathered and saw it's the same books he needed.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who learned that you're both researching the same topic.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who had a heated discussion with you about said topic. When it turns out that you're as knowledgeable— if not more than him, he gets interested enough to become acquaintances.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who unknowingly fell inlove with you, because despite what people whispered and spread about him, you did not care in the slightest. All you cared was that he was on the same level of intellect and yearning for knowledge as you. For him, nothing was better than a curious mind ready to find more information.
Akademiya Student! Zandik who confessed to you in the most lowkey way in passing.
"If these idiots stopped relying on the Akasha, then maybe we wouldn't have needed to redo the equation!" Zandik ranted while aggressively writing on a piece of paper.
"No need, I've done the calculations myself. I somehow knew they would mess up so I took the time to formulate my own. I added some sources I found to back up the data, and double checked it." You said, sliding a folder towards him.
"... This is why I love yo-" Zandik said as he grabbed the paper, only to pause when he realized what he said.
"...huh?" You questioned, hearing his words and seeing the shocked expressions he had, red hue spreading. Your own flustered expression present on your face.
"... I... I like you..." Zandik stammered, looking at anything but you.
This is it. He thought. You will realize he's every bad thing everyone has said, you will realize he's crazy and a lunatic and you're gonna think he's disgusting and scary and hate him and -
"I like you too..." You whispered, enough for him to hear. His eyes widened as he looked at you.
Boyfriend! Zandik who you started dating not long after that, he gifted you a bouquet of genetically mutated variant of the Sumeru rose that he had been growing for a while.
Boyfriend! Zandik who helps you with your solo research, helping you find and compile sources you might need.
Boyfriend! Zandik who shared his diacoveries with you, even the illegal ones because he knew you'd be interested too.
Boyfriend! Zandik who takes you on picnics where you both discuss about topics you're currently invested in, or sharing progress on solo projects, or about any academic expeditions you guys were just on.
Boyfriend! Zandik who went on a field research in Ardravi Valley with some other students, only to come back a bit different. Who after some coaxing, told you about everything that happened from his POV. About discovering the Ruin Golem and the khaenri'an technology, the incident that led to Sohreh's death, and getting his name taken out of the research paper. Everything.
Boyfriend! Zandik who thought, this time, you will leave. That he messed up, that you wouldn't want to get involved with him. But you didn't care, you still accepted him.
Boyfriend! Zandik who's new obsession became Eleazar. Doing hidden research for a cure, using humans as test subjects. Who one day showed you his work despite him knowing how unethical this all is. But to his suprise, you still stayed and even helped with the research.
Boyfriend! Zandik who was pinned as the suspect for Sohreh's murder and expelled after multiple violations. You had the ability to chose to stay, they had nothing on you, no evidence of your involvement in his Eleazar research. And yet you decided to join him in his exile, quitting the Akademiya, abandoning the thesis you've worked so hard on, and never getting that degree you've always wanted.
Boyfriend! Zandik who was approached by the Fatui director, Pierro. Recruiting him to join the fatui and continue his Eleazar experiments with the aid of the organization, in exchange for his help in their plans and goals.
Boyfriend! Zandik who accepted, but only on the condition that he can take you with him. It was non-negotiable for him. For him, he owes you this much after being the reason your life has been put in disarray. At least with this, he can guarantee you a bit of comfort away from the heat of the desert. You became known as Il Dottore's assistant since then. Assistant on paper, but he treats you as an equal.
Boyfriend! Zandik who rose the ranks of the Fatui, becoming a Harbinger and gathering immense power, authority, and access to anything for his research. He uses this privilege to help you advanced in any of your own research.
Boyfriend! Zandik who remembers the days when lack of resources, boundaries, and ethics stalled the progress of your hard work. But know, with his position, he can get you anything and everything you desire. You stayed with him at the worse days, now you get the reward.
Il Dottore, who despite being known as the Second of the Fatui Harbingers, whose name is feared in Teyvat, is still the same Akademiya Student! Zandik who's curiosity endless, and is still Boyfriend! Zandik who loves you more than ever, who is glad that he can return all the support you gave him years ago, who cannot see his life without you in it, who cannot think of having anyone else but you.
Boyfriend!Zandik who is already asking Pantalone about where to source the best gems, deciding that your finger deserves a ring.
A/N: Wrote this instead of studying for my spanish exam. It's 1:30 am and my exam is at 7:30 am but I don't care bro I'm dottore-pilled rn and this is all that's been in my head for weeks now. Between having 3 research papers and 6 essay to write, I need a Zandik who will help me gather sources 😔😔😔
i wonder if,,,, you'd ever do next door nighbor dilf!dottore..? :3
✶ ʾ ៹ 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑.
notes. dottore is not exactly the most father, but i do have a take that might suit him enough.. it’s lowkey inspired by a drabble i read on here BUT FOR THE LIFE OF ME I CANNOT FIND IT OR REMEMBER THE USER IM SO SORRY💔 if someone knows pls lmk so that i can credit them!
tw. small age gap, manipulation / corruption, virginity loss, dacryphilia, brat taming, praise, possessiveness, cockwarming, mentioned oral ( dottore receiving ), breeding kinda?
uncomfy or -18? dni! this is def not for you homeslice..
dottore x gn!reader.
dilf!dottore who is actually not even a traditional dilf, but you believe that he is. you’d seen the adorable eight year old that was practically the splitting image of him! no dna test needed at all ( literally ) — you truly wondered if the mother had even had a hand in the genetics..
dilf!dottore who moved next door to you to run an experiment of some kind in a domestic neighborhood in snezhnaya, wanting to investigate the suburban life that eluded him.. and he stumbles across a most interesting subject in the process.
dilf!dottore who opens the door ever so curiously by the second knock, finding none other than yourself — bundled up in your warmest furs to offer up a basket of baked goods as a welcome to.. the second of the fatui harbingers?? were your eyes deceiving you? he had a wife and kid this whole time?!
dilf!dottore who barely allowed you the chance to blurt out the plethora of questions floating around your head because his adorable ‘son’ was already taking the basket into his hands with a polite expression of thanks, gazing up at you with curious yet distant rubies. as if there was more to the story than he was allowed to give away.
dilf!dottore who chuckles softly at the ‘eagerness’ of his ‘son’, taking him into his arms after the basket is placed on the nearest table to properly speak with you. idle chatter about the neighborhood and yourself, which you answer a little too easily. you can’t help it — those big scarlet eyes were glued to you in a way that left everything tumbling out of your mouth, including the fact that you were very much employed, single and living on your own.
dilf!dottore that realizes he’s struck gold with this silly little project of his when he proposes the idea of coming over for tea — as a thank you for the welcome basket.. which slowly turns into weekly dinners, picking the kid up from school, babysitting whenever he had to spend more time on projects, and eventually.. the loss of your virginity.
dilf!dottore that couldn’t say no when you had clearly shown to want him so badly, reassuring that the kid was ‘with his mother’ and therefore making for the perfect time for him to take nice care of you.
dilf!dottore who was saccharine as he was cruel. he knew all the right places to touch, knew just how to get you unraveling so beautifully for him even when you worried you might not be able to give him the best sex due to not having tried it yourself until now. of course he couldn’t expect much, but that didn’t deter him in the slightest. he could teach you as well as he could ruin you from receiving the same pleasure from any other individual. that date you ranted to him about one day after work? you’re gonna forget all about them by the time he’s through with you.
dilf!dottore that is as selfish as he is generous. a father was a rather giving figure, he’d gathered, and he was capable of doing the same.. but he also wanted you to earn it. a good little thing should work for their reward — it would be all the better once that sweet release leaves you. but if you wanted to be disobedient in any way, well.. brats could easily be tamed and disciplined if they ever want to cum again.
dilf!dottore who makes sure to praise you when you behave so well for him. he wants you to know how good you feel all around his cock, gripping him like a vice, and how wonderful you look falling apart for him, and him alone.
dilf!dottore who loves the way your eyes gloss over when you’re positively overstimulated — whimpering and writhing all while he coos down at you in such a pitying way, but it’s making his dick twitch with excitement. you’re just so cute, crying for him so helplessly.. part of him wondered how you might look with his cock sliding in and out of your mouth one of these days — or just letting it sit in there while he got through his work for the week.
dilf!dottore that considers furthering this little side project by taking you as his spouse and producing a baby comprised of the both of you, rather than the segment posing as his son.
notes. hoo boy mb for the delay on this! i did not know how to do dilf dottie considering he yk.. did not have the best childhood, but i found a loophole so i hope this scratched the itch<3
tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3
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[Based on Sandrone's line about watching the Korolevskiy Troupe: "Count yourself lucky. Having private box seats is great until you're stuck sitting next to Dottore and Pantalone. I'd rather have bought my own."]
The Korolevskiy Troupe was popular among the Harbingers, with frequent and wonderful performances, and free entry for the Harbingers was the cherry on top. So it was only natural that Sandrone was dragged along by the other ladies to the theater to watch the Troupe every now and then, though she had to admit she enjoyed the performances. This time, Columbina poked and prodded at her until she agreed to accompany her to this specific performance, and despite Sandrone’s huffing, she wasn’t really annoyed until she stepped into the private box on the theater’s balcony and saw some seats were already occupied. Immediately, the Seventh felt a sense of irritation wash over her, as she could spot that stupid fluff of blue hair and curls of black and purple anywhere.
“Just great,” Sandrone muttered under her breath. There were only a few seats in this distinguished area, so she’d be forced to sit near them. But at the very least, there was a small space dividing the row to serve as a sort of aisle, so at least she didn’t need to be brushing arms with any of them. Pantalone and Dottore seemed to have already gotten there a bit before, their coats hanging to the side, along with… another one she didn’t recognize. Whatever. Since she had to be near those two, she might as well greet them and get it over with before they start something first.
“Pantalone. Dottore.” She came up from behind, heels clicking as Columbina languidly drifted behind her. “I didn’t expect you two to be attending-” Sandrone stopped mid-sentence when she realized it was not two, but three people in the private box seats. It was Dottore, then an unfamiliar person in the middle, and Pantalone to the end. Huh.
“Oh? Why, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” Pantalone’s smooth voice and fake smile and stupidly biased financial approvals drove Sandrone up the wall. You only blinked with a somewhat curious look.
“If it isn’t Sandrone. Ah, and is that Columbina too?” Dottore tilted his head to the other Harbinger, but she was less interested and only addressed them with a smile before heading to her seat. You remained quiet, hands in your lap, and that’s when she noticed Dottore’s hand running down your thigh, and Pantalone was similarly stroking your arm. So she already knew there were going to be even more annoyances during this show.
“Yes. We’re here to see today’s performance,” Sandrone replied, although her gaze was fixated on you, and Dottore picked up on her inquisitive look.
“I believe this is your first time meeting them,” Dottore motioned toward you, and you perked up with a small smile. “This is [Name], our…” He paused, as if wondering how to introduce you. You were his beloved, of course, but telling that to anyone would cause more problems than he wanted to deal with.
“Friend,” Pantalone finished the scholar’s sentence with a smile, faded purple eyes giving you two a certain, mischievous look. A smile curled onto your face due to how obvious it was that his words were probably a lie.
“Yes. We are all dear friends.” You nodded in affirmation while Dottore appeared equally as amused.
“… Oh really?” Sandrone wondered where the pair had even acquired you from, if you were just a toy for them. She wondered if you even knew the situation you were in: two Harbingers, and the most insane ones no less, to both of your sides, but you looked as relaxed as could be.
“Of course. Shouldn’t friends be allowed to have an outing every once in a while? You’re doing the same thing, are you not?” The tone Dottore took with her seemed slightly mocking.
“Naturally.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice, but she wasn’t about to dwell on his conversation anymore or let them get to her in the opera house. “Well then, the performance should be starting soon. I’ll take my leave.” However, her seat was just a bit farther away from where she was standing, much to her dismay. And then, despite her being on the opposite side of the booth with a small gap between you, the Ninth, and the Second and her, she could still hear small whispers flowing from her side.
“Are they going to be next to us the whole time?” You leaned in closer to Pantalone and softly whispered.
“I’m afraid so. Is there a problem, my dear?”
“No… I was just… hoping we could all be alone during this, like last time.” You smiled and shrugged your shoulders before pulling away. Pantalone let out a sigh.
“This is why we shouldn’t let Dottore handle the tickets. I told him to reserve the seats at the very top for more privacy.” Pantalone adjusted his glasses while Dottore clicked his tongue.
“Surely you’re not blaming this on me? It’s already rare enough that people join us up here. How could I anticipate Sandrone of all people would sit next to us?” He crossed his legs, hand still firmly planted on your thigh. “Besides, those seats may be private, but these offer a better view, in my opinion. Isn’t that what’s most important?”
“You’re not wrong. I also like watching from here,” you giggled as Dottore squeezed your thigh with a pleased hum.
“Well, there is nothing wrong with that. However, you could have at least booked all of the surrounding seats as well. Then, our darling would be more comfortable.” Pantalone was always good at talking around Dottore with a smile.
“Oh really, I am comfortable…” You tried pushing your two lovers back as they leaned in closer in front of you with a challenging gaze.
“Alright, Pantalone. Lesson learned.” Dottore relented as you nudged him with your shoulder. Sandrone kept her head facing the front, but from the corner of her eyes, she could see their hands dangling in the center of your lap, all brushing against each other.
“Do they even realize that I’m still here?!” Sandrone muttered under her breath and crossed her arms. She glanced at Columbina, and the Third had already turned her attention to the gallery below, her head and arms resting on the edge of the balcony, as if she was in another world. Either she didn’t hear, or just didn’t care. Sandrone let out a sigh and sank back in her seat. She would probably be the only one being tortured tonight…
—
Sandrone had finally settled in when the performance began. The theater had dimmed, placing most of the attention on the Korolevskiy Troupe, so your figures were slightly darker, thankfully. Unfortunately, from her past experiences, that was not the end of things. Because Dottore and Pantalone liked to talk, and now, you seemed to like to join in. Normally, you wouldn’t be bothering anyone, as you all sat by yourselves with no one near. But even though Sandrone was here, the other two Harbingers didn’t seem to particularly care about her comfort.
“It’s a far cry from how they treat art in Sumeru, isn’t it? The Akademiya would have never let something like this happen.” Dottore tapped his fingers against your leg and leaned in closer to you, a long lock of hair nearly tickling your face. He knew performances like these would be some of your favorite activities from what Snezhnaya had to offer. The Akademiya had suppressed your enjoyment of such things so long ago. That was why he made it a point to take you out to see them whenever you were feeling well enough.
“It is amazing. The stories they tell through songs are fascinating,” you marveled in agreement as there was a small break in the performance.
“They are, indeed. It’s no wonder the opera house is fully booked whenever the Troupe is performing.” Pantalone rubbed circles in the palm of your hand. “And all of the performances always have something worth dissecting.” Sandrone was well aware of that, because she had to constantly listen to them talk. “Even the most classic of plots, a love story, presents the basic question of how far you’re willing to go for that feeling in a compelling manner.”
“Then, do you have an answer to that question?”
“Of course. I imagine mine would be fairly similar to Dottore’s. But I would certainly be more smart about it than these characters in the story.” Dottore let out a sound of agreement.
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
“Won’t it be more interesting to wait and see the answer if that day comes?” Pantalone only gave you a closed-eyed smile as you rolled your eyes. But in reality, you already had a hunch, if it was anything similar to Dottore’s.
In the meantime, Sandrone rested her head in her palm tiredly, exhausted from sneaking glances of the three of you cuddling just across from her, while Columbina was zoned in on the performance.
—
Eventually, Sandrone managed to block the others out and properly focus on the opera. Well, for the most part. Dottore seemed keen on explaining what was happening while Pantalone kept poking in with his own thoughts or interpretations. Alright. Fine. Whatever. She could deal with it for a while longer.
But then the noises got a bit… stranger. You let out a sigh that was just a bit too high to be normal. Still, she ignored it. Perhaps that was a good thing, because otherwise she would have seen Pantalone shamelessly kissing you.
“D-Dottore, tell ‘Lone that the others are right over there!” You whispered-yelled, but it was largely muffled by the banker’s lips on yours. You were used to this behavior, but it was more embarrassing when others were sitting a distance away from you, even in the dark.
“I find his aptitude for taking risks quite thrilling. It might even draw my attention away from the performance.” Dottore’s tone was amused, and although he still looked at the stage, he was partially devoting some attention to you and Pantalone, his hand squeezing your waist.
“Hey… you can’t touch me there…” You softly whined as Pantalone’s hand ran over some spot of yours. It was then Sandrone balled her hands into her dress as she avoided looking to her side at all costs. In reality, it was just Pantalone’s cold rings gliding across your tummy to caress your softness, but here she was having to listen to his.
“Fine then,” you grumbled, embracing the warmth creeping up your body. You splayed your hand across Dottore’s chest, and he hissed as you looped your finger through the hole on his harness and pulled him closer. Pantalone seemed entertained at the sight as you turned to kiss Dottore now, cooing something in your ear, goading you two on.
Sandrone plugged her ears with her fingers after that. Opera be damned, she wasn’t about to sit through any of that any longer.
—
The opera had finished, the lights brightened, and people were beginning to shuffle out of the theater. You, Dottore, and Pantalone all looked quite relaxed and pleased. Sandrone could not feel more irritated.
“That was really good. Thank you both for taking and companying me.” All three of you had put on your coats, standing up to take your leave.
“It was our pleasure, darling.” Pantalone rested his hand on your back while Dottore insisted on wrapping a scarf around you, despite your protest.
“When can we come again?” You questioned as Dottore took your hand and guided you out of the booth.
“I believe they’re doing performances every week this month. Perhaps we can catch another one soon, depending on our schedules.” You squeezed the scholar’s hand in gratitude. “But for now, let us head back. I’m sure you need to rest.”
“Yes, that would be nice. And I think I need some more leisure time with my two best ‘friends.’ Don’t you two agree?” The chuckles from the other two men were all you needed to hear.
“It looks like they had a good time, Sandrone.” Columbina nodded towards the three leaving figures. “I did too. What about you?” Sandrone was still sat in her seat, eyes closed. “Hmm? What’s wrong, Sandrone? Did the opera make you sad again?” The Seventh groaned while the other lady remained oblivious.
Sandrone was not going to think about this ever again, for her own good. And she’s learned her lesson - she’s never, ever sitting next to any of you again, too.
synopsis: A well-deserved, quiet, and peaceful morning spent with Dottore and Pantalone.
includes: dottore + pantalone w/ gn! reader
notes: This is a commissioned work! Just sweet and gentle fluff and cuddles from Dottore and Pantalone in the morning! <3
As Harbingers of the Tsaritsa, they are expected to attend to their duties with the utmost dedication. They are expected to maintain a certain appearance among the lower agents, as representatives of her will. And being those chosen by Her Highness herself, they have successfully molded themselves into the role.
But the truth is that no one can pretend for that long. Behind closed doors, when no one is looking, the mask can dissipate. It does not matter how high or low ranking they are - in the end, they are awfully more human than they’d admit. That too applies to none other than the Second and the Ninth Harbingers of the Fatui.
Otherwise, why would they be snuggled into you on both of your sides?
It is an arrangement that no one is particularly privy to. The agents who witness Pantalone enter Dottore’s lab to evaluate the progress of his latest experiment do not question when he doesn’t leave until the next morning. The employees who notice Dottore set foot in Pantalone’s great mansion to discuss resources do not question when he starts his routine the next day, much later than usual. And most importantly, they dare not question you, the even greater oddity, the one who seems to be stuck between those two powerful men.
But that is a topic that does not need to be discussed right now. Not that you even had the energy to think too much about the intricacies of this relationship, when the warmth that infiltrated your body made you focused on staying as cozy as possible. However, it seemed that the bundles of heat began to shift around, causing puffs of cold air to hit you, much to your displeasure.
It meant that you would need to pull out all the stops to get this moment to last longer - something all three of you were used to.
It was you who had initially insisted on sleeping together. You couldn’t imagine how much quality sleep your two partners actually got. You could at least trust Pantalone to retire to bed, though it might not have been the most restful. Dottore was a different story altogether.
And so, that was when you made up your mind to throw both of them onto the bed, pull up the covers, turn off the lights, and get to cuddling and sleeping. It was met with amusement from Pantalone, who chuckled every time you had to claw his fellow Harbinger back to bed when he tried to slip away.
You were usually the one tucked in the middle, as both of your lovers wanted to have their hands on you in some way. Naturally, having you in between them was the most logical position, though it still sparked some jealousy from the other party, depending on whose chest you felt like snuggling into that night. You swore it prompted certain remarks, mainly from Pantalone to Dottore, but you were usually too sleepy to really make the words out.
But eventually, it had become something all three of you looked forward to, considering your busy schedules, or at least that’s what you liked to think. It was also part of the reason why you always tried to extend it as much as possible - this peace where both of them could relax - even after the sun had risen, even when you knew your partners had to return to work and their regular selves. Of course, they were the ones to disrupt the moment more often than you, who was more than content to stay in bed all day, which meant it was usually up to them to fully wake you up.
“Must you do this every time?” A muffled voice sounded from beyond the haze of your still sleepy mind.
“Hush, doctor. If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t entertain it.” Another voice responded, amused by the seemingly grumpiness of the other man. You could faintly make out his hand gently stroking the top of your head in accordance with his tone.
“Not all of us have the time to sit around idly.” Though Dottore’s words seemed harsh, his voice had lowered into a softer pitch, his hand reaching to wrap around your waist.
“Maybe idleness is what we need every now and then. At least, that is what this one desires. You wouldn’t deny them that, would you?” The scholar did not respond, save for the click of his tongue and tightening around you, although you were already pretty squished in between the two Harbingers. Not that you were complaining.
“However… it has been some time. Perhaps it’s time to wake up, my dear?” Pantalone’s fingers slid down, rubbing circles into your shoulders.
“I don’t know why you still ask them that. They only respond to… other means,” Dottore sighed before leaning in, his long blue curls brushing your cheek, the sensation soon followed by the press of his lips against your skin.
“It doesn’t hurt now, does it? [Name] is fond of our voices.” Still, Pantalone joined his co-worker in kissing you, his own lips falling on your neck, nearly tickling your ear, a surefire way to get you to twitch and drag your mind out of its sleep-ridden fog. It was in his teasing nature to chuckle as you slightly squirmed in his grip. “Come now, you can’t sleep forever.”
“And neither can we stay here forever. You do realize you’ve already delayed us by a few hours?” Dottore’s teeth were more of a wake-up call, the sharpness having already penetrated your skin quite a few times before. There were days when you woke up with your neck marked though with no memory of such a thing, but the lingering warmth from an empty bed quickly made you realize just what he got up to while you were still dozing. This time, however, it seemed that the softness of the morning was enough for him to be merciful, the nicking of his teeth just enough for your breath to hitch. “There we go.”
You were beginning to become aware of the two pairs of eyes that carefully observed you, though with underlying tenderness. The urge to squeeze your eyes and give them a rub, along with a much-needed yawn, was tempting, and yet in the back of your mind, you knew you couldn’t. You simply couldn’t give in on the first attempt.
“See? [Name] is doing it again. Pretending. This is what happens when you spoil them too much, banker,” Dottore huffed. His hand slipped under your shirt, resting above your heart that was beating quicker than usual, an easy sign of your current lies. You almost smiled at his complaint, knowing full well that he technically could just leave without you, but he was too endeared by you to do so.
“Oh doctor, don’t act as if you don’t do the same. The agents are always far more bewildered by the way you act around them,” Pantalone was quick to respond, knowing very well how his most intimidating co-worker changed around you. But you had the same effect on him as well, so he was not one to argue about it. “And this one knows it all too well. That is why they are free to pull this on you. Isn’t that right, darling?” Along with Pantalone’s questioning came a kiss to your collarbone, revealed by Dottore’s pulling.
A part of you itched to respond, but even if you did, you probably wouldn’t be able to get any proper words out amidst your giggles, sure to get a strict glare from Dottore. Regardless, you could just imagine the look he was giving your other partner, one comparable to whenever you teased the scholar.
“Still, it seems [Name] is awfully tired. Perhaps we should leave them to rest,” Pantalone mused, although his hidden intentions were clear as day to the other Harbinger.
“Correct. I’m sure they’ll come find us when they’re ready,” Dottore agreed. Just moments after, you heard more shifting as the warmth surrounding you truly began to disappear, replaced with you being snugly tucked in with the blankets. Peeking an eye open, your view was of Pantalone’s back, his arm reaching for his glasses, perched on the nightstand. If you let him hook the spectacles around his neck, it would mean the day would truly start.
It was as if he knew what you were going to do next - of course he did, considering the number of times this same song and dance happened already - which was why his movements seemed to be slowed and delayed, waiting for a certain someone to interrupt him.
“I’m up, I’m up!” No sooner did you quickly throw your arms around him, tightly securing them around his waist, earning a chuckle from Pantalone. “Come on,” you pulled at him, urging him to lie down once more, “just join me for a while longer now that I’m… actually awake! You wouldn’t want to spoil my morning, now would you?” Your lover smiled with delight, placing his hands over yours, already intending to give in to your demands.
“Why, the thought never crossed my mind. Though you should probably pay more attention to Dottore if you want your wish to be fulfilled,” Pantalone nudged you in the direction of your other partner. Loosening your grip and turning around, you saw that Dottore’s mask was already locked behind his ears. You did not hesitate to reach out and snatch it with a pout, setting it on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.
“You do not get to leave and disappear for the rest of the day just like that,” you declared, semi-scolding Dottore for his habits. The entertained trill from Pantalone, who had settled back under the sheets, and the sensation of your fingers slithering up his arm, was enough for Dottore’s eyes to flutter shut in resignation.
In the beginning, when this… engagement first began occurring, it was not so easy for you to get The Doctor to stay in bed. Often, you were left with a glum face as Pantalone rubbed you in comfort as the scholar left. As someone unfamiliar with such luxuries - in the emotional sense - perhaps adjusting to such behavior would not happen as quickly as you wanted, even after you had wormed your way into his closed-off heart.
But naturally, your patience was exceptional, otherwise, you wouldn’t have managed to deal with not one but two Fatui Harbingers. Of course, Pantalone’s silver tongue was helpful in coaxing your lover to spend just a few more minutes in bed, and that eventually led to you being able to get the scientist to cuddle with you just a bit longer. Still, feeling such a menacing man relax right under your fingertips, letting you tug him right back next to you in bed, was something you could never put into words.
And what’s more, having your two lovers lying next to you so closely once more was an even better feeling.
“See how nice things are when you listen to me?” You couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh as you stretched and made yourself comfy again, this time nuzzling into Dottore.
“Don’t get too cocky now. I can still wipe that smirk off your face,” the Harbinger claimed, though the tenderness with which he swiped at your lip told a different story.
“Mhm, sure.” The warmth retrieved from your lovers, especially with Pantalone’s chest pressed into your back, almost made you drowsy again, wanting nothing more than to sink right back into dreamland with your two lovers holding you.
Still, even you knew that these times were too good to last forever. You turned onto your back so that you could get a proper look at Pantalone and Dottore. One hand reached to caress the banker’s cheek, while the other stroked the scholar’s face, pulling both of them closer to you.
“And how did you two sleep?” You questioned while you basked in their gazes.
“Quite well. But that is usually how it goes when I have the pleasure of keeping you in my arms. If only Dottore weren’t so greedy, I would have you stay here far more often,” Pantalone tutted as he took hold of your palm and kissed it.
“That is rich coming from you,” Dottore intertwined his fingers with yours as he narrowed his eyes, “Dragging [Name] as your partner to all your countless events and gatherings. But regardless, it was… restful,” he admitted, which was an accomplishment considering that even when the blue-haired man slept, nightmares from the past sometimes lingered.
“I don’t see the issue. Someone has to show them off, and clearly, you aren’t very keen on it,” Pantalone was quick to comment on Dottore’s little remark. Yep, the banter meant that this morning was as perfect as the rest of the ones you spent with the two. If you let them be, they would have spiraled into a multitude of different topics that were sure to continue for a good few days, and you would rather keep the peace for now.
“Alright, alright, you both have my attention now,” you tittered, which was enough to get them to pause their disagreement.
“And you, my love? I suspect you also slept well, hmm?” Pantalone's silky hair drifted onto your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but curl the few purple locks between your fingers.
“Well, I usually sleep best with you two,” you hummed. “That’s why I’m always especially productive on days like these.”
“Productive, but the sun has long risen,” Dottore joined in, his two long bangs similarly tickling your neck.
“Well, isn’t it normal for me to want to steal some more of your time? Especially when both of you are cooped up in your offices all day?” You shrugged your shoulders as if it were common sense. “Besides, a rested mind is more important than a few hours!” You huffed as you poked Dottore’s cheek.
“[Name] does have a point. However, I think Dottore is more guilty of refusing to be pulled away from his work than I,” Pantalone replied, and while he did have a point, you swiftly pressed your finger against Dottore’s lips.
“Ahem, anyway, moving on to what I actually wanted to say… Considering that I am now fully awake, I believe that it’s best for you two to properly give me kisses now. You know, since I couldn’t really feel them before,” you said with confidence, looping your arms around both of your partners’ one.
“And then you’ll let us go, I presume?” Dottore, who had already surrendered to you since the beginning, asked. “If that’s the case, I suppose I won’t waste any more time.” The Harbinger thumbed the softness of your neck, the place he was automatically attracted to.
“It’s only fair since you two are going to leave me now. I’ve got to end my morning on a good note, don’t I?” Your eyes fluttered shut as Dottore sat up, hands squeezing at your sides to hoist you flush against his chest. Pantalone was not far behind, instead positioning himself at the front of you with his hand squeezing your thigh.
“A reasonable request,” the banker concurred. “Of course, I’m more than happy to do such a thing,” he leaned in closer, placing a seemingly innocent kiss on your forehead, “However, I do expect a… little something in return. I’m sure The Doctor would agree, no?” The scholar did not bother to respond to the other man’s deal-making, already buried into and lapping at your neck.
“Am I safe to assume you, too, would like some affection?” You were already familiar with how Pantalone operated - in the business sense, too - which somewhat transferred over to the relationship, though naturally it was never as damning as his actual contracts. “You know you don’t even need to ask,” you giggled, and of course, Dottore already knew that.
“You know me too well,” Pantalone smiled even wider, though this one was genuine, unlike the ones he gave to others. Before he could lean in again, Dottore swiftly captured your lips, sharp teeth pricking your lip with a satisfied sigh.
“Keep chattering, Regrator, and you’ll lose your time with them,” the researcher grinned as he tilted your chin, revealing the array of marks that were beginning to form on your neck.
“I thought you said you weren’t the greedy one?” Pantalone tsked before making his own move on you. “And please, do be more gentle with them.”
It was only natural that you three would make the most out of these last few moments before it was truly time to start the day…
—
Often, mornings are spent at Pantalone’s. Let’s just say that the grandness of Pantalone’s large room with some sunlight leaking in is more preferable for soft mornings rather than an underground lab. The perks that come with it are also agreeable - namely, the top-tier breakfast, which means you can force the scholar to get something in his stomach instead of rushing straight back to work. The Ninth is even kind enough to make sure foods from your home countries are served, because Dottore would scarcely admit his longing for them.
When you’re involved, it is one of the few times when their normal routines are disrupted. Before you, the mornings were dull, average, nothing to take note of. But your mere presence can change the course of those early hours quite a bit, meaning they always get out of bed at least a few minutes later than usual, longing to cling to you just for a moment more.
Pantalone is somewhat torn between letting you rest and waking you up for both a morning kiss and a goodbye kiss - what can he say - he is a man who is admittedly fond of those ‘welcome home, sweetheart’ and ‘have a good day, love’ kisses. You usually end up waking up from the rustling and sounds of him getting ready, though - whether Pantalone makes a bit more noise on purpose or not is debatable - but he always coos whenever you sleepily pepper his face with kisses before he sets out for the day. On days when he does not need to get up, however, Pantalone is quite content to pamper you. Specifically, he enjoys breakfast in bed, and you enjoy listening to him yap first thing in the morning, of course.
Dottore, on the other hand, is content to let you sleep; after all, he has enough love for you in his heart not to bother you at atrocious hours in the morning. Furthermore, the scholar is quite fond of your sleeping face, so defenseless around someone like him, and he still finds it fascinating. When Dottore lies next to you, it is what keeps his mind entertained throughout the hours that he doesn’t end up sleeping - stroking your cheek, playing with your fingers, placing his hand over your heart - all to see if your expression changes. On days when you manage to convince him to take a break and sleep in, he does not particularly have a plan either, but you are most likely the one spoiling him, with his head in your lap as you massage his scalp and read him some reports.
Warnings: Afab!reader, not gender neutral, master/servant dynamic, BIG age difference - yes, I'm talking about with the 85 year old Zandik, dubcon, noncon, coercion, vaginal fingering, edging, omega bullies the old man and reader, mentioned parental death/sickness, loss of virginity, segment shenanigans incoming
A/N: I'm essentially posting a backlog of everything I've worked on during my hiatus, don't mind me. lol Just some quick things to note!
1. The title for this actually comes from a commedia dell'arte play by the Italian playwright Carlo Goldoni, written in 1746. I don't think it will end up tying into this fic in any meaningful way, but the title seemed aptly appropriate for my schemes. lol
2. Although I do have a general plot progression in mind, this is largely free form so we're just kind of playing it hard and fast over here. Updates will come when they come but make no mistake, this is all really just a setup for me to be deeply horny on main. (so the usual)
⭐
The office is immaculate and well furnished, and you positively hate every inch of it.
Hands balling into tight fists down at your sides, you keep your head respectfully bowed and try to focus on what the Lord Harbinger is saying. It’s hard, though. Everything felt like it was spinning dizzily around you in all of its ostentatious polished glory, so much mora poured into but a single room that could have been used instead to feed the villages and outposts across Snezhnaya.
You felt sick. Completely out of your element here where the lavish was a bygone conclusion and your dirty, work-worn boots don’t fit the aesthetic of the drapes.
“Are you listening, dear?” Regrator drawls, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.
But even though the tone of voice still remained as pleasant as ever, you couldn’t quite shake the sense that he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have you standing before him like this. Not that you could really blame him. The wealthy so rarely had any reason to cohort directly with the poor, after all. You were as good as a stray mongrel that had wandered in off the streets without first having been invited to do so. An unwanted and unnecessary guest that he would sooner be rid of than anything else.
You didn’t have much left in the way of options, however, and you bravely gather your resolve as you lift your head just a fraction of an inch to steal a quick, split second peek at him. Handsome, but decidedly dangerous. Very much so. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could have realized that much at just a glance.
“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry if it didn’t seem like I was.”
Drawing a slow, calculated breath that makes his narrow shoulders subtly rise and then fall, Regrator pins you in place with a pityingly sardonic smile. “Well, I suppose I do have to give you credit for one thing. Your manners are quite agreeable, aren’t they? That is not always the case with someone who is so very … lowborn. And you even had the courage to come here just to entreat me directly. That makes two things, then.”
You stamp down the urge to squirm in place, trying very hard not to think about how inconsequential you felt standing there in front of the Lord Harbinger like that. It wasn’t just the expensive room with its expensive furniture, excess and frivolity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, shoved into every corner and on every shelf. It’s the way he watches you like a bug through a microscope.
Something to observe, not something to touch or make nice with, and certainly not something to invite to have a seat in one of the finely upholstered chairs that stand guard in front of his stately mahogany desk. There was no telling what you might have dragged in with you, what unsightly stains you might leave behind. So you continue to stand, and you don’t even dare to ask for anything more than that.
“With that being said,” he goes on; slow, thoughtful. Considering. “I have to admit I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to do with you. If it is a paycheck you need, then you should seek out one of the recruitment centers or intake officers, not me. Her Majesty is always happy to welcome young, plucky soldiers to her army’s ranks though. I’m sure you’d find much warmer reception there.”
As opposed to his frozen cold, bitter reception?
“My lord, I’ve already tried that. Many times, in fact. But they always tell me I’m not fit for service before they send me on my way again. The last man I spoke to said I wouldn’t even make good cannon fodder. Just a … another mouth for them to feed.”
“The medical division, then. Nurses are needed just as much as soldiers are.”
The sting of unshed tears creeps into your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You’d already humiliated yourself enough just by marching into the Northland Bank and demanding an audience with its owner, you really didn’t want to add dramatics on top of that. It’s hard though, so hard.
“I - I’m terrified of blood, sir. I can’t stand the sight of it. Honest. I’m lucky if I don’t pass out on the spot but then I run the risk of spitting up my lunch. I’m no good as a medic either.”
Softly clicking his tongue, Regrator tips his head ever so slightly to one side and vaguely purses his lips at you. “In that case, allow me to ask you again: what am I supposed to do with you when you have no talent, no strengths to offer? I’d like to remind you that nothing is free in this world and I cannot simply give you a salary for no services rendered. So, tell me. What are you going to give me in exchange?”
“… I’m not sure, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you think that’s something you should have considered before you came calling on me in my office?”
You flush hot at that, embarrassed by your tragic lack of foresight. But it was already much too late to remedy any of it, neither your uselessness nor the impulsive decision to come here, and you grope for an appropriate answer to the question. There had to be something.
“Forgive me, but … could you be in need of a maid, my lord? Someone to clean and tidy up for you, or - or perhaps to take care of other mundane tasks that are far beneath someone of your — impressive and noble bearing?”
That manages to earn you a scoff of a laugh as Regrator slowly shakes his head, looking almost rueful now.
“So you’re also well versed in the art of brown nosing too, I see.”
You’re almost startled to hear such crass language come out of his mouth, sounding all the more wrong in that dulcet, well cultured drawl of his.
But before either of you can make another move — you, to decide how you should respond to that unexpected drop of the mask and him, to dismiss you from his sight — the door to the office abruptly swings open with a sudden wrench.
“Pantalone!” The new man, this one utterly unknown to you, barks as he sweeps into the room, a whirlwind of dark, lifeless feathers that shudder at the slightest movement. “Did you approve my request for the research funding as I asked you to? I need to get started on the next phase soon. This is a highly time sensitive matter, you know.”
The door bangs shut behind him and, letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Regrator sedately leans back in his comfortable chair to glance up at the newcomer. Completely disengaging himself from the fact that you were still standing there, waiting for an answer, you can’t help but notice. Talk about awkward.
“Yes, I saw it. And I’m well aware just how impatient you are, Doctor. That really is a bad habit of yours, if you ask me. I always approve your projects before anyone else’s, don’t I?”
Grumbling a low sound, the man in the vaguely bird-like mask steps up next to you and then bypasses you completely, not even sparing you so much as a glance when he goes by. Much more interested in his bespectacled colleague sitting on the other side of the desk than he was in you, evidently.
And you got the sense that this was likely for the best.
“Then where is my mora, Pantalone? When might I expect it to reach my hand, hm? Today? In the next hour?”
“Relax. I’ve already got someone downstairs divvying up what you asked me for. Such large amounts can take time to procure and verify, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But really now, what’s got you in such a deplorable mood today? I very much doubt it has only to do with the funding.”
“No.” He bites out, through gnashing teeth by the sounds of it. Even you, someone who was not at all familiar with this person, could tell just from looking at his stiff back that he was indeed upset about something.
But somehow Regrator’s placcid guise remains steadily in place even when his acquaintance begins to slowly pace, back and forth, in front of the desk. Not at all unlike a caged animal.
“It’s that damn Columbina. Again! She’s been avoiding me lately, I’m sure of it. And we’d been having such a splendid time in each other's company too. I was even on my best behavior, if you can believe it.”
“I can’t.” Regrator helpfully supplies, even though he sounded to you just as unaffected by this information as he was by everything else. Amused, even.
Snorting a derisive laugh, the man starts to broaden the circumference of his pacing, refusing to stay confined to the area in front of the desk any longer. As if he simply couldn’t stand to remain in one spot while he relayed the full scope of his frustrations to the other man.
Rather surreptitiously, you start to back up and inch your way towards the door with every intention of making a silent, sneaky escape from the room.
“I really don’t get it, you know. One moment I’m giving her the tour of my lab and the next, poof. She’s disappeared. Spirited away, never to be seen again, except in fleeting glances while she haunts the corridors of the palace like a singing wraith. That seems to be all she ever does, don’t you think?”
At Regrator’s vague lilt of a hum, the man in the bird mask makes a sharp about-face and starts to retrace the wide half moon arc he’d already stomped.
“It really is ridiculous. I do nothing short of welcoming her in with open arms and this is the thanks I get.” He shakes his head, snorting a humorless laugh under his breath. “And don’t even get me started on that old, dying coot.”
“Now, Dottore,” the banker lightly admonishes. “That’s hardly a nice thing to say, is it?”
“Pah! Who cares for niceties when the topic is but a plain and simple truth? Death comes for every mortal, eventually, and that ancient relic is no exception. It is the one great equalizer in this world, after all. Ah, but I suppose not all of us have to worry about that, do we?”
You’re almost to the door now, your fingers itching with the overpowering urge to reach out and snatch the handle. It is only your curiosity at what was being discussed that makes you hesitate to take the chance while you have it, but you quickly come to regret that decision when this so-called Doctor aggressively turns on his heel again.
And this time he comes up short when he finds himself standing face to face with you. The noticeable jump of tension in his posture tells you he really hadn’t noticed you earlier, and your presence there in the office comes as something of a shock to him. Oh, you really should have gotten out of there instead of being nosy.
“And who is this?” He sharply emphasizes each individual word, punching the syllables out one by one as if they’ve personally wronged him.
“Mm? You’re still here? My dear, I thought you’d already left some time ago.”
You don’t think you believe that but you still find yourself growing uncomfortably warm under the Regrator’s archly inflected drawl. How embarrassing.
“I’m so sorry, my … my lords.” You stammer in a rush. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just trying to excuse myself without interrupting your conversation.”
As if to prove that, you snatch your arm out to grab blindly at the door handle. It swings open with your jerky tug and you move to step out into the lobby, but Dottore is quicker than you expect. His gloved hand flies up to smack against the finely crafted wood, slamming it shut again, and you give a startled yelp of surprise when you snag your fingers back as if you’d been scalded.
“Oh, but let’s not be so hasty,” he croons at you, all solicitation now. In the blink of an eye every bit of that simmering, bubbling temper from a moment ago is completely gone, as if a switch in him had been flipped, and your bone dry throat works a nervous swallow as you watch him politely fold his arms behind the small of his back. “Stay and chat for a moment, won’t you? And what is your name, little mouse?”
You tell him with no shortage of apprehension or difficulty when your vocal chords almost refuse to cooperate.
“I see. How interesting. I didn’t even notice you standing there. Has anyone ever told you that you are very good at going unnoticed and hiding in plain sight?”
“Uh - uhm …”
“Our dear guest was just on her way.” Pantalone cuts in then. And although his tone of voice still remains as pleasantly accommodating as ever, there is now the prick of a pointed barb somewhere just underneath the surface to put you on even higher alert. Was he displeased with you?
“Is that so?” His mouth tugging into a rather bemused smirk, the Doctor tips his head to one side, studying you from a slightly different angle. He does not look at all unlike a curious carrion bird in the execution of that gesture.
“Oh, but what a pity that is. We could have had coffee brought in. I must admit, I’m quite curious to know what brought you before my esteemed colleague today. Judging by your attire, I’d say … you must be a commoner, is that right? And not a very well off one, if I had to guess. Then what business could you possibly have with the owner of the Northland Bank, hm?”
“Dottore.”
Wide eyes flickering in Regrator’s direction, you expect to see a disapproving frown upon his face or a bothered crease between his brows. Instead, you find him still smiling from his spot behind the desk, looking only mildly uncertain of his friend’s game. How curious.
How frightening.
You snap your gaze back up at the Doctor. “It — it was nothing, really. Just … wishful thinking, is all. I only wanted to try my luck here but I guess that was silly of me.”
“With what?”
“Oh. Um, a job. Work that I might be able to do for the Lord Harbinger in exchange for a few mora. I thought maybe he’d need extra hands here at the bank, or … or something.”
“Or something.” The Doctor echoes you, sounding hardly impressed and yet not exactly disinterested in your pathetic little sob story either, prompting Regrator to quietly clear his throat.
“Seeing as the bank is currently fully staffed and I have no need at the present time for any sort of housekeeping personnel, I’m afraid I’ve had to decline her well intentioned offer. While it does pain me to say it, I have a feeling that our little guest doesn’t have much to offer from an employer's perspective.”
Your cheeks positively blaze, hot enough to fry an egg on. Of course you’d known coming here was likely the most foolish thing you could possibly do, well aware of your own shortcomings as you were, but to hear him say it out loud and in so many words? It feels like you could just whither away and die on the spot.
“I - I’m so — s - so sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for my impudence today. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll just - -“
You’re already halfway through the motion of reaching for the door again when the masked man standing next to you abruptly grabs at your elbow, pinching and squeezing to once again halt your escape. Jumping at the contact, you jerk your head down to disbelievingly take in his gloved hand on your person. You’re so perplexed by this confounding turn of events that you don’t even think to pull away when he starts to nudge you in the direction of the two chairs situated in front of the desk.
“Come, come. There’s no need for that now, is there? We are all adults, after all.” The Doctor cooes saccharinely. It was obvious he found something funny here but you couldn’t even begin to guess at what that might be or what it had to do with you as you stiffly let him pull you where he wants. It’s not as if you had much of a choice in the matter. “Surely something can be arranged if we just put our heads together and think. Three minds are always more effective than one when it comes to problem solving, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose so - -“
“Sit.” He commands, giving you a pointed shove in the direction of the nearest chair. The gravelly resonance in that one single word does more to convince you that it would be in your best interests to obey him than the insistence of his hands on you does, and you quickly drop into the indicated seat.
You’re admittedly glad for it, too, because you feel dangerously close to fainting dead away from fright as you nervously peer up at the Doctor. What did he want with you to make you stay like this? And were you even allowed to be sitting on any of the furniture in the first place? Something in the way Regrator not so idly taps his fingers against the mahogany grain of his desk leads you to believe that you were not.
How humiliating! You felt like a dog that was only being permitted to continue breaking the rules because there was company over, but that leniency would quickly disappear once you were alone with your master again.
“There. That’s much better, isn’t it? Try not to look so nervous though. I merely want to talk.” Looking really quite pleased with himself, the Doctor eases his body into the chair next to yours where he proceeds to get comfortable, crossing his legs and then resting his neatly folded hands atop the bend of his knee. “Well then, little mouse. Tell me. How old are you?”
You answer him truthfully, unsure why he would want to know, but it earns you a brief nod of approval all the same.
“Well, that’s not too bad, is it? In fact, I might dare to say that you’re in the prime of your life and you don’t even realize it. Have you any family?”
Something about that particular question strikes you as truly odd, and you shoot a helpless look at Regrator behind his desk. He is of absolutely no help to you though.
Evidently perfectly content to simply watch the scene unfold before him, he just sits there, smiling, alternating between rapping at the wood and fiddling with one of the rings on his right hand. He neither rushes to your rescue nor does he join in on his friend’s impromptu interrogation of you. An utterly neutral party, if you didn’t have your creeping suspicion to the contrary.
Turning back to the Doctor again, you sheepishly nod your head. “A mother and a father, but he’s … he hasn’t been home in nearly ten years. He was deployed with a regiment of Her Majesty’s forces to a foreign land when I was younger.”
Your answer seems to rouse Pantalone from his role of simple spectator, peering over at you now through the delicate lenses of his eyeglasses. “Deceased, then? Or …”
“Not to our knowledge. Not officially, anyway.”
“There’s no one else?” Dottore tacks on this time.
“No, my lord. It’s just us.”
“Then is a soldier's salary not enough to see two people sufficiently fed and clothed? If that is the case then we shall have to direct any further queries on this matter to Pantalone instead.” He says, grinning over at the man in question, who gives no indication of having even heard him, other than the faintest tightening of the muscles around his mouth.
It’s not hard to see that something about this situation is irritating him quite a bit. Whether that was you or his friend’s overly chatty persistence, you couldn’t be sure; but you self consciously rush to absolve him of any mistaken culpability before his mood can sour any further.
“No, t - that isn’t quite it. Truth be told, the payments we receive from the palace used to be more than enough to cover our living expenses but … recently my mother has taken ill and she can no longer do odd jobs here or there to supplement our income. Our savings lasted for a little while, and then all of the medicine and doctors visits quickly depleted whatever we had. That’s why I thought …”
“You thought?” The masked man presses when you hesitate to go on.
“Well, I — I guess my assumption was that working under one of Her Majesty’s Harbinger’s would earn me enough money to take care of her in her old age. Even if she doesn’t get better, I’d at least like her to be comfortable in her remaining time here. I need a reliable income for that, and plenty of it.”
The Doctor huffs an amused laugh under his breath, not even bothering to try and conceal it. “That’s very noble of you, isn’t it? The perfect, martyred daughter playing her role right to the last. They have a word for that, you know.”
You lift your head, curiosity once again getting the better of you. “They do?”
“Oh, yes. It’s called being a fool.”
Regrator heaves a quiet exhale at your startled jolt of surprise, giving his head a solemn shake now. “Dottore, that is no way to incline someone to your side when you plan on asking them for a fair exchange of services. I can guess at what you’re thinking, but … are you quite certain that it’s a good idea?”
“I don’t see why not. It sounds to me like she already has experience in caring for the sick and the elderly. It will just be replacing one with another. That seems like a reasonable trade off for a plenty sizable check, if you ask me.”
Slowly blinking away the sting of tears that have risen in the backs of your eyes, unbidden, you glance between the two of them with ever growing uncertainty. “What do you mean? Are you asking me to …”
Eagerly, the Doctor unfolds his legs and sits forward in his chair, leaning across to invade your space. You shirk back, frightened by his close proximity as much as the leering smirk you can see under the hooked beak of his featureless mask. But even then, even in the face of your skittish, nervous reaction, he remains ever undaunted in pursuit of his goal.
“That’s right. It might not be Pantalone pulling your purse strings, but if any old Harbinger would do then why not come work for me instead? I’ll certainly make it worth your while, little mouse. You see, I have an invalid of my own that needs tending to and I’m afraid I just don’t have the time or the patience to deal with it myself. In exchange, I will be happy to supply you with room and board, three meals a day and, of course, a hefty sum of mora to send back home to your mother. Doesn’t that sound perfectly agreeable to you? Hm?”
Sitting there in the exquisitely made wing backed chair that was singularly nicer than anything you’d ever owned in your life, you can hardly believe what it is you’re being offered. Surely your ears must have been playing tricks on you. It was too good to be true, and more than you had even dared to hope for when you’d set off on this ill begotten expedition to the Northland Bank. There had to be a catch though. Something he wasn’t telling you. Fortuitous luck like this didn’t come without its pitfalls, you knew that only all too well.
Your tongue darts out to nervously wet your lips as you search his blank mask for any signs that might point you in the right direction, to help you decide whether or not this was an insidious trap of some sort. It definitely felt like it was.
“That … is a very generous offer, my lord. Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve your kindness, but — may I ask a question first?”
He inclines his head rather graciously. “Go on.”
You steal another brief glance at Regrator, but it’s clear he still has no intention of bailing you out, leaving you to sink or to swim, so you press on. “I’d like to know a bit more about the job I would be doing, if I accepted your proposal. What would you expect of me? Is it … a parent of yours that needs taking care of?”
“Something like that.” Grumbling under his breath, the Doctor stands from his chair to resume his earlier pacing, but slower this time. An almost thoughtful gait to his step now. “Where to start? The, let’s say, patient in question is an eighty-four year old man with all of the usual problems one would expect at that age. Arthritic to the point of being half lame, he occasionally uses a wheelchair to get around although he isn’t quite to the point of being bed bound yet. Frankly, I hope it doesn’t ever come to that. He’s already cantankerous enough at the best of times.”
His boots thunking softly on the floorboards, he moves behind you and out of sight.
“And yet he expects us to see to his care just by virtue of our proximity to him. But as I’ve already said, I have other, far more important things to be doing with my time. Research to conduct, experiments to oversee. His soon to be palliative care is the least of my concern, yet he refuses to stop harping on and on about needing this or that at all hours of the day. If you should choose to accept this position then I would expect you to keep him preoccupied and out of our hair indefinitely. That means, little mouse, that you would have to be present and alert at a moment's notice. Any slacking off in these duties would result in very unfortunate consequences for you, indeed.”
You shudder faintly in your chair, effectively chilled to the bone by the total lack of regard or affection in which he speaks about this individual. He’d said it was something like a parent though, so you could only assume that they did not have a very good relationship. In truth, you almost felt bad for the old man without having even met him yet.
But then it hits you. The catch.
That sudden realization makes your stomach twist itself into a tight ball of knots as you spin around to peer back at the masked man, just as he comes up along the other side of you. It was hard to believe he’d ask something like this after you’d already told him about your own situation, your own circumstances.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but … I can’t leave my mother alone like that. I’m all she has. If I’m not there to take care of her no one else will and I’ll have done all this for nothing.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a raven inspecting a fresh corpse on the side of the road for signs of life. “And whatever is stopping you from hiring someone to see to her in your stead, silly girl?”
“I - I can’t afford that …”
“Ah, I see. You doubt the depths of my coffers, then, I take it?”
“Ahem.” Regrator cuts in at that moment, delicately clearing his throat of some imagined obstruction. “I believe that would be my coffers, Dottore, and you know full well that I at least like to be asked before you start making promises with my mora.”
The Doctor chuckles a faint sound of amusement in response. “Oh, don’t be like that, Pantalone. Can’t you see the poor thing is down on her luck and in need of our charitable assistance?”
“Yes, well,” the bespectacled man murmurs, shifting his attention to you now. “What my colleague is trying to say is that the question of whether or not something is affordable won’t be of any concern to you if you ultimately decide to work for him. You will be making more than enough to pay for a live-in nurse to move in at your home or to even relocate your mother into a permanent residence at one of the clinics if you would so wish it. To that end I have no problem giving you an advance payment so that you are able to make all the necessary arrangements prior to starting your work, if that is something you need to consider.”
“… really?”
“Yes, dear. Really.” Regrator says, holding back a laugh.
You just stare at him in utter disbelief for a painfully drawn out stretch of seconds before slowly glancing up at the Doctor again. It is not lost on you that something seems to have shifted between them inside this room. But he, too, appears to be completely serious and sincere. And try as you might to wrap your head around it you just don’t understand. Did this even really make any sense when you got right down to it?
“But — but why me? Why couldn’t you just as easily hire someone more qualified than I am to take care of your fath - -“
“That is not what he is.” Dottore cuts across you forcefully enough to make you snap your mouth shut. Then, more quietly, he says, “Not exactly, anyway.”
Breathing out a rather curt exhale, the Doctor moves to step around the back of your chair again, slowly dragging his gloved hand across the top of it this time as he goes by. “I do not expect you to truly get anything out of this explanation, but the fact of the matter is that the situation calls for the utmost discretion and secrecy. Although I cannot tell you the exact details of it right now, what I can say is that this matter concerns a Fatui Harbinger and is, therefore, a delicate topic indeed. We cannot have word of the comings and goings of Her Majesty’s forces leaking to the public.”
“It’s a point of security, my dear.” Regrator helpfully adds on. “You understand.”
You’re not so sure you do, but then the Doctor plops down in his abandoned seat and leans forward to brace his elbows upon his knees, clasped hands meeting between them. He looks … weary, you think. Like he’d already puzzled out every other possible avenue to resolve this issue as cleanly and neatly as possible only to come up regretfully short, time and time again. It makes you wonder, not for the first, what his relation could possibly be with this mysterious old man then, if he wouldn’t simply wipe his hands of it like he seemed to want.
“The problem, you see, is that hired nurses generally expect to go home at the end of the day,” he goes on. “Or eventually, at the very least. And they take information with them, intentionally or not. They talk and they gossip, letting things slip. But we can’t just sequester someone like that away from the rest of the world, because they would invariably have people looking for them. Either family or employers, coworkers. Someone who might start asking questions. If the tracks then lead any subsequent investigations directly to the doorstep of a Harbinger …”
The Doctor solemnly shakes his head, and you finally start to understand.
“So you figured I was your best bet because the only one who might question my whereabouts is my mother, and she’s …” You’re reluctant to say it, but he nods his agreement all the same. “I see. But it sounds like I won’t have much freedom of movement, if you’re that worried about possible leaks getting out. I am sorry, my lord, but I still don’t think I can take on this responsibility.”
“Not even if it could potentially save your mother’s life?”
You snap your head around to look over at Regrator who pins you in place with a not unkind smile.
“What?”
“Forgive me for butting in, it’s just … with the amount of mora you would be making from this position you could easily afford to hire the best physicians Snezhnaya has to offer. Sure, you might lose out on a couple of months with your mother, or even a year or two, depending on how the hands of fate choose to fall. But if she could be cured in that time then you would be free to enjoy each other's company in relative comfort once the job is completed.”
Your mind positively reels at this information. Was that truly possible? An equivalent trade of some of your time for more of hers? Did you even dare to believe it?
“I guess I didn’t really think of it like that, but … is the situation really that imperative, my lord? I - I mean, not to be rude, but is your fa - - your patient that much on borrowed time?”
The Doctor tilts his face towards you, sending you a look that is no less scathing despite the barrier of his mask standing in the way. “He will be eighty-five years old soon. What do you think? I can’t imagine he has all that many more years in him, although I suppose we would only be so lucky if he doesn’t stubbornly cling to life with everything he’s got.”
You’re more than a little aghast at how he speaks of this man, but even that is not enough to douse the flickering, hopeful flame that ignites in your heart. It wasn’t what you had set out to do, far from it, and yet you couldn’t conceive of a better outcome, especially when Regrator had been so quick to dismiss your entreaty of him.
It was, of course, hard to believe that this prickly individual in the bird mask would be your savior over the arguably polite, handsome banker, and yet that seems to be exactly how things have turned out for you. Even if it was only a slim chance at extending your mothers life, perhaps just long enough for you to find some closure for her regarding the disappearance of your father, you knew that this was an opportunity you couldn’t afford to pass up. And besides that, if the Doctor was half as unsympathetic towards the old man as he was when talking about him in front of a complete stranger, then you could only surmise that your presence might be the single source of kindness allotted to him in his final days. You weren’t making this decision because of that, but it is something you take into consideration.
“Alright, then,” you say at last, shocked at yourself for even considering going through with it. “I’m listening. How much are you going to pay me, so that I know what sort of arrangements to make for my mother? And when would you like me to start?”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dear mama,
Today, I met old man Zandik for the first time. He is quite the interesting character! I cannot tell you much of my current situation or my employer, of course, and I’m sure this and any future letters to you will be thoroughly inspected before delivery to ensure that nothing of import slips through. I don’t think this much should hurt anything though, or at least I hope it doesn’t.
But I don’t want you to worry about me or wonder how I’m doing, so I’ve decided it would be in both our best interests to send you periodic updates addressed to your room at the hospital while I’m away. I pray that this, the first of what is sure to be many letters, finds you well. Tell me, are the nurses being kind to you? Has there been any change at all in your health? I know you don’t like to be fussed over but please try not to give the staff there a hard time. They’re only trying to help you, just as I am doing my best to help you in whatever way that I can.
Once I am finished with this job I promise I’ll come get you and we’ll go on a nice, long trip together!
Oh, but let me tell you a little about old man Zandik. I suppose I should start calling him ‘Master’ now?
He turned out to be just as advanced in his later years as his associate claimed him to be and, strangely enough, this set any of my lingering doubts regarding his story to rest. I call the man I met at the Northland Bank an associate because … well, it’s a little hard to explain. Actually, I’m not quite sure I even understand it myself. This place is rather disconcerting in that regard, and sometimes it can be exceedingly difficult to make sense of the things I hear or see.
Luckily, though, Master Zandik is a very grounding presence in his own strange way. To some extent he feels more real than the one in the mask, despite the fact that he did not seem particularly happy to see me standing there with his associate. He even tried to send me away at first, which I am sure you can imagine came as quite the shock! I thought I might pass out right then and there from embarrassment, thinking that there had been some sort of mistake. But the other man insisted that everything was already in order for me to begin my duties and after stressing to him that the advanced payment had already been delivered (and spent!) Zandik reluctantly gave in. I’m not entirely sure what their relation is to cause so much tension between them, but we occupied the rest of the afternoon with him showing me around his laboratory and telling me all about the things inside it.
Yes, you read that right. A laboratory, mama! I’ve been employed in the service of a real scientist who works for Her Majesty, and who has accomplished quite a lot according to him. It is just as I told you, then, when I had to leave you at the hospital. So you see, there is nothing at all for you to fret about.
But back to Master Zandik. Although he certainly wasn’t happy with me in the beginning he warmed up quickly enough. Honestly, I think he was just happy to be shown an interest in his work and to spend time around someone other than himself. In another life he might even have been a teacher, a celebrated professor at an equally venerated university. He seemed to rather enjoy explaining things to me despite the fact that I could hardly keep up with much of what he said.
I suppose that, in a way, this was likely what the man in the mask meant when he said that he didn’t have time to take care of Master Zandik himself. The old man is sharp for his age and far more intelligent than I would have thought it possible for any one person to be, but he also seems a bit lonely. Restless in his advancing age. I’m not sure if my presence here or any amount of interest in his work will be enough to ward off the causal effects of his twilight years, but I’m certainly going to do my best. For your sake as much as his.
He isn’t nearly as sweet or kindhearted as you are, mama, but I think the two of you would get along splendidly. Something about him almost reminds me of papa. It would have been nice if I’d been able to take care of him in his old age, too. Perhaps, then, Master Zandik will be my temporary substitute in the meantime. I’ll get some good practice in, at least!
Oh, but I do miss you so. I hope you’ll write me back soon. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it’s a little unnerving being away from home like this. Sometimes I hear strange sounds off in the distance and Master Zandik does not like to let me far out of his sight, so I cannot even investigate the source to put my mind at ease. Her Majesty willing, it is nothing to worry about though.
Until next time,
With love
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It is undoubtedly something to worry about, you decide with no shortage of fast mounting apprehension.
In fact, there were a great many things you should be worried about and right at the top of that list was the identity of the mysterious masked person who seemed to come and go with all of the pomp and circumstance of a wandering specter. That strange noise you kept hearing didn’t even crack the top five.
It was alarming though, causing your blood pressure spike and your heart to race every time you caught it coming from somewhere not that far off in the distance. But you never seemed to get any closer to it no matter where you happened to be standing, nor could you pinpoint which direction it was coming from. And worst of all, Zandik did not seem to even notice it. If anything, your startled reactions appeared to bother him far more than anything else did.
“And what’s got you so spooked this time?” He grumbles, carefully setting his coffee cup down on its matching saucer with a faint clink from the delicate glass. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghoul passing by, if you ask me.”
You’re not so sure that’s an entirely inaccurate statement, all things considered, and you nervously turn away from your dusting to face him. “Do you really not hear it? What is that?”
“Hm?” Tilting his head slightly, Zandik carefully listens for a long moment. The two of you are in his library, perfectly still and silent save for the far off noise that has plagued you since you first arrived here.
It always sounded off at random intervals throughout the day with no rhyme or reason that you could discern, ensuring it always caught you unawares and ill prepared. Just yesterday you’d nearly dumped boiling water all down your front from jumping so hard at the unexpected shrill.
At length, he finally gives his head a shake. “I don’t hear anything. You’re imagining it.”
“I really don’t think I am.” You insist, but it’s weak and unsure. Not exactly convinced of your own convictions when this place was starting to make you feel crazy.
You’d been here for about a month now and for the most part the work wasn’t anything terrible. You liked Zandik well enough, even if he was occasionally short with you and not quite as easy to please as the letter you’d sent to your mother had implied. Sure, it was wrong to fib or stretch the truth, but you hadn’t wanted her to worry about you when she should have been worrying about herself.
For the most part you just kept the old man company. Waking him every morning, helping him get dressed and then handing him his cane, when he felt up for it, so you could accompany him down to the lab he so enjoyed dawdling in or, like today, the library. You take your meals together, sit and read together, when time permits, and enjoy the peaceful stillness of the eerily quiet, sprawling mansion together. Sometimes he snaps at you, pinches your thigh to get your attention or chides you for imagined slights against his person, but that was usually the worst of it.
The one in the bird mask was decidedly much worse and he often appeared without warning, materializing out of some dark nook or cranny to scare you half to death. Even if he were not inclined to such sneaking around, though, you were still likely to have found his presence there with you and the old man disconcerting.
Because you’d realized quite immediately upon being introduced to Zandik that something was not right here. They were very much alike, those two, with the same hair (although the older’s had started to thin and to dull in color) and their voices were very much the same as well (although the younger’s was more crisp and clear) but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what was off between them. At first you’d thought the masked one had simply lied to you, and they were in fact father and son despite what he’d said to the contrary. And yet …
Watching them interact gave you the impression that this wasn’t likely to be the correct answer either. They were almost like mirror images of one another, in a way, and Zandik was only marginally easier to deal with by simple virtue of the fact that he was reliant on you to take care of many everyday, mundane tasks for him. If he had been even half as spry and independent as his younger counterpart, you were sure you would have been in a world of trouble.
Anxiously twisting the feather duster in your hands now, you stand there and listen to the distant grating, gnashing, grinding sound that seems as if it is coming from everywhere and somehow nowhere all at once. It gave you the impression of metal biting into metal, tearing and ripping. Crushing. You couldn’t believe he didn’t hear that.
Eventually lifting his head again, Zandik now peers over at you with a scowl deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. “Is your imagination really that distracting? Those bookshelves aren’t going to dust themselves, you know.”
“It is not my imagination.” You argue, earning yourself a humorless scoff from him.
“Then what else could it be? My hearing hasn’t gotten that bad yet. If I can make out the scurrying of rats down in the cellar — and trust me, I most assuredly can — then surely I would also hear this mysterious noise you speak of.”
Grumbling something unkind under his breath, Zandik settles deeper into his chair before going on. “I don’t know where he found you at – some barren street corner, I would imagine. But I feel the need to once again voice my doubts concerning this arrangement. An empty headed, flighty little girl does not seem the best candidate for watching after an old man, if you want my opinion.”
“I am not a little girl.” You huff, taking great offense to that.
“Well, you certainly look like one to me.”
Cheeks growing warm, you have to bite your tongue to stop the impulse to argue any further with him. He was your employer, after all, and he also wasn’t necessarily wrong. To an eighty-four year old you probably did seem not much unlike a child to him. But that didn’t mean you appreciated being talked to like one, and for an uncomfortably long moment terse silence claims the room with only that horrible sound to fill the empty space.
And then, it stops.
As suddenly as it started, it recedes back into the void of nothingness and you slowly exhale your great relief. Watching you carefully, Zandik observes the way your shoulders gradually relax and how the tension drains out of your body before he similarly sighs a heavy, world weary breath out through his nose.
“Come here, silly girl. Let me see you. Don’t be frightened.”
Still clutching the feather duster, you heed his summons and obediently, albeit anxiously, step across the room to come up beside him.
He’d felt well enough today to forgo the wheelchair he sometimes needed to get around with when his arthritis was bothering him, relying on only his cane to help him shuffle down to the library with you in tow. As such, he is sitting in a comfortably cushioned, high backed chair in front of a cluttered desk littered with books and papers, a seemingly random pair of forceps and an empty beaker, an assortment of pens and inkwells scattered about the surface. You weren’t sure what he was working on, if he was working on anything at all and not simply wiling away the time. You probably wouldn’t have understood much of it even if you’d asked him, though. Zandik’s mind was something far beyond your scope of comprehension even in his old age.
Halting a respectful distance from the arm of his chair, you neatly fold your hands in front of you over the white apron that trails down your front. “Yes, Master?”
Saying nothing, Zandik reaches out to firmly grab hold of your fingers with his mouth pressed in a tight line. You give a small jolt, flushing rather profusely as he tugs, nudging you to step closer to him. The gesture isn’t exactly gentle but it’s not aggressive, either. Just — demanding. And maybe a bit condescending, the way he steers you into place as if you should have innately understood where he wanted you to be.
Evidently satisfied only when you can feel the bulk of the skirt pushing in on his chair, he releases you and lets his hand drop to the arm rest. Then he turns his attention towards the dusty old book spread open before him, disregarding you completely, and still without uttering so much as a single word in your direction.
To your surprise it looks like he’s going to ignore you now that you’re standing beside him, his attention fixed on the hefty tome. He neither says or indicates anything to signal what he wants, so you simply stand there, waiting and at attention.
Then you feel it.
That same hand almost inconspicuously touches the back of your knee, tickling you ever so faintly when he traces your stockings upward to then slip underneath the hem of your skirt. You go ramrod stiff, shuddering and breaking out into gooseflesh as you stamp down the urge to pull away from him. This was not a unique instance of him putting his hands on you, but you were no more used to it now than the first time it happened.
“W - what are you doing? Sir?”
Zandik clicks his tongue, still not even bothering to look up when he responds. “What does it look like I’m doing? Don’t be daft, girl.”
Pursing your lips, you stand there stiff as a board while he slowly works his way higher and higher up the back of your thigh. So grumpy.
You’d nearly whirled around and slapped him across the face the first time he’d done something like this, mere days after being introduced. At the onset you’d thought he was merely trying to scare you away, hoping to send you packing with complaints of harassment and unfavorable work conditions, but you’d assured yourself that you were made of tougher stuff than that.
He’d persisted though, even after a few weeks had gone by, and now you weren’t so sure that he wasn’t just taking advantage of his age and his position of authority to feel you up whenever the mood struck him.
Sometimes it was like this; touching your exposed legs where the housekeeping uniform given to you by the man in the mask didn’t reach down far enough to protect you from his wandering fingers. Other times he’d wait until you were close enough, leaning forward to set his coffee in front of him or picking up a book he’d asked to have taken away, to reach up and innocuously brush his knuckles across your chest. You didn’t like it one bit, but you always thought of your mother in these situations to remind yourself what was at stake here. For her sake, you would put up with just about anything.
But this time Zandik’s searching fingers are bolder than usual, evidently no longer content with simply touching the parts of you that could be misconstrued as innocent or accidental, if you chose to interpret them that way. This time, he brushes right over the top edge of your stockings, taking a moment to inspect the little metal clasps holding them in place before reaching higher still.
Your throat suddenly seems to be obstructed with something that feels very much like a boulder, lodged and unbudging, as he now feels along bare skin. His fingers are cold and bony, trembling ever so slightly from the effects of aging, not nerves. He’s perfectly confident, in fact, when he unhesitatingly finds the seam of your panties a moment later and proceeds to almost possessively curl those long, dexterous digits around the pudge of your quim to make you give a great jolt of surprise.
“M - master Zandik! What - -!”
“Oh, just hush, you idiot. I’m not hurting you, am I? Eh? No, I didn’t think so. Now stop looking at me like that and focus on this instead of those phantom noises you think you hear.”
“But … but …”
Swaying somewhat unsteadily there on your feet, you screw your eyes shut with a low whimper. You’d never had someone touch you like this before and you aren’t sure what to make of any of it.
On one hand, you try to reason with yourself, he was right in that he wasn’t causing you any harm. It didn’t hurt, at the very least. But on the other it was undoubtedly wrong for him to be helping himself to your body like this. Not only because you were employer and employee, master and servant, and this broke the unspoken understanding between those respective roles, your stations in life. But also because of the great difference in age.
He was old enough to be your grandfather, for crying out loud!
You feel more than a smidge bitter about that, and you silently curse him in your head while he nudges the hand between your legs with a deliberate motion that makes his fingers press up into you. The sensation of fleshy lips shifting under the pressure, forced to part for him, quickly has you sucking in a ragged breath that painfully rakes on the way down.
“W - what do you mean to do, sir?” You warble out, starting to squirm on your feet beside him. Impulsively, you reach behind you with one hand to try and shove the back of your dress down but it is simply no use. His arm remains as uncompromising as ever. “Is this really necessary? I’m s - sorry if I … displeased you.”
“Nonsense. You did nothing of the sort.” He grumbles, the brunt of his focus remaining on the book laid out on the desk while the gesture of his hand seems akin to a mere afterthought.
“Then why - -“
“Gods, girl. Do you ever stop asking questions? Ever since you came here you’ve been wound tighter than a jack spring, always jumping and scaring at the slightest noise. I’ll have you know that this is precisely why I tried to tell that bastard fool you weren’t needed here.” Snorting a derisive sound, Zandik reaches for the pen sitting next to the book with his right hand.
Leaving the other to busy between your legs, he jots down some notation or another that you can’t quite decipher when the insistent rubbing of his fingers was beginning to make you feel so very warm. Stuffy, and increasingly stifled.
“What’s done is already done though, and I suppose you’re here to stay.” He goes on, softening the tone of his voice by only some small margin. “The least you could do is let me tend to you a little bit without all this fuss. If it helps, you can try to think of it as being in exchange for always taking decent enough care of me. You do make a rather agreeable pot of coffee, I have to admit.”
Blinking back the sting of unshed tears from your eyes, you peer down at him in question but, still, he won’t look up at you.
Was this supposed to be some sort of reward then? His way of praising you for a month’s worth of hard work rendered, or perhaps as a misguided way of soothing your jittery nerves. That seemed rather backwards to you and you weren’t sure how that could possibly make any sense in his mind, but …
The growing warmth that slowly settles and spreads across your pussy is frustratingly persuasive. It fogs your brain, making it more and more difficult to think straight even as you somewhat awkwardly shift around on your heels, torn between skittering away from his attentions or nudging into it. In truth you hadn’t given much thought at all to the ways in which a man might someday touch you but this was far too wrong for you to reconcile any of it in your mind. He shouldn’t have been doing this to you.
And you certainly should not have been enjoying it. Not even a little bit.
And yet as the seconds continue to tick by, dutifully counted off by the stoic facade of the grandfather clock against the adjacent wall, that’s exactly how your body appears to be responding to him as well as his ministrations. With pleasure, and the eager, excessive slick of your youth. You can feel it gathering along the crease, steadily building up in abundance until it feels like it’s oozing out of you to stick to the cotton of your panties. Dampening, clinging, smearing wetly with every pass of his twitching fingers. Your cunt had never felt as terribly hot as it does now.
The sensation is overpowering and potent enough that when he finally gives his hand a deliberate twist, locating the outer edge of the gusset and rudely shoving the thin material aside, it very nearly comes as a relief. You can’t help but shudder though, whimpering at the cool brush of wafting air that caresses over your thoroughly swollen sex to make your posture waver.
Almost unconsciously you find yourself tipping forward, the weight of your upper body too much for your legs to support when your lower half was buzzing, tingling. Turning into molten honey that threatens to drip out onto the floor underneath you.
Without warning, Zandik’s wizened fingertips slip inside the tight space between flesh and cotton, where he proceeds to drag a harsh line through your weeping slit. You involuntarily jolt at the feeling, and when he chuckles a brief sound in the same heartbeat you can’t be sure if it’s in response to your reaction or the state of arousal he’s found you in. Perhaps it was even both.
“Interesting. Looks to me like you’re much more eager than you want to let on. Not exactly the pure, innocent maiden you’d have me believe you are, hm?”
You have a strong mind to correct him on that. To insist that it is only the precise expertise of his fingers and the keen application he applies to your cunt that has made such a mess of you, and not any fault of your own. But you can’t seem to manage it, having neither the oxygen nor the remaining mental capacity to follow through on the impulse. All you can do is stand there, softly panting, while his digits spear through delicate creases and satin inner folds in search of the hidden pearl at the apex of your slit.
And you know the exact moment he finds it just as well as he does, because you violently twitch so hard your legs almost give out on the spot. One of your hands blindly flies out to slam against the top of the desk in an attempt to restore your balance but it’s no use. Especially not when Zandik sets in to rub over that sensitive spot, drawing tight circles into the pulsing, pinprick nerve cluster. The motion of his hand was at once tender and demanding at the same time.
Entirely against your will, you let loose a low, faltering sound of rapidly budding ecstasy, unable to hold it back even if you’d tried. The fingers on your pussy give an excited little jump in response to the sound before attacking you with even greater fervor than before. That delicate button, swollen and tender, grinds under the pressure of his attention, dragging against the worn pads of his digits.
You felt like you were drunkenly spinning through a kaleidoscopic rush of sensation unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Inebriated and loopy, soaring higher and higher towards the culminative end of your own consciousness. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You felt like you were going to cry; great big, gasping sobs that would wrack you straight down to the bone. You were going to die here in this library. You were going to —
“Aah - aaugghhn! M - master Zandik!”
A harsh, ragged intake of air is all you manage after that rattling plea, feeling as if you were about to tip right over the precipice into some great, gaping maw of absolution.
But you don’t quite make it that far, hovering poised and shaking for the pin to drop when the door on the opposite side of the room abruptly wrenches open.
You hear an unwelcomingly familiar voice call out, “is this where you are?” and you wrench yourself upright so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Zandik, too, reacts with a startled little jerk, quickly withdrawing his hand from the inside of your panties just in time for the man in the bird mask to appear in the doorway. One or both of you must look guilty as hell, though, because he pauses there to consideringly observe the scene he’s just walked in on.
“Am I interrupting something?” He drawls at length, quiet and pointed with barbed wire.
“N - no, my lord. I was just — checking if master Zandik needed a refill on his coffee. That’s all.”
Heaving another terse exhale, the old man lifts his hand — the one that had just been between your legs, you realize with a great deal of mortified horror — to idly gesture the other inside. “A top off sounds just fine. What do you want? I hope you’re not bringing me another caretaker I didn’t want or ask for.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” The Doctor croons, the switch in him flipping just like that.
You find this aspect of him perhaps most disconcerting of all, and you gratefully turn away to retrieve the silver carafe you’d left sitting by the window when he moves to step through the door.
“Just because you haven’t realized it yet, that doesn’t mean you don’t need someone around who can fully devote all of their attention to your long list of needs. You are, after all, getting older with each and every passing day, Zandik. The aches and ailments are only going to continue to accumulate with time. I think you know that just as well as I do.”
“You have a working pair of hands, don’t you? Or is that mouth of yours the only thing that works?”
“It’s not my responsibility.” He volleys back, keeping his tone light and airy. Playful, almost, or so you might think if you didn’t already know him better than that.
Keeping your head down so as not to draw any unwanted attention to yourself, you cautiously make your way back over to Zandik’s side where you lean across his shoulder to refill the cup on the table. He’s back to ignoring your presence though, which is just fine with you, and you quickly skitter away when the Doctor steps up to the other side of the desk without giving you so much as a second glance. And thank Her Majesty for that small mercy!
Retreating back some distance to one of the tall bookshelves, you settle in to resume your earlier dusting. Or pretend to, anyway.
You’d picked up very early on that it was best to keep yourself busy and preoccupied while they had their discussions, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to stay well within earshot to listen. It was one of the good things about being able to make yourself so small and unobtrusive that you just sort of blended right in with the scenery, and likely why the Doctor had set his machinations on you that day in the bank. You were easy to overlook when he had far more important things to be dealing with.
“You say it’s not your responsibility.” Zandik finally grumbles, sounding as if he was still turning that statement over in his head. “As if you should even have the luxury of choice in the matter.”
“It’s not. It really isn’t.” The Doctor insists. “But let’s put that aside for now. I have some interesting news to share with you, if you’d like to know what that most impulsive segment of yours has been up to recently.”
Ever so slowly, you turn your head to better angle your ear towards the desk. Segments. You’d heard that word a few times now over the course of your stay here, but you had no idea what it meant or what it might refer to. You were curious though, and as always that curiosity of yours tended to get you into trouble. This was clearly not a conversation you should have been privy to, and yet here you were.
Perhaps thinking the exact same thing, Zandik uneasily shifts in his chair. “And what might that be? I trust it must be good if you went to the trouble of tracking me down.”
The Doctor says something about Sumeru, then, something that makes absolutely no sense to you. There’s an eager lilt in his voice when he talks about it though, calling it lost technology and forbidden research, unexpected breakthroughs. You find that a little odd, admittedly, because you were very much under the impression that he worked directly under the Tsaritsa. Why would she forbid something that one of her loyal subjects was working on?
Unless … it was not she who had forbidden it?
It’s hard to imagine that anyone or anything’s authority would trump that of Her Majesty’s. Even the other gods in neighboring nations seemed pale in comparison to her splendor, her heavy handed rule of law, but that seemed to be exactly what they were talking about.
Unfortunately the subject is changed too quickly for you to glean much of anything from it, moving away from those far more interesting tidbits to focus instead on minute details and data, probability statistics of success or failure, resource management and funding arrangements. It’s all very vague in your mind. Amorphous and shapeless without any basis of understanding to contextualize any of it. They may as well have been speaking a different language and it doesn’t take long for you to mentally tune them out in favor of revisiting that bizarre exchange with Zandik.
It was strange, wasn’t it, for him to overstep like that? Even by his own standards, that had been a bit much. And your pussy was still soaking wet with the evidence of his ambitious intents upon you, reminding you just how sticky and uncomfortably slick you were with every little shift of your body. Against your better judgments, you find that you ache terribly for the unfulfilled thrill of culmination that had been mercilessly ripped from you even as you silently rebuke it in the same breath.
You felt sick and slimy just thinking about him touching you as he had, angry at your own helplessness to do anything to stop it from happening. But you also couldn’t ignore the tight, wanting knot in your loins, the powerfully compelling urge to offer your cunt up to the perusal of his hands again. It had felt nice, you’re beyond ashamed to realize. Good, in a way that felt like it could all too easily become addicting if you weren’t careful.
Had Zandik been even just thirty years younger you probably would have been wrestling with quite the moral conundrum right now. He is not, though, and so your decision was an easy one to make. You just couldn’t afford to get involved with someone that many decades your senior and whose position in the social hierarchy far outclassed yours. Simply entertaining the notion was in itself craven and perverted.
But if he were to be the one who initiated it again … it’s not as if you could really tell your employer ‘no’, could you?
These contradictory and confusing thoughts whirl about inside your head over the next half hour or so while the two of them go back and forth over this or that and the other. They aren’t exactly on friendly terms, given the sharp barbs they regularly exchange between them, apparently unable to stop themselves from taking jabs at pride and ego. They were barely even cordial, in fact.
But whatever is bubbling beneath the surface does not reach its boiling point today, and your ears prick back into focus when you hear the Doctor start to make the usual indications that he was to take his leave.
You’re not sure if you should be happy about that or not, hand tightening on the useless feather duster you’d all but forgotten you were holding. You certainly had not used it for its intended purpose at any time since Zandik first called you to his side.
But between your nosy interest in their discussion and the dripping wet cunt between your legs, you’d been quite distracted from your duties. Now, however, you jump to get back to your dusting while you listen to heavy boots moving across the floor. A shuffling turn, a redistribution of weight, the purposeful thunk of a heel landing squarely on old wood with an accompanying low creak.
And then gloved hands are looping around you from behind, very nearly making you jump out of your skin when they anchor around your waist without warning. Heart lodging in your throat, you whip your head around to look back at the featureless mask hovering just over your shoulder.
“M - m - my lord?” You squeak in fright.
“How adorable. But don’t pretend to be surprised now, little mouse. I know full well that you were listening to our conversation with nothing short of rapt fascination, weren’t you?” The Doctor croons, clearly amused by that simple audacity rather than enraged by it like you otherwise might have thought him to be.
“You … you knew? But you kept talking anyway?”
“Why, of course. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do with this information, is there? The strict stipulations of our arrangement were made for a very good reason, you know. And besides … you’ve been standing in this exact spot the entire time, not doing much of anything that I would even begin to call productive. You weren’t exactly trying to hide it.”
You flinch at his pointed accusation, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat. The Doctor merely chuckles a faint sound at your reaction though, neither chiding you for your indiscretions or punishing you for them. He really couldn’t care about you eavesdropping, then. Clearly quite confident that you would find no easy way to leak what you’ve heard to the outside world for as long as you were trapped here inside this sprawling, resoundingly empty manor home.
Regrettably for you, he was likely correct about that.
“I’ll try to be sneakier about it next time.” You promise him, earning another quiet snort of amusement. “In the meantime, was there anything I could help you with, sir? Your hands …”
He gives your waist a tight squeeze at the reminder, blocky fingers digging deep into lovehandles for a brief moment to make you squirm. You couldn’t figure out what their fascination was with touching you so indecorously like this, and you whimper softly at the sharp little jabs of discomfort that spark through you.
The Doctor doesn’t release his hold though, not even when you nervously rock forward as if to slip out of his grasp and flee. His fingers are like iron manacles where they hold you to the spot, demanding compliance and promising to take it by force should you get any bright ideas about fighting him. Those hands were not unlike Zandik’s in that sense, but somehow even more ruthless. Unsympathetic.
“Ooh, don’t be like that. I just thought to check in on you, that’s all.” He coos when he leans closer, hunching over you now as if to swallow you up in a final, damning rustle of black bird feathers. “It’s just as I thought, though. You’ve taken to this assignment exceptionally well by the looks of things. I guess you really were the best candidate for the job after all.”
“T - … thank you for the compliment, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it. And there will be plenty more where that came from if you continue to meet my expectations of you.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, somehow sultry as the night and menacing as a bared-fang hiss at the same time, he goes on. “You’ve been taking awfully good care of that decrepit old wretch, haven’t you? And you have my immense thanks for that, of course. I do wonder though how I should show my appreciation for all of your hard work so far …”
With that vaguely ominous murmur, his hands slide low to deliberately smooth over your hips and across your thighs in a sudden rush of contact that makes you gasp. But there’s no time to stop it when everything happens much too fast for you to even comprehend that it’s happening at all.
One moment he’s taking big, wrenching handfuls of the skirt, gathering it in his fists, and the next he’s got the bulk of the material hiked up around your stomach. You jolt at the abrupt exposure of your lower half, head snapping down to watch the Doctor snake one arm around you and trap the material in place. This allows him to reach back down with the other where he’s now free to palm at your underwear in a too tight squeeze that has you twisting in his hold, biting your tongue to stop the yelp that tries to force its way out.
You couldn’t believe he would do this when Zandik was still sitting just behind the two of you at the desk. Was he insane?
“My, my, isn’t this an interesting discovery. Your panties are damp, little mouse. I wonder what could possibly be the cause of that.”
Turning your face away from him to fix upon the opposite wall instead, you blindly reach down and clamp your fingers around the wrist between your legs. But it’s no use. He’s as unbudging as a brick wall against you. Even trying to squeeze him out with your thighs doesn’t do you any good.
“S - stop that! Let go of me!” You hiss viciously under your breath, practically spitting at him like a viper.
“What, you’re not interested?” He laughs against your temple to send hot breath dancing across your skin, and you respond by trembling fiercely in his hold. “Well, that seems a little backwards if you ask me. Do you really think that old fool can give you something I can’t? Frankly, my dear, I’m not even sure if he can still get it up.”
You give him a sharp, incredulous look, nearly taking your own eye out on the pointy beak of his mask, but all he does is laugh in response.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re welcome to do whatever you want, within reason. I’m certainly not going to stop you, and far be it that I would try to prohibit the pursuit of scientific discovery if you’d like to find out for yourself. I’m just saying that the statistical odds aren’t exactly stacked in your favor. But on the off chance that he isn’t completely impotent … I can still promise you that I would take much better care of you than he ever could.”
As if in proof of that decree, the Doctor gives his probing hand a purposeful twist, snagging the edge of the fabric with the crook of his fingers. Without a single ounce of regard for how you might feel about it, he peels your underwear aside to once again expose your weeping slit to the cool air in the library. It makes you realize anew just how swollen and slick your pussy is, shaking with a plaintive arch of your spine as you seethe through your teeth.
Ever unconcerned with silly notions such as time or place, even potential audiences, Dottore delves two of those gloved digits inside the pudgy grip of your labia. He is nothing like Zandik in the way he paws at you now, ignoring your tingling clitoris entirely in favor of locating your dripping opening instead. And when he finds it easily enough by following the source of all that slippery discharge to its wellspring, he doesn’t even hesitate to thrust his fingers inside.
The sudden breach of your body, this unexpected penetration, has you frantically rising up on your tip toes in a desperate bid to escape it. You’re trapped in his arms though, with nowhere to run, and you frantically drop the feather duster to the sound of a dull clatter against the floor so you can slap that hand over your mouth instead. It takes everything you have not to shriek in distress and rising panic, the sting of fresh, salty tears making your vision blur.
It wasn’t just the stretch to your hitherto untested passage, the deep ache that it leaves in you. These things alone would have been more than enough to have you sobbing, lamenting your own ruin in this drafty place. But what truly makes your throat cinch shut, making it impossible to breathe, for your stomach to wrench so violently you think you might really faint dead away, is how readily your cunt accepts the violation.
You’re too wet, too puffy and swollen to keep him out, and the Doctor is able to freely impale you on those long, searching digits straight up to the second joint with hardly any effort at all to show for it. Zandik’s patient, coaxing caresses over that long stretch of minutes had done its job and done it exceptionally well. You sway in the Doctor’s hold, dizzy and reeling, as you throb around the intrusion, wheezing nauseatingly into your palm.
“Oh? What’s this now?”
Drawling a slow, reverberating chuckle, he starts to worm deeper into you, forcing your tight inner sleeve to accommodate his presence within. It’s an uncomfortably vice-like fit, to be sure, when your constricting passage squeezes around his fingers as if to strangle them. And yet that does absolutely nothing to daunt his tireless pursuit of reaching as far into your person as he can go, singlemindedly bullying your tender pussy open one malicious inch at a time.
Finally, he slides the rest of the way home with one last, insidious wriggle of those astute digits, a messy click sounding from your cunt when his knuckles press into you hard. The foreign sensation of being stuffed full like this nearly has your eyes rolling back in their sockets even as you awkwardly shift to lessen some of the pressure. It’s a futile endeavor, though. There’s no escaping his clutches like this, no way to lift yourself off of his hand when he has you stuck in place by your pussy. All you can manage is to stiffly writhe against him, the heels of your little buckled shoes shuffling a disoriented tempo against the floor in your desperate search for balance atop the spear of his fingers.
“You took that surprisingly well,” he murmurs, directly into your ear, so close that you can feel his coarse lips brushing the outer shell. It comes as a small, distant relief that he sounds so pleased with you, evidently satisfied by the reluctant acquiescence of your body. You could only hope that this meant he wouldn’t try to force you to bend any further than he already had.
“And you didn’t even scream either. Not that it would have done you any good though. I’m sure you understand perfectly well by now that no one will be coming to your rescue here, hm? But that’s just as well, darling mouse. I do so detest the sound of wailing.”
The Doctor’s sturdy frame shudders against yours when he issues another low, grinding laugh, chuckling into the side of your head. You blearily come out of your stupor now that what you think must be the worst of it has passed, alertness slowly returning to you as you stir within the confines of his arms. But the one around your waist merely tightens, keeping you securely fastened to him, while the other flexes with the tensing of musculature and chorded sinew.
In torturous slow motion, the fingers inside your trembling quim begin to retreat. Sliding out from the clinging grip of you one mind numbing fraction at a time until only the first joint remains wedged. Then he pushes back in, at that same staggered pace, gliding through the sticky mess along your guts until you’ve taken both of his first two fingers in their entirety again. The same wet, sloppy squelch as before punctuates the air, sounding unbearably loud in the otherwise still and silent library.
You almost curse yourself for even considering it right now, given your own predicament, and yet you can’t help but wonder what Zandik must be thinking. Listening to his younger counterpart — because that’s all you can think of him as — patiently working you open with his hand, the muffled gasps and whines that slip out from behind your cupped palm. The bow legged shuffle of your awkwardly splayed feet, its cause unmistakable. The tall tell sound of a drenched, terribly stuffed pussy being worked over, manipulated, and plucked to vibrating fever pitch.
Was he possibly even watching, having turned around in his chair to observe the spectacle that unfolds before him?
It was not so different from what he himself had already done to you, in truth, but the Doctor takes a much different approach in his defilement of your body. He is not nearly as doting in his methodology of playing with your cunt as the old man was, nor particularly gentle about the way he crooks his thrusting fingers and jabs at your upper wall, as if to reach all the way through you to come out at your bellybutton. He’s demanding and forceful, merciless. And you positively flood around his thrusting digits, quite against your will.
The same nearly suffocating pressure from before rapidly swells throughout your loins to leave them knotted and twisted, turning molten within the protective cradle of your internal organs. It feels like your cunt is melting all over again. Liquifying into a mess of warm, sticky mead. It leaves you soaring and panicked, drunk on the potent rush of endorphins that crashes over you and drowns you all at once. This time you really were going to —
“That’s it, little mouse. Ride my hand. Yesss, just like that. Chase your pleasure for me. There, there. That’s a good girl. Are you going to cum for me? Go on. Don’t be scared. You’ve already ruined my glove with the proof of your innocence, haven’t you? What harm could a bit more do?”
You struggle to make any sense at all of what it is he’s saying, whining a frantic sound in the back of your throat even as your hips pitifully jump in his palm. It’s impossible to think straight, just as it is impossible to breathe like this, but you still find yourself bobbing your head in agreement all the same. Whatever it was that awaited you on the other side, you knew you wanted it. Needed it. Craved it more than anything else right now when he had you wound so terribly tight.
But that suffocating blanket of relief was not meant to be yours, clearly, because the Doctor waits until you’re teetering right on the edge again before he cruelly rips his fingers away. Wailing behind your hand at the sudden loss, you twist and pathetically buck in his hold while your pussy sadly clenches around nothing. The empty void he’s left in you just makes you want it even more, practically out of your mind with a hitherto unknown ecstasy of the flesh.
He just doesn’t care though, merely laughing at your flagrant animal display as he carefully moves to withdraw his hand from your underwear. Realizing that he truly intends to leave you like this, worked up and wanting, has you gasping like a beached fish when you tilt your face down to look between your legs in shellshocked disbelief.
And the shimmering thread of gossamer slick that you find stretching between the rumpled edge of your panties and his glistening fingers promptly sends a fresh thrill of mortification though your system.
You really were melting.
“Ah, there’s a good pet.” He purrs, quite pleased with the show you’ve unintentionally put on for him. The bastard. “I think I rather like the face you make when you’re trying not to cry. It’s very becoming on you, if I do say so myself.”
The Doctor lifts his hand towards you then, aiming on a clear and steady trajectory right for the fingers you have clasped over your mouth. But you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him, squirming in an attempt to free yourself.
It does you no good, not any more than it did all the other times you’ve tried to reject what he’s doing to you, and after only a brief struggle of clashing wills he finally manages to yank your scrabbling palm away.
“Here you are. Open up, little mouse.” Murmuring soft condescensions at you, he nudges his sticky fingers at your mouth and persistently follows after you with them each time you try to twist away. “Don’t fuss now. Take your medicine like a big girl. It's doctor's orders. You understand.”
“Mmmn! N - no - -!”
You don’t get the chance to say anything more on the matter when the Doctor rudely shoves his digits past your lips, stuffing your mouth full and silencing any other protests you might have had. The taste of leather and oil, and your own cunt floods your tastebuds in an instant, and you squeal a harried sound around the intrusion but it’s already too late. His long fingers settle across your tongue, keeping your jaw wedged open around them to leave you with no other choice than to grudgingly suck him clean.
It’s hard not to feel humiliatingly infantile in that moment while you work your mouth around the intrusion, especially when your compliance earns you a masculine hum of approval from your assailant. But you don’t like it, not one bit, grimacing at the bitter taste of salt and other secretions even as you dutifully swallow it down. It’s not as if you could do much of anything else in this situation. Not when he has you clasped to the front of him with the reinforced steel of his forearm.
“There. Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel appropriately coddled now, dear? Certainly much better than whatever that old fossil did for you, I trust.”
You shoot him a sharp, grumpy scowl from the corner of your eye but the Doctor only snorts a bemused sound, finally pulling his fingers from your mouth once he’s deemed them to be thoroughly serviced.
“My, that’s quite the look, isn’t it? Although I suppose I can’t blame you for being a bit fussy with me, I feel I must warn you to make sure you’ve appropriately fixed your face by the time Pantalone stops by to pay you a visit. We wouldn’t want to rouse his concerns regarding your treatment here, now would we?”
Somehow that manages to pierce through the inebriated fog hanging over your head and, still harshly panting in the aftermath of your ordeal, you turn your face towards him in question. “Lord Regrator? He … he’s coming here?”
“Why, of course. This is one of his properties, after all.”
The unexpected bombshell of this information leaves you thoroughly floored, so much so that you don’t even think to yank yourself free when the Doctor loosens his hold on you. With an amicable pat to your hip, he finally lets you down to stand on your own two feet again before he pulls away, disengaging from your person. But not without a belittling smack to your ass that makes your cheeks blaze anew.
You’d simply assumed that this manor house belonged to Zandik or perhaps the Lord Harbinger himself. Both of them, even. The notion that this was in fact Regrator’s home hadn’t even crossed your mind. He’d said it was only one of them, though, so perhaps he didn’t frequent it all that often? That would at least explain why you hadn’t seen him even once over the last month.
Feeling a bit cowed now, you give a prim little sniff and set about smoothing your uniform out to the best of your ability. That bird-faced menace had wrinkled the dark skirt beyond repair, damn him.
But still, he lingers just over your shoulder even when you try very hard to ignore him, chuckling another low sound when you refuse to give him anymore of your attention.
“Don’t pout. That was only a simple demonstration, darling mouse, but I promise to play with you much more thoroughly next time. I’ll make sure to set aside enough time, just for you. Let's call it … a bonus, shall we? But do remember what I said, won’t you? Whatever that old coot can do for you, I can do so much better.”
Unable to help yourself, you snap another sharp look at him in warning, embarrassed and humiliated in equal measure. That it only earns you another sharp laugh for your trouble frustrates you a great deal, and you stand there stewing in your anger when he at last turns to leave with one last bark of amusement. The sound of his boots moving across the floor precedes the click of the door, the groan of old hinges and then the slam of it shutting behind him.
And finally you are enveloped in still, peaceful silence again.
Or would have been, had your stomach not been twisting itself into a thrumming ball of knots.
Cautiously slow, you peer over your shoulder to look back at the desk.
Sure enough you find Zandik’s hunched frame sitting right where you’d left him. He’d heard every last bit of it, then. Even if his hearing was not quite as keen as he’d claimed it to be, he was still sitting in much too close proximity to have missed any of it. Double damn that masked fiend! And you were quite certain he’d intentionally put on that little display just for Zandik’s benefit. You couldn’t even begin to guess at why he would do something like that, but it was becoming increasingly more obvious to you that the Doctor was nothing more than a selfish bully. It probably pleased him to no end to swoop in and steal something that he likely already suspected the old man wanted for himself.
And yet you still hesitate there in front of the crammed bookshelves for a long moment, wrestling with your indecision when you were so unsure how to proceed from here. A very real part of you wants to flee from this room, this house, the sprawling grounds outside and disappear into the snowy mountains, never to be seen again. Not once have you ever been so terribly stricken with shame in all of your life.
But the logical, rational part of your brain knew you couldn’t do that. Your mother needed the money and Zandik, too, needed your company. You couldn’t just leave him to the care of that horrible man even if you did wish that a hole would open up in the floor and swallow you into the bowels of the earth so you wouldn’t have to deal with this mess.
Desperately fumbling for your resolve, you finally make up your mind and start to inch your way over to Zandik’s chair. His attention remains steadfastly fixed upon the book in front of him, however, and as you get closer you can tell this is very much intentional on his part. He doesn’t want to look at you. Oh, how in the world were you possibly going to navigate this precarious situation now?
“M - Master Zandik?” You tentatively hedge, coming up alongside him on a nervous shuffle. “Is there anything I can get for you? Is your coffee still warm?”
He doesn’t respond beyond a mute shake of his head, looking so utterly crestfallen and dejected in his high backed chair that it tugs at your heartstrings something fierce. It was like the air had been let out of a balloon and he now sat, deflated, stewing in his own melancholy.
You feel immediately and irrevocably terrible, even though you had no idea why he would behave like this. Anger would have been understandable, perhaps even preferable. You could probably understand it a lot more than his currently despondent mood, anyway.
In all honesty, you hadn’t thought he cared all that much for you to begin with, the way he always treated you like nothing more than a proper nuisance. But you’d have to puzzle that out another day.
Scrambling for something appropriate to say in the present, you hear yourself impulsively blurt, “I’m sorry you had to listen to that. It was not my intention to …”
To, what? Be assaulted against your will? No, that wasn’t it. But what did you call it then? Was it disrespectful to him, that you’d been accosted by his associate without putting up more of a fight? Was that what he was upset about?
Or had it been a blow to his ego for him to sit there, listening, while the Doctor gleaned such explosive results from a similar perusal of your cunt? Dripping just as wet as before, and sore now, soaking into your panties with the proof of what the other man had done to you while you stood there next to Zandik begging for his acknowledgement.
You have absolutely no idea what to say or how to fix this, if it even could be fixed.
But, at length, he finally exhales a weary breath, inspiring a low flutter of hope in your guts as you watch him slowly sit up in his chair, the gesture stiff. Halting.
“It’s nothing for you to apologize for, stupid girl.” He grumbles, obviously unhappy. “This is just how things are, isn’t that right? The strong rule over the weak, and the young replace the old. I knew that, of course. But …”
The creased wrinkles along his brow deepen slightly when he frowns as if in thought. It’s not hard to see he’s pondering over some troublesome aspect of this situation, either his own feelings on the matter or the circumstances that had led to this end result, and you patiently wait there at his elbow for a conclusion to be reached.
You can’t even begin to guess at what he’ll say next, but somehow or another the very last thing you expect is, “It’s surprisingly frustrating, though. I wouldn’t have thought I’d still care about these things at this age.”
Your stomach pulls with a faint tug of uncertainty. “Sir?”
Giving his head another brief shake, Zandik allows himself to recline back against the cushioned support behind him where he finally sends you a sidelong glance.
“The feeling of being one upped. Bested. And by myself, no less. It seems that no matter how old I get or how much I think I’ve matured over time, a man’s pride remains a delicate thing. Even when I know I simply can’t compete on the same physical level anymore, it still manages to wound almost as much as admitting this to you does.”
You slowly blink at that. So that’s what this was about. And worse, it made a certain amount of sense that he should feel this way. You’d been given to him, promised to be his servant, only for that masked man to turn around and lay claim on you himself. Even if the logic was a bit backwards, seeing as you’d never agreed to your body being a part of the deal, you did understand it on some level.
“I see.” You say at last. “That way of thinking isn’t unfounded, I suppose. But … Master Zandik, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, it’s just. I really don’t think that this is something you should be concerned about.”
A mirthless laugh punches out of him, laced with the startings of his ire. “And why is that? Don’t try to coddle me, girl. I don’t need your sympathy or my ego fluffed. It is simply the way of the world.”
Flinching slightly, you almost find yourself backing down. He was getting short with you now, and you so hated to agitate him, but you foolishly decide to stand your ground on this. You had to.
“Master, that is just not true. Of course you’re not wrong to say that he is on a different level than you physically, but that’s not all there is to it. There are — other factors at play here. Things that you aren’t considering.”
Zandik scoffs an impatient sound. “Such as? Go on then. Tell me all about it, if you know so much.”
You quickly draw a purposeful breath to do just that, but the words immediately get stuck in your throat. Panic starts to set in. How were you possibly supposed to explain to him that he was the more agreeable choice — even despite his age and physical condition, even if he thought those things made him inferior to the Doctor — and you liked him better by simple virtue of the fact that he had not terrorized you as the masked man had?
Your cunt still throbbed with the lingering evidence of that, sore and achy in the aftermath of his rough treatment whereas Zandik’s almost affectionate petting had only left you craving more. If you were going to have your innocence stripped by anyone then you would have preferred it to be him.
But you couldn’t just say that! What would you look like, inviting an old man to touch you in that manner? And that was to say nothing of the fact that he was clearly just waiting to write off whatever you had to say as mere lip service? Something to mend his bruised pride and make him feel marginally better about himself, candy for a scraped knee. But unless you could actually figure out how to convince him of your sincerity it would never amount to anything of worth in his mind. Just pretty, placating words. The sympathy he already told you he didn’t want.
So, what was the solution?
The two of you stay like that for an uncomfortably long stretch of minutes, just looking at one another, while you frantically scramble for the answer to that exceedingly difficult question. Seeing the flustered uncertainty on your face, however, he eventually turns away with a gravelly sound of annoyance.
“As I thought. That will be all for now. Leave me to my work.”
Your knotted stomach plummets into the ground at your feet. “But, sir - -“
“I said leave me to it!”
Jolting at the harsh reprimand in his voice, you take a frightened little step back from him. He’d never hit you before, not in earnest anyway. You didn’t count the quick swats he’d sometimes give your hands if you were reaching for something you shouldn’t have been in the lab when you accompanied him down there. But seeing the old man this outraged, you aren’t so sure he won’t start.
And yet, in spite of it all, Zandik instead just shuts you out completely. With a singleminded focus, he sits up in his chair and leans over his book again, taking up his pen in the right hand. Ignoring you completely, as if you didn’t even exist anymore within the narrow stretch of his world. Just like it was when you’d first arrived here.
To say you’d simply stretched the truth in your letter would have been an understatement. It had taken you almost an entire week to get him to speak to you at all, and another after that before he would engage in anything even remotely resembling a friendly conversation. This was all wrong. You couldn’t go back to walking on eggshells after all that hard work you’d put in just to earn even a tiny sliver of his trust. That damned Doctor had thrown everything into disarray simply because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You had to think fast and you had to think smart.
There was only one thing that came to mind which might remedy this situation though, and you weren’t so sure it would work. You also weren’t convinced you had the stomach for it, especially after everything else your poor cunt had already endured today, but you at least had to try. You needed to show him you weren’t just saying things to protect his pride but that you really, truly meant it.
Your heartbeat slams a violent, pounding rhythm against your ribcage as you make your decision on a spur of the moment whim and slowly reach down to grab at the bulk of your housekeeping uniform, lifting the skirt up around your hips. Just that simple act makes your skin crawl, having never exposed yourself to anyone like this before. Not of your own volition, anyway, and you pointedly keep your chin tucked so you won’t have to look at him as you shuffle right back up into the space you just vacated a moment ago. Silent and hopeful as you present your cunt to him in offering.
At first he just continues to ignore you, the whole of his attention fixed on the birdlike scrawl he scratches out on the sheet of notes. Not for the first time you wonder what he’s working on but say nothing for fear that it would just come out a jumbled mess and further embarrass you when you were already internally withering.
All you can do now is wait for him to decide whether or not to acknowledge you, whether he would keep you or send you away. But you intrinsically understood that the only way you were going to get through to him was by showing Zandik that you weren’t simply coddling him with empty words.
And finally, after what feels like many lifetimes has crept by at a glacial pace, he finally brings his attention up with a particularly bothered sigh. Turning towards you at last, he impassively takes in the sight of you standing there with your panties flashed at him, the deeply frazzled look on your face and the death grip you’ve got on the hiked up skirt.
You’re not sure how you must look to him in that moment — like some tawdry trollop, if you had to take a guess — but he doesn’t move or say anything at all until, eventually, you start to self-consciously squirm under his piercing gaze.
“And what’s this, now?” He says in a clipped tone of voice, dropping his pen to the desk with a noisy clatter. His eyes remain locked on you, however, not dissimilar to those of a predator staring down a helpless prey animal, and you hope that this is a good sign. Maybe that meant he would actually listen to you now.
Yet you still can’t quite seem to find your voice, completely choked up by your own self conscious embarrassment, so you make do with simply nudging your pelvis forward to indicate what you want from him. But Zandik just narrows his eyes, glowering at you from behind the single lens of his monocle, as if he expected this to be some cruel, insidious trap.
“You want me to touch you, is that it? Well? Speak, girl, before I decide to put your mouth to better use than all that inane prattling you’re so prone to. You won’t shut up when I want you to but then you’re as silent as a crypt when I ask you a simple question.” He scoffs a rough sound and then, more gently, adds, “I would have thought you’ve had enough of other people’s hands on you for one day.”
Nervously biting your lip, you offer up a slow shake of your head. “I - it’s not that, Master Zandik. I just … it felt — better when you did it. So I thought you might want to … finish what you started earlier. That’s all.”
As far as appeals to pride and ego are concerned, it’s not a particularly clever one.
But something still shifts behind his eyes, something you have no name for and which you were very much unaccustomed to having directed at you. It looked like something akin to a distant flicker of heat though, the curlings of genuine interest making the dulled irises subtly light up from within.
Is this what it was like to have a man look at you with plainly unbridled lust, you wonder, even as he slowly reaches out for you with a silent gesture.
Your breath starts to come short again when his bony fingers slip into the space between your thighs, finding the gusset of your panties once more and pressing up into them. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat at the unmistakably dampened quality of the material while you tremble weakly at the contact.
For a tortuously long moment, Zandik just takes his time petting over you through that thin, flimsy barrier, coaxing your pussy into buzzing for him again. Testing if you were really telling the truth. And you were. His touch was so much more intentional, less impatient, than the Doctor’s, and it nearly bowls you over how quickly your arousal skyrockets back to full force under his watchful eye.
That probably wasn’t too terribly surprising though, you supposed, given that you’d already been denied the relief of absolution twice now. And yet that was precisely why you were so eager to reposition yourself back into his good graces again. You could have lied to yourself, convinced your heavy conscience that you were only doing this for his sake, to ensure melancholia didn’t take hold of an already sensitive constitution. But that would have been a boldfaced lie.
In truth it was your cunt urging you on, dictating your choices, and you rattle out a threadbare little moan when he eventually turns in his chair to better face you.
Using both hands now, Zandik pinches at the corners of your underwear and ever so gently tugs them down your thighs. One inch at a time they drag lower and lower, until the rumpled cotton finally meets the tops of your stockings. They can’t go any further than that with the garterbelt clasps in the way, but that is all he needs.
Shivering at the molten rush that sweeps over you, pussy hot and swollen, bared fully out in the open like this, you sway almost dizzily there on your feet. “Nngh, Master Zandik … please. Please touch me. J - just like you did before. Please?”
He faintly clicks his tongue even though he’s already half way through the motion of reaching up between your legs again. But this time his cool digits touch skin and slick pubic hair, applying just a small amount of pressure on your slit to make it part for him.
Only to immediately draw a sharp little breath. “No wonder your panties felt so wet. You’re positively soaked. I’m sure a nice, hard cock would just slip right in there, wouldn’t it? Is that what you want? Are you secretly hoping I’ll fuck you here and now, you stupid little girl?”
Equally aghast at his crass language and running hotter than ever before at the deeply felt response it inspires within your body, you tip your head back to groan up at the ceiling. “Oough. Don’t say that. Please. Don’t even think about it. That’s so … it’s …”
Zandik rumbles a low chuckle at that, more and more of his usual self assured confidence returning to him now as he nudges further up into the fleshy grip of your labia. “What else am I supposed to think about when I’ve got such a fresh, lovely young thing offering herself up to me like this? Even an old man’s cock still works, you know.”
You can’t help the way you whimper at the thought of it, positively gushing against his worn fingertips when they locate your clit and set in to rub. The glide is perfectly smooth and lubricated, and that delicate pearl simply pulses under his steady attention.
Your hands shake as you hike your skirt up a bit higher, jutting your pelvis further into that mind numbing source of pressure. It really does feel good, so much better than whatever that selfish Doctor had forced you to endure. This was something else entirely, and it has your vision blurring around the edges while you try to find your bearings and orient yourself again, bracing squarely on your heels.
It’s an effort in futility though. Just like before, the surging tide of pleasure rushes up to swallow you and it sweeps you off your feet, pulling you under the current. Your head swims and your chest tightens. Knees wobbling faintly in their locked positions. It’s too much and, somehow, not enough at the same time. You could almost sob from how intensely your pussy thrums with the static electricity of your oncoming release, every single nerve ending in you vibrating at a hitherto unheard of frequency.
And to think, it was all because of a man who was old enough to be your grandfather.
“Zuh - Zandik! Master, I … ooughh, I’m so — so …!”
“Then let it go. You’ve already got my fingers soaked, a bit more won’t hurt anything. Don’t over think it. Yes, that’s right. Just keep pressing that sweet little cunt into my hand, now. Just like that.”
You can do nothing else, in fact, eagerly rolling your hips into the motion now. The building tension within you abruptly doubles, then triples, and you screw your eyes shut when pulsing starbursts flash across your vision to effectively blind you. Letting out a faltering mewl of pleasure, you readily give yourself over fully to that hot, throbbing warmth that emanates out from your core. You can feel everything. The nudge of your pudgy labia moving with his hand. The excess slick that oozes and drips out of you. The fleshy, swollen bud of your clit rolling, rolling, rolling under his fingertips.
And you finally cum, the thread snapping so suddenly, almost violently, that you jerk in place. A strange keening noise rattles out of you as you shake into your orgasm, pelvis stuttering while he continues to rub, rub, rub. You have no choice but to ride it to completion and you weakly shudder through the spasms, struggling to remain upright and erect. That’s an exceedingly difficult task, however, when it felt like the whole world was being flipped upside down on its head around you.
Finally wheezing a haggard, utterly spent moan into the static charged air of the quiet library, you abruptly slam back into your own body a small eternity later. The unexpectedness of it staggers you, damn near knocks you on your ass, and you stumble back half a step as if in shock.
The new distance separates Zandik’s hand from your still squeezing cunt, and he consideringly peers up at you while you try to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Not that you’d allowed it or that the sensation had left you soaring somewhere far outside your own mind high above the stratosphere. It was, in many ways, inconceivable.
“Oh … oh, blessed mother.” You finally croak, once you’ve managed to find some semblance of your voice again. “That was — interesting, wasn’t it?”
Zandik barks a sharp, not entirely humorless laugh. “Is that what you call it then? Just interesting?”
Wheezing out a long, grounding exhale, you shoot him a somewhat surreptitious look as you tiredly drop your arms, allowing your skirt to fall back into place. “Were you expecting something else?”
“Perhaps. I might have liked to hear how utterly amazing it was, or how skillful my technique is.”
“You just wanted to be praised, didn’t you?”
“Every man wants to be praised, girl. It would do you well to remember that in the future.”
You realize then, glancing down at him sitting there, looking like he was quite pleased with himself, that he was having a bit of fun with it. Teasing you in a way you’d never experienced before. Not from him, at any rate, and you allow yourself a soft, thoroughly satiated laugh as you tiredly reach to tug your panties back up.
“I’ll admit, it was awfully nice. I didn’t know my body could feel like that, especially after … w - well, that’s not really important.”
“It’s alright.” Zandik tells you, surprisingly soft. “I cannot take back what he did to you while I was incapable of doing anything to stop it, but I can try to make it a little better for you. That was your first orgasm, wasn’t it?”
The shock of that question must be written across your face in broad sweeping brush strokes, because he gives his head a slow, almost disappointed shake.
“It didn’t occur to me at first that that might be the case. But I figured it out shortly after you held up your dress for me. It just didn’t make sense for anyone who is at all familiar with the erogenous functions of their body to behave the way that you were. As if you wanted it but didn’t know how to ask for it, or even what you should be asking for.”
Putting his head to one side — one of a few different gestures he seemed to share with the Doctor — Zandik studies you from that new angle for a drawn out moment.
“Come here, girl. And no tricks this time, I give you my word.”
Hesitantly heeding his summons, you step up next to his chair again on wobbly legs. A distant note of surprise quickly washes over you when he reaches up to slide his hand along the curve of your waist, pulling you in against him until you realize what he’s doing. You put up a cursory amount of resistance then, insisting again and again that you were too big, too grown, to sit on his lap when he tries to tug you down. But in the end Zandik wins out, his stubbornness exceeding even yours, and you finally let him drag you onto his thigh.
Your reluctant compliance does absolutely nothing to steady your nerves, though, and you squeak a tiny sound as you come to settle in place against him. “M - Master Zandik? Surely I am much too heavy to be on top of you like this! What will I do if I accidentally hurt you?”
“Nonsense. You’re much too self conscious for my liking. We’ll have to work on that. But for now,” sighing rather softly, contently, almost, he leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Looking for all the world like he was settling in for a much needed nap. Honestly, you could have used one of those yourself.
“Just sit and enjoy the quiet for a moment, won’t you? Do some self reflecting on how you feel or meditate, or do nothing at all. I don’t really care either way. Just … be silent with me.”
You would have jumped at the chance in almost any other situation, under any other circumstances, but a doubtful niggling at the back of your mind makes that nearly impossible. Even in the hazy warmth of afterglow you’re almost too antsy to sit still. Because even despite having never taken part in such activities before, at least not until today, you’d certainly heard whisperings about it. You were not that naive as to have completely missed out on the way both women and men alike often talked about sex.
It was usually the other way around, wasn’t it? Or at least that had been your impression up til’ now. That men tended to lean towards being selfish and they rarely concerned themselves with the pleasure of their partners. That they were demanding and only sought their own release before rolling over and going to sleep without a second thought to anything else. It was in part why you’d avoided being courted by anyone, for fear of being on the receiving end of such impartial advances.
And while Zandik certainly looked as if he was starting to doze off, it seemed that this was a bit out of order from how you’d been told it would be.
Unable to keep your concerns at bay any longer, you give in to the urge and ever so carefully fidget atop his lap. “But, Master … what about you? Should I not be seeing to your needs as well?”
His eyes do not open but the pale line of his brow does draw in, knitting and deepening the wrinkles on his forehead slightly. “No need for that. Not at the moment, at any rate.”
You sneak a quick peak down at the front of his pants to briefly study the weakening tent there. It looked like he’d been right, and even an old man’s cock still worked under the right conditions, and the Doctor had been wrong. If you were only brave enough — or stupid enough — you might have liked to rub that in his stupid, smug face.
“Is this really okay though? Are you sure?”
“Gods, girl! You don’t know how to just let things rest, do you?” Zandik snaps alert again to turn a narrow eyed scowl your way. Back to his usual grumpy self, it seemed. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were fishing for it. Is that it? Do you actually want me to fuck you sensless, right here and now?”
He barks a mirthless snort at your startled expression of plain faced shock.
“As I thought. Then unless you want me to change my mind I’d suggest you learn to let sleeping dogs lie.” Exhaling a deeply ruffled breath, he tips his head back to regard the ceiling as if in deep contemplation. “You’ve already made it clear you have no desire to go that far with me, and I can hardly say I blame you for that. I’m also not physically equipped to make you do something you don’t want to. Not with this old body, at any rate. So I won’t even try.”
“But,” you stubbornly take another jab at it, feeling that you would be remiss if you didn’t at least make an effort to better understand him. It was odd for him to seek out this sort of prolonged physical contact with you anyway, and yet he didn’t want anything from you in return while doing it? That just doesn’t make any sense. “You could just order me to do whatever you want. Why won’t you?”
Zandik huffs a quiet laugh. “And what would the fun be in that, huh?”
A strange little flutter starts up in your chest but you’re quick to suppress it, shoving it back down into some vault in the back of your head where you can lock it up and throw away the key. That was a dangerous possibility threatening to open up before you. It wouldn’t do to let this situation spiral any further out of control, if you could help it, especially when you were already toeing the line of indecency like this.
No. No, you’d have to remain steadfast for as long as you were in the thick of it dealing with this situation.
As if it had been cued to do so, the grandfather clock along the opposite wall abruptly chimes then, disrupting the resounding quiet with such an earth shattering explosion that you jolt right up out of his lap.
“Oh!” You blurt, flushing hotly when Zandik sends you a flat look as if to say ‘see? always so damn jumpy’. Like you hadn’t already embarrassed yourself enough for one day. “I - it’s lunchtime already? How time flies! I didn’t even … didn’t even notice how late it was getting. I’ll go start on something right away!”
Ignoring his very unimpressed frown, you pivot on your heel and hurry over to the window side to grab up the coffee carafe on your way out. You knew he would want a fresh pot to go with whatever luncheon sandwich or savory soup you prepared for him that day, and you were admittedly quite glad for the chance to beat a hasty retreat from this room. It was inexplicably stuffy and fogged with something unspeakable. Something you didn’t even dare to dwell on.
Stepping up to the little table at the corner of the windowsill, your hand reaches out to loop around the silver handle and you start to turn away. But a suggestion of movement at the edge of your peripheral makes you hesitate, head turning, as you glance out the window and down at the yard below.
Where you proceed to watch someone unknown to you — a young man, by the looks of it— as he walks away from the side of the house to step around a snow covered bush before he disappears from sight.
Your hand immediately starts to shake with the terrified tremor that works up your arm, vibrating so badly you almost drop the carafe to an ear splitting crash against the floor.
He’d had his back to you so hadn’t gotten a good look at the face, but the hair …
It had been the exact same, wispy shade of pale blue that Zandik’s and the Doctor’s was.
⭐
Crossposted: here
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