ℭ𝔞𝔢𝔩𝔲𝔫𝔢☪︎ ִ ֶ֢࣪⋆

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The door slid shut with a quiet, unhurried click, leaving you alone in the silence of the laboratory. 

He was gone by the time your head cleared enough to notice.

Not far, probably, you could hear him somewhere beyond the door, the familiar clatter of instruments being set down with more force than necessary, but gone all the same, and the space beside you felt colder for it in a way the room's actual temperature didn't explain. You lay there for a long moment, piecing the night back together through a haze that hadn't fully lifted, and the longer you lay there, the more the shape of what had happened started to sour.

He hadn't stayed. He hadn't said anything before he left, no reassurance, no explanation, not even the clinical detachment you'd almost have preferred to silence. Just gone, the way a man leaves a room once he's finished with whatever brought him into it.

You told yourself, at first, that you were imagining the worst of it. That exhaustion and the last traces of whatever fog still clung to your thoughts were doing the doubting for you. But the thought, once it took root, wouldn't leave: had this been another experiment? Another variable catalogued and closed out, no different in kind from the nuts, the notebook, the months of quiet observation, except this time the data had been you, laid bare, and he'd gotten what he needed and walked away the moment the study concluded.

It was, you realized with a kind of hollow, humiliated clarity, exactly the kind of thing you should have expected from him from the very beginning. You'd simply let yourself forget, somewhere between the shiny trinkets and the dish of nuts and the way he'd said something considerably less efficient like it cost him something, that efficiency had always, eventually, won out with him before.

You didn't cry. You'd promised yourself a long time ago, somewhere around the twentieth escape attempt, that you wouldn't give him that particular satisfaction. But you lay there a long while, staring at a ceiling that had seen every version of you the lab had ever produced, and let yourself feel, fully, how much it hurt to have been so wrong about how far this had actually gone.

You saw him again the next morning, and somehow that was worse than not seeing him at all.

He was at his desk when you came in, exactly as he always was, sleeves rolled, a stack of reports already sorted and waiting for you the way they had been every morning for months. He glanced up when the door opened, and for one unbearable second you thought, hoped, some small traitorous part of you admitted  that something in his face might acknowledge what had happened.

"You're late," he said, and returned to his notes.

That was all. No mention of the night before. No hesitation, no awkwardness, nothing to suggest anything between you had shifted at all, just the same clipped efficiency he'd greeted you with a hundred mornings before this one, as though your body under his hands, the sound he'd made when you'd finally stopped resisting, the fog he'd left you in afterward, had simply been filed away with everything else and closed.

He gestured, without looking up, toward the edge of the desk. "Reports need sorting by priority. And—" a small, careless nod toward the familiar dish, set out in its familiar place, "I had more of the ones you prefer brought up."

The mixed nuts. Sitting there exactly as they always did, exactly as they had for months, an offering that had once felt like the closest thing to tenderness he was capable of giving you.

You stared at the dish like it had personally wronged you.

It took everything you had not to sweep it off the desk. Because you understood, all at once and with a clarity that made your stomach turn, precisely what that little dish had always been to him, not affection, not the quiet language you'd let yourself believe it was, but a controlled variable. A comfort measure, dispensed on schedule, the same as antiseptic or a change of bandages. Something you administer to keep a specimen docile. You'd let yourself read devotion into a feeding schedule, and the realization made you feel sick in a way the fog from the night before never had.

"I'm not hungry," you said. Your voice came out flatter than you meant it to.

He looked up then properly, for the first time since you'd walked in  and something in your tone seemed to catch him off guard, though he covered it quickly, the way he covered everything.

"You usually are, by this hour."

"Not today."

He studied you for a moment too long, the way he studied anomalies, and you hated, hated, that some part of you still recognized that look as attention, even now, even furious, even disgusted at yourself for ever having wanted it.

You let out a deep sigh as you were gathering your thoughts and words.

"You left," you said.

"I had reports to finish." He still didn't look up.

"That's not what I asked."

"No," he agreed, "it wasn't. But it's the answer you're going to get, unless you'd like to phrase the question more precisely." He set his pen down at last, folding his hands with the unhurried patience of a man who'd already decided how this conversation would go before you'd walked in. "What is it you actually want me to say?"

"I want to know why you left me like that."

"You seem to have already decided why," he said, mildly, almost bored.

 "You've been looking at me as though I've committed some unforgivable offense. I'd hate to disappoint you by contradicting a narrative you've clearly put so much thought into."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Twist it back on me. You know exactly what you did."

"I know what I did," he said, evenly. "I'm considerably less certain you do." 

He rose from the desk, unhurried, closing the distance between you with the same deliberate calm he brought to everything, and you had to fight the instinct to step back. 

"You've spent months, by your own account, believing I felt something for you. Now, at the first inconvenient silence, you've decided the opposite must be true instead, that it was all conditioning, that you were simply managed into compliance like everyone else who's passed through this lab."

 His voice dropped, softer, almost gentle, which was somehow worse than if he'd raised it. 

"Which version do you actually believe, I wonder, or is it easier to believe whichever one lets you feel the most wronged?"

"That's not—" you started, and hated that he'd already made you doubt the sentence before you'd finished it.

"Isn't it?" He tilted his head, watching the effect of his own words settle over your face with the same clinical patience he gave every experiment. 

"You came in here certain of your anger. You're considerably less certain now. That should tell you something about how much of it was ever really about me, and how much was about how easily you can talk yourself into believing the worst."

You felt something in you waver,  the particular, sickening sensation of your own convictions being dismantled by someone who'd clearly done this before, to someone, and knew exactly which supports to remove first. For one long moment, you almost let him win the room entirely.

Then you caught yourself.

"No," you said, slower, steadier, forcing the anger back into focus even as your voice shook. 

"Don't do that. Don't stand there and make my own hurt sound like a flaw in my thinking. I know what happened. You left. And now you're trying to make me apologize for noticing."

Something shifted behind his eyes, not quite surprise, but close to it, the flicker of a man watching a variable refuse to behave the way he'd calculated. He didn't answer immediately.

"You're good at this," you added, quieter now, though no less firm. 

"Turning things around so I end up defending myself instead of you answering anything. I'm not doing that tonight."

The silence that followed had a different quality than the ones before it, his, for once, rather than yours. When he finally spoke again, some of the practiced control had gone out of his voice.

"...No," he admitted, slower now, the calm finally slipping a fraction. "I suppose you're not."

Nothing was resolved that night,  not fully. He hadn't apologized, not in so many words, and you hadn't forgiven him, not in so many words either. But something had shifted, some balance in the room quietly recalibrated, and you left with the distinct, unfamiliar sense that for once, you'd been the one who'd won a battle of wits against him.

It didn't feel like enough. Not yet.

So you stopped waiting to be assigned anywhere.

Pantalone had a task in Fontaine that wanted for an extra set of eyes he trusted more than his own staff; you volunteered before Dottore had so much as heard the request existed. You didn't ask permission. You'd told yourself, walking out, that you no longer required it,  a small, deliberate cruelty aimed less at proving anything to Pantalone than at seeing what, if anything, it would cost you with Dottore.

You'd taken your crow form for most of the trip, easier for slipping through the places Pantalone's negotiations required a quieter kind of observer, and he'd taken an immediate, faintly amused interest in you that had nothing to do with the mission at all. He found it delightful, in his own detached way, that Dottore's "prized specimen," as he insisted on calling you, could be coaxed onto his shoulder with considerably less effort than you ever let on to anyone else. He took to running a careful finger along the feathers at your nape whenever a negotiation ran long, an absent, idle habit that you allowed more out of boredom than fondness, though you were fairly certain, watching the pleased little curl of his mouth each time he did it, that he knew exactly how it would look reported back to Dottore, and enjoyed the idea of that report more than the gesture itself.

"He really does keep you well," Pantalone mused once, stroking a thumb down your wing with an idle sort of proprietary ease that would have made you bristle from anyone else. "I confess I hadn't expected the Doctor to be sentimental about anything with feathers."

You said nothing. You didn't need to. You suspected the silence would be reported just as faithfully as anything you might have said.

Before you left Fontaine, he produced something from an inner pocket.  A small, deliberate motion, the kind that told you he'd planned it well before the negotiations had even concluded. A thin bracelet, Northland Bank made by the look of it, gold-threaded and set with a single dark stone that caught the light in a way you found yourself staring at longer than you meant to.

"A parting gift," he said, watching your reaction with open amusement, 

"for services rendered. I understand your kind has a certain... appreciation for objects like this."

You should have refused it. You knew that even as you let him fasten it loosely around your ankle in your smaller form, some small, treacherous part of you was already cataloguing the way it caught the light every time you moved. It was, you told yourself, simply a gift, nothing more calculated than any of the shiny trinkets you'd have gathered for yourself, if you'd found them somewhere unguarded.

You suspected, watching Pantalone's satisfied little smile as he watched you admire it, that he knew perfectly well it was more than that.

Dottore said nothing when you returned three days later. You noted that carefully.

It was two days after that before he said anything about the bracelet at all, and even then, it came sideways, disguised as something else entirely. You were sorting reports at his desk when his gaze caught on your wrist, you'd taken to wearing it in your human form too, unable to quite bring yourself to leave something so deliberately pretty tucked away in a drawer, and his pen stilled mid-sentence.

"That's new," he said, in the same flat tone he might have used to note an anomaly in a blood sample.

"A gift," you said, not looking up.

"From Pantalone."

It wasn't a question, which meant he'd already known, which meant he'd noticed it the moment you'd walked back through the door and simply chosen not to say anything until now.

 "Yes," you said anyway, if only to watch what he'd do with the confirmation.

"Northland Bank made," he said, studying it with the same clinical focus he gave everything, though his jaw had gone tighter than the observation required. "Expensive, for a parting gift."

"Jealous?"

"Merely noting that he's rarely so generous without expecting something in return." He returned to his notes, too deliberately, the picture of a man uninterested in a subject he'd clearly been unable to stop looking at for the better part of a minute. "I'd be careful what you assume that generosity costs."

"Careful," you repeated, amused despite yourself. "From the man who's said nothing about it for two days."

He didn't answer that. But his eyes flicked once more to the bracelet before returning, with obvious effort, to his reports, and you decided, watching him, that you'd let the silence say what he wouldn't.

It wasn't only Pantalone and Childe, either. Word of you had apparently spread further than you'd realized among the Harbingers themselves, and it wasn't long before others started finding their own excuses to seek you out whenever you were in your smaller form. Columbina found you first, delighted in a way that unsettled you slightly with how genuine it seemed, she'd coo softly whenever you hopped near her, tracing a gloved finger along your wing with unsettling gentleness, murmuring something about how precious you were in a tone that made you suspect she meant it in more ways than one. Sandrone, characteristically, treated the whole thing as an extension of her usual clinical curiosity, examining your feathers with the same detached precision Dottore might have used, though she at least had the decency to ask before handling you, which was more courtesy than you often got from him these days. Even Arlecchino, who acknowledged almost nothing beneath her notice, paused once to let you land briefly on her forearm, studying you with a long, considering look before remarking, to no one in particular, that she understood the appeal now.

It was Rosalyne who made the biggest fuss of all,  delighted, unbothered by rank or decorum, scooping you up without so much as asking and cradling you against her chest with the easy affection of someone who'd apparently decided you were the most interesting thing to happen to her week. She counted your feathers aloud, laughed when you nipped at her fingers in mild protest, and declared, cheerfully, that Dottore didn't deserve you if he was going to keep you locked away in that lab all the time.

You found, somewhat to your own surprise, that you didn't mind any of it. It was easy, uncomplicated attention, offered without agenda or leverage, and you let yourself enjoy it more than you probably should have, if only because so little else in your life had ever come without a catch attached.

Dottore noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He said nothing the first few times he found you passed between them, feathers ruffled with contentment, indulging Rosalyne's insistence on comparing the sheen of your wings to polished obsidian or Columbina's quiet, careful preening. But you caught him watching from the doorway more than once, arms folded, a faint and entirely unfamiliar discomfort etched into a face built for concealing exactly that kind of thing.

"You seem to be building quite the following," he said once, dry, arms still crossed, as you finally slipped free of Rosalyne's overeager hands.

"They're friendly," you said, once you'd shifted back enough to speak properly. "Unlike some people."

"I'm not unfriendly. I'm precise."

"You looked uncomfortable just now."

"I looked," he said, with the particular stiffness of a man defending a position he no longer fully believed, "concerned that they were mishandling a specimen unfamiliar with proper containment protocol."

"They were petting me, Dottore. Not running tests."

He didn't have an answer for that one either. He simply turned and walked back toward his study, a shade too briskly for a man who claimed to feel nothing about any of it, and you let yourself smile, just slightly, once his back was fully turned.

The following week, it was Childe who asked, half in earnest and half simply to see if you'd say yes again, and you did. You spent two more days away, trading easy conversation and easier company with a man who never once made you feel like a specimen mid-observation, and told yourself that was the whole of the appeal.

Dottore, for his part, did something you hadn't quite expected. He tolerated it.

Not gracefully,  you caught the tightness in his jaw each time your absence was announced at a meeting, the particular stillness that settled over him whenever your name came up attached to someone else's mission roster. But he didn't forbid it. He didn't so much as comment on it directly, which unsettled you more than any objection would have. You'd expected control. What you got instead was a man visibly, deliberately restraining himself from exercising any.

It was only the small things that gave him away. He came looking for you twice that week for tasks that could easily have waited, or been handed to anyone else in the lab, and found instead an empty desk and a dish of nuts going stale, untouched, because you weren't there to eat them. He didn't ask where you'd gone. He didn't need to; everyone in the building seemed to know before he did, which you suspected bothered him almost as much as the absence itself.

By the seventh day, something in him had visibly worn thin.

So a few days later, when Childe found an excuse to linger near your desk longer than any correspondence required, laughing too easily at something you'd said, you didn't discourage it the way you usually would have. You let it go on a beat longer than necessary. You even laughed back.

You told yourself it wasn't deliberate. You knew, even as you told yourself that, that it was a lie you weren't trying very hard to sell.

Dottore didn't look up from his work at first. You caught the exact moment he did, a flicker of attention he didn't quite manage to disguise as disinterest, gone as quickly as it appeared, filed away behind the same composed mask he always wore. You almost let it go at that. Almost.

"He's rather charming, isn't he," you said instead, to no one in particular, loud enough to carry.

"If you enjoy predictability," Dottore said, not looking up, though his pen had stopped moving entirely.

Childe, delighted at having an audience for baiting him, leaned in further.

 "Careful, Doctor, you're starting to sound jealous."

"I don't experience jealousy," Dottore said, flat, final, the words coming out a fraction too fast to be as unbothered as he clearly wanted them to sound.

You caught his eye, deliberately, and smiled, not for Childe. For him.

Something in Dottore's expression went very still.

He set his pen down. Rose from the desk with none of his usual unhurried patience, and crossed the room with enough purpose that Childe actually took a half-step back, hands raised, grin faltering into something more careful.

"Enough," Dottore said.

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The single word landed with a weight that ended whatever Childe had been about to say next, and he excused himself with a low whistle and a glance your way that suggested he'd gotten exactly the reaction he'd been fishing for all along, whether or not it had been at your expense too.

Once the door shut behind him, Dottore turned to you, and for a moment he said nothing at all  just looked at you with an expression caught somewhere between fury and something considerably less easy for him to name.

"Is this your strategy," he said, low, clipped, "to make me sit here and think about you? Unfortunately, that will never take effect on me."

"Won't it," you said, unable to keep the satisfaction fully out of your voice.

"No." The word came too fast, too defensive to be as certain as he wanted it to sound. "I am not so easily—" he stopped himself, visibly irritated at the sentence he'd nearly finished, and started again with more control than the first attempt had managed. "You're wasting your effort. I don't respond to manipulation."

"Funny," you said. "That's usually your line."

For a moment he looked like a man arguing with himself and losing, and when he finally spoke again, his voice had lost its usual clinical distance entirely.

"I don't," he said, low, almost angry, at you, or at himself, you genuinely couldn't tell. "This isn't— I don't care for you in the way you seem determined to believe I do."

"Then why does it matter who I laugh with?"

"Because you're mine," he said, before he seemed to have fully decided to say it, and something in his own voice seemed to catch him off guard the moment it was out. He stopped, visibly annoyed at himself, at the word, at how little it had needed his permission to escape.

"I pulled you out of a storm that should have killed you," he went on, quieter now but no less pointed, as though the memory itself had given him something to stand on. "I gave you a place, a purpose, work that made use of every part of you no one else would have bothered to notice. You were nothing but a dying anomaly in the snow before I decided you were worth keeping." His eyes didn't leave yours. "That is a statement of fact, not sentiment. You belong to this research, to this lab, to work I have invested considerable time in. It has nothing to do with—"

"Don't," you said, sharper than you meant to, something cold settling under the anger. "Don't you dare use that against me. You didn't save me out of kindness, you told me so yourself, I was a specimen too rare to leave behind. Now you want to wear it like a debt I owe you, like I should be grateful enough to let you decide who gets to look at me." Your hands had curled at your sides without your noticing. "That's not gratitude, Dottore. That's you making me feel small enough to keep."

Something flickered across his face,  not quite guilt, he wasn't capable of that, not fully, but close enough to its shadow that you almost believed you'd imagined it.

"I won't feel guilty for existing before you decided I was interesting," you continued, quieter now but no less firm. "And I won't let you rewrite it into some debt I have to keep paying just so you can call it possession instead of asking for anything honestly."

He didn't answer right away. For a long moment he simply stood there, jaw tight, and you watched him do what he always did when cornered, search for the angle that would put him back in control of the conversation.

"You make it sound simpler than it is," he said finally, voice clipped. "As though there's some clean, honest version of this I've been deliberately withholding out of cruelty. There isn't. I don't have one to give you."

"That's convenient."

"It's true." A flicker of the old sharpness returned to his eyes. "You'd like me to say something you can hold against me later, some declaration you can point to and say he admitted it. I'm not going to make that easy for you."

"I'm not asking you to make it easy. I'm asking you to stop pretending this is about ownership when we both know it isn't anymore."

His jaw worked once, twice, and for the first time all night he had nothing ready to say. Not agreeing, he wasn't capable of that yet, not cleanly,  but the silence itself was new, an absence where a deflection should have been.

"I don't know what to name it," he said eventually, and the admission clearly cost him something, dragged out rather than offered. "That's the truth, such as it is. I'm not going to dress it up as more than that just because you'd prefer a cleaner answer."

It wasn't an apology. It wasn't even close to one. But it was the first time he'd said I don't know about anything in the entire time you'd known him, and something about the rawness of not-knowing, coming from a man who always knew, landed harder than any confession could have.

"That's not nothing," you said, quiet.

"No," he agreed, guarded still, watching you with something that wasn't quite trust yet. "I suppose it isn't."

The silence after his admission hung heavier than the blizzard he pulled you from. You could still taste the words, I don't know what to name it like metal on the tongue, rusted and reluctant. He stood there, motionless, waiting. Always waiting. As if you might fly out the window and leave him with nothing but the empty space where a specimen should be.

You didn't fly.

You stepped forward.

His eyes, those dissecting, cataloging eyes tracked the movement with the precision of a man who knew exactly how many centimeters separated you now. Two. One. Your hand found his collar, not gentle, not asking. The fabric of his coat was rough under your palm, expensive, and cold. He was warm underneath.

"y/n." Your name in his mouth sounded like a classification he hadn't finished revising.

"Don't," you said, and you didn't know what you were warning him against, speaking, stopping, disappearing into that clinical void where he stored everything he couldn't label.

You kissed him.

It wasn't soft. It tasted like the resentment you'd been carrying since he left the room that night, since he let you think you'd been conditioned like one of his experiments. He stiffened, half a second of genuine surprise, the most honest reaction you'd ever wrung from him and then his hand was at the back of your neck, fingers pressing into the junction where the spine met skull with the certainty of a man who knew anatomy well enough to break it.

He didn't break you. He held.

When you broke apart, his breath was controlled, measured, but his pupils had blown wide, black consuming the gold. "The Fatui," he said, voice low, clinical even now, "would call this a miscalculation."

"And you?"

"I didn't calculate anymore when you were in the room."

The admission cost him. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his thumb traced the line of your throat not with tenderness but with the obsessive attention of a cartographer mapping territory. His territory. The thought should have infuriated you. It did. It also sent heat pooling low in your stomach, corvid-bright and treacherous.

You pulled at his coat. He let you. The garment fell open, and you pushed your hands beneath his shirt, finding the scarred skin there, the places where he'd been stitched back together by his own hand. He hissed not from pain, from restraint. He was holding himself rigid, letting you explore, letting you take.

"Your bracelet," he said suddenly, and his fingers caught your wrist, thumb brushing the metal Pantalone had given you. 

"I could remove it. Replace it." His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, enough to claim. 

"Something that didn't come from a banker who looked at you like you were collateral."

You laughed, breathless. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Doctor."

"It suited me perfectly," he corrected, and then he was moving, reversing your positions, your back against the wall beside his workbench. Papers scattered, his notes, where your name had replaced Subject C-17 in handwriting that had grown gradually less precise, more hurried. "I'd simply never had cause to wear it before."

His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the tendon there with the care of a man who knew exactly how much pressure separated a bruise from a break. You arched into it, corvid-instincts singing at the possession of it, the claiming. He noticed, he always noticed, and made a sound against your skin, low and resentful.

"Childe touched your shoulder yesterday," he murmured, breath hot. "I saw. You laughed for him."

"You didn't stop him." you said 

"I wanted to." The confession was dragged out, bitter. "I wanted to remove his hand at the wrist. Experimental purposes."

Your fingers tangled in his blue hair, pulling until he looked at you. His expression was fractured, that controlled mask cracked along fault lines you had put there. "Then do something about it now."

He didn't ask for permission. He never had. What he did was lift you onto the edge of his desk, clearing beakers and instruments with a sweep of his arm, the crash of glass irrelevant and stepped between your knees. His hands were methodical even in this, pushing up your thighs, mapping the shape of your hips, the curve of your waist, as if he were still taking notes. As if he were memorizing you for future reference.

"Rosalyne complimented your plumage," he said, low, while his fingers worked at the fastenings of your clothing. "Said you were exquisite. Sandrone offered you a perch in her workshop. Columbina sang to you." 

Each word was a wound he was tending with his tongue, possessive and furious. "They didn't know what you were. What you cost."

"And what did I cost?"

His eyes met yours, and for a moment the mask was gone entirely. "Everything," he said. "You cost me everything, and you didn't even know it."

He pushed your underwear aside, not off, just enough to expose you and you felt the air of the laboratory against your wetness, obscene and clinical. He looked down at you spread open on his desk, and the sound he made was barely human, a caught breath that became a growl.

"Say it," you demanded, because you needed to hear it, needed to know this wasn't another experiment.

"Mine." The word was bitten out, resentful, true. "My specimen. My mistake. My—" He stopped, and then his fingers were on you, two of them pushing inside without warning, stretching you open with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You cried out, back arching off the wood, and he leaned over you, free hand pinning your hip to the desk. "My only variable I couldn't solve."

He fucked you with his fingers, curling them to find the spot that made your vision blur, watching your face with the intensity of a man recording data. You were panting, squirming against his hand, and he didn't speed up, he kept the rhythm torturous, clinical, until you were begging without words, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

"Please," you finally gasped, and you hated how desperate you sounded, how much you needed this from him.

He withdrew his fingers leaving you empty, aching and worked at his own trousers with efficient, angry movements. His cock was hard, flushed dark, and he didn't touch himself, just gripped your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the desk.

He pushed into you in one slow, relentless thrust, and you screamed, head falling back, thighs trembling in your agitation. He didn't flinch. He watched them with something like hunger, the same way he had watched you eat from his palm months ago, and then he started to move.

It wasn't gentle. He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you against the edge of the desk, his grip on your thighs bruising. He was studying you even as he lost himself, watching where you connected, where his cock disappeared inside you again and again, watching your face with the intensity of a man recording data, except his breath was coming in harsh pants against your ear, and his hips were stuttering when you clenched around him.

"The nuts- hah..," he said suddenly, nonsensically, voice wrecked, and you understood. It was the test, the one he had never stopped running. "You still ate them. Even then..."

"Mhm..Even then," you agreed, breathless, and you pulled him down to kiss him again, tasting the salt of his sweat, the copper of his honesty.

He broke the kiss to mouth at your neck, your collarbone, teeth grazing the swell of your breast where your shirt had fallen open. 

"I thought about you like this," he admitted against your skin, voice barely audible, "when you were perched on my shoulder in crow form. I thought about how warm you were inside. How you'd look taking my cock while wearing nothing but that bracelet." 

His thrusts became erratic, losing their precision. "How you'd look wearing my marks instead."

You came with a cry that sounded like a caw, trembling as your orgasm ripped through you. You clenched down on him, and he groaned, a broken sound that might have been your name, and then he was fucking you through it, chasing his own release with single-minded focus.

He came with a sound like a man being dismantled, buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you, hot and claiming. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, fingers bruising in their grip on your hips, and you felt him twitch, felt the pulse of him filling you, marking you from the inside out.

After, he didn't withdraw immediately. He stayed inside you, holding, cataloging, until your breathing slowed. His hand found yours on the desk, and you felt him trace the bracelet Pantalone had given you, not to remove it, but to map its circumference, to memorize the shape of what he had to compete with.

You reached into your pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out the object you'd been carrying for three days, a gear from Sandrone's workshop, small and silver and perfect. You placed it in his palm.

He stared at it, then at you. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.

"I had something for you too," he said, and retrieved his notebook from the floor where it had fallen. He opened it to the most recent page, showed you the entry: your name, written and crossed out and written again, margins filled with sketches of wings, of eyes, of a crow eating from a dish that sat permanently on his desk now.

No subject number. Just you.

You took the notebook from him and wrote, beneath his last entry: *Still not a specimen.*

He read it, and this time the smile was real, small and sharp and only for you. "No," he agreed. "Something worse. Something I couldn't put back in the snow."

The storm in Snezhnaya had no interest in mercy, and neither, generally, did he.

Dottore moved through the snow storm with the brisk indifference of a man crossing a room he was familiar with. Snezhnaya’s winters were an inconvenience to be routed around, not endured, and his escort trailed a careful distance behind, having long since learned not to speak unless spoken to. The mission ahead was unremarkable. A supply route to confirm, a facility to inspect, nothing that required his full attention, which was, admittedly, why he noticed it.

A flicker of black against the white.

He might have dismissed it– a bird? Driven low and vulnerable by the wind, it was hardly worth the fraction of a glance he spared it, except that the shape was wrong. It moved wrong. It didn’t so much fly as fold, mid-motion, the way a variable folds when an equation resolves itself, and where a human had been stumbling through the drifts a blink ago, there was now a small, dark thing curled low against the snow, feathers driven flat one moment and puffed the next, some instinctive system trying and failing, to gather heat it did not have to spare.

Dottore stopped walking.

His escort nearly collided with his back and had the sense not to ask why.

He watched for a moment, longer than concern would have permitted, longer than urgency would have allowed. Not out of hesitation, hesitation was for people who had not already finished the calculation, but because there was, he found, a certain professional obligation to observe a specimen accurately before disturbing it. THe shift had not looked deliberate. No control in it, just seemed like a survival instinct.

He pondered what he could from his position: the size of the creature, different to any true bird, the way the feathers seemed to belong to it rather than replace something, patterned like an afterthought grafted onto a body that had, moments ago, with two legs. The traits of a hybrid shapeshifter would explain the phenomenon.

He had read reports of such things. He had never had the good fortune of finding one just in front of him.

“How unfortunate,” he said, to no one, and began working toward it.

He crouched, unbothered by the snow soaking into the hem of his coat, and studied it the way he might study anything half-alive and full of questions.

“You’ve made rather a mess of yourself,” he said,

“Tsk, freezing to death mid-transformation. Sloppy. Though I suppose you weren’t given much choice in the matter.”

No response. Only the faint ragged movement of feathers trying, hopelessly, to hold in the warmth that had already mostly gone.

Dottore considered, briefly, the shape of the decision infront of him, not should he, which was never really the question, but was it worth it? A shapeshifter, found alive, however in a critical state, was not the sort of variable one encountered twice. Leaving it here would settle the matter cheaply and immediately. Taking it would cost him time, resources, the responsibility of carrying something half-frozen back to a facility that had better things to process today.

The greater loss, he thought, was letting the data die in the snow.

“Well,” he said, already reaching for it with efficiency, “Let’s see how much of you is left to examine.”

He did not gather it up with his both hands, did not cradle it against his coat the way any human might have. He simply peeled off one glove, slid his bare palm beneath the small, half-frozen crow. It weighed almost nothing. That, too, he noted.

The crow curled instinctively into the warmth of his palm, feathers pressing flat against his skin, too far gone to do anything but accept the heat it was given. He held it there, level and unhurried, one hand outstretched before him as he resumed walking to his laboratory.

The warmth felt nothing like kindness.

__________________________________

Warmth came back before thought did.

You opened your eyes just to see a faint stray of light coming in. It was not sunlight, or fire light. It seemed like a surgical light..?

You tried to sit up and noticed, with a small jolt of alarm, that you could not.

You were, you realized with growing horror, still a crow. Small, black, undignified, nested in what appeared to be. You took a moment to process this, the folded corner of an expensive coat on a table that was absolutely not designed to be a bed.

Shift back, you told yourself, the way you’d told yourself a thousand times before.

Nothing happened.

Suddenly, the creaking sound of the white door echoed through the unfamiliar room, with a tall masked man with silver-blue hair entering.

“Ah. Awake.”

The voice sounded entirely too pleased with itself of a sentence with so little content. You went very still, every feather on your small figure rising at once and turned your head toward the source of sound.

He was seated an unhurried distance away, one leg crossed over the other, a notebook balanced against his knee. Red eyes beneath the pointy mask, unreadable, tracked you with the same clinical patience you imagined he might give a slide under a microscope. There was nothing in his expression that resembled relief, or welcome, or anything you might have wanted to see from the person who had dragged your half-frozen body out of the storm.

“Don’t strain yourself trying to change back,” he said, before you’d so much as attempted it again, as though your thoughts were as transparent to him.

“You’ve been at it for the better part of an hour already. Rather embarrassing, watching something struggle.”

You opened your beak, some urge to snap back at him, but produced nothing but a thin croak.

Something in his mouth curved, not quite a smile. “How articulate.”

He placed the notebook aside, and approached the table with slow, deliberate steps, the way one might approach something skittish they had no interest in startling, not out of kindness, you understood immediately, but because startled specimens tended to produce less reliable data.

“You’ll forgive me for skipping the formalities.” he said, leaning down until his shadow fell fully over your small, feathered form. “Names are better exchanged once I’m confident you’ll survive long enough for them to matter, For now-” he reached out, tilting your chin up with one gloved finger, turning your head this way and that. “Let’s see exactly what I’ve brought.”

_________________________________________

The first month, you escaped thirty-seven times.

The first attempt was clumsy. The second, ambitious. By the seventh, you had discovered that the laboratory possessed more hidden corridors than doors, and that the guards, though well-trained, had the unfortunate habit of assuming a crow incapable of understanding architectural layouts.

The thirty-seventh ended much like the first thirty-six.

The laboratory door slid open.

“.....Finished?”

You froze atop a bookshelf

Dottore stood beneath you, a stack of reports tucked between one arm. He sounded neither irritated nor amused. Merely curious. You stared. He stared back.

“Well?”

A long silence. Then, with all the dignity available to an exhausted crow, you fluttered down onto the desk. He made a note.

Escape attempt 37

-subject returned voluntarily.

-reason remains uncertain.

He never once wrote your name. Only Subject, followed by a number that changed less often than you'd have liked. He logged your feeding schedule, your shift frequency, the days you refused to speak in either form. He logged, once, the exact moment you stopped trying to leave, though whatever conclusion he drew from that, he kept entirely to himself.

Months passed. The escapes stopped being counted, mostly because they stopped happening. You learned the rhythm of him the way you'd once learned the ventilation shafts, instinctively, without meaning to, which reports he wanted first, which tools he reached for without looking, until it became easier to simply have things ready than to wait to be asked. "Scalpel," he said one afternoon, and it was already in his hand before the word had finished leaving his mouth. He paused, not gratitude, nothing so generous ever crossed his face around you, turning the instrument over as if it might explain itself, then looked at you the way he looked at anomalies in his data. "You anticipated that." "You always ask for it after the second incision," you told him. He said nothing further, but he watched you a moment longer than the observation strictly required, and something in his expression resembled a man quietly recalculating a variable he'd assumed was fixed.

It was around then that you found the error in his notes, a miscalculated variable buried three pages into a report, easy to miss unless you'd spent months learning the particular shape of his mistakes, which were rare enough to be memorable. You corrected it in the margin, small and unsigned, and braced for nothing to come of it. He said nothing the next morning either. But the notebook started staying open after that, not handed to you, not offered, simply left, angled just slightly toward whichever chair you tended to occupy, as though by accident. It hadn't been. Neither of you said so.

The first mission came without much ceremony. "You're coming with me," he said, already halfway out the door, and when you asked why, he told you he needed a pair of hands that wouldn't faint at the sight of exposed viscera, and that you were, unfortunately, the only candidate who met that bar reliably. That was the reason he gave. You didn't ask for another, you understood by then that whatever this had become would always be filed under usefulness in his ledger, never anything softer. You went anyway.

Somewhere in the months that followed, without ceremony or announcement, the notebook changed. You noticed it by accident, glancing at a page left open longer than usual, an entry dense with clinical shorthand, except for one line near the bottom, where Subject C-17 had quietly become your name instead. No footnote. No explanation. As if the correction had simply always been there and you were the one behind on the update. You said nothing. He never brought it up. But you found yourself rereading that single line more times than the occasion warranted, and somewhere beneath the part of you that still remembered thirty-seven escape attempts, something settled that hadn't settled in a very long while.

It was Pantalone who noticed first, out loud. "You still have the crow?" he asked lightly, glancing your way like a curiosity left over from some indulgent phase of Dottore's research, which, to be fair, was exactly how you'd started. Dottore didn't look up from his notes. "She's assisting with the project." "Interesting," Pantalone said, in the tone of a man filing something away for later amusement. Dottore didn't understand why that was amusing. Watching from the corner of the room, you thought you might.

After that, he stopped leaving you behind for meetings he once wouldn't have dreamed of bringing an assistant to. You attended in your smaller form, perched on his shoulder like an afterthought he'd forgotten to correct, silent through hours of politics you had no formal right to witness. He never announced why. When Sandrone glanced pointedly at you during the third such meeting, he only said, without looking up from his notes, that you were quieter than most of the room and considerably more useful, which ended the conversation, though not the glances.

The Harbingers, to their credit, adjusted quickly. Arlecchino barely acknowledged you at all, treating your presence the way she treated most things beneath her direct concern, noted, filed, dismissed. Scaramouche found you endlessly, openly funny, and made no effort to hide it.

"The Doctor's got a pet now," he said once, loud enough to carry across the table, "how domestic." Dottore didn't dignify it with a response, though you felt his shoulder tense fractionally beneath you, which you decided to count as a victory. Childe, for his part, seemed genuinely delighted by you in a way that made Dottore visibly suspicious of his motives, and took to greeting you by name, your name, not Subject, not the crow, every time you entered a room, as though testing to see whether Dottore would correct him. He never did.

It was Pantalone who pressed hardest, and always with that same unbothered smile. "Does it understand what we discuss," he asked once, mid-meeting, tone light enough to pass for idle curiosity, "or is it merely decorative?" "She understands considerably more than most people at this table," Dottore replied, flatly, already returning to his notes, "which I'd have thought was self-evident by now." A small silence followed. Pantalone's smile didn't falter, but something behind it recalculated. You stayed very still on Dottore's shoulder and said nothing, because saying nothing had always been safer, and because some small, traitorous part of you had liked the way he'd answered, quick, unthinking, almost defensive, in a way that a purely clinical arrangement had no real reason to be.

He never seemed to notice he'd done it. You noticed enough for both of you.

It started as research. He arrived one afternoon with a small dish of mixed nuts set beside his usual instruments, informing you, without a trace of irony that he intended to observe whether corvid dietary preference persisted across your forms. You indulged him, mostly out of curiosity about what he'd do with the data. He recorded which ones you picked first, which you ignored, which you cracked open yourself versus which you left for him to shell, and none of it, as far as you could tell, ever made it into any report that mattered. The "study" simply never concluded. Weeks became months, and the dish kept appearing, always with slightly more of whatever you'd reached for first the time before, and slightly less of what you'd left untouched. He never once admitted the experiment had ended. You never pointed out that it clearly had.

Around the same time, he began noticing the other habit, the one you were less inclined to explain. A stray bit of foil, a polished button, the glass stopper from an old vial, all of it accumulating in some corner of your quarters that you told yourself was simply organized, not hoarded. He found the collection by accident and said nothing cruel about it, which surprised you more than mockery would have. He only made a note :specimen retains magpie-adjacent fixation on reflective objects, function unclear, possibly ornamental.

Except the notebook was lying, a little. Because not long after, small things started appearing in places you hadn't put them. A smooth, dark stone, catching the light strangely. A fragment of mirrored glass, sanded soft at the edges so it wouldn't cut. None of it explained, none of it acknowledged, all of it simply present the next time you looked. You started leaving things back, without meaning to at first,a curled wire twisted into some rough, deliberate shape, a coin from some country neither of you had been to. He never commented on those either. You both understood, by then, exactly what the exchange was, and exactly why neither of you would be the one to name it first.

The trouble started with Childe.

He asked casually enough needed an extra set of hands for a task in Liyue, something involving negotiations that required more finesse than force, and you, in his words, had "a good read on people, for a bird." Dottore didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was with the same flat, procedural tone he used for everything. "She's occupied with my research. Find someone else."

"She's not a piece of lab equipment, Doctor," Childe said, grinning in a way that suggested he knew exactly what nerve he was testing. "Let her answer for herself."

You opened your mouth. Dottore spoke first.

"She doesn't need to. I've already answered."

The room went quiet in the particular way it did whenever he said something that revealed more than he meant it to. Pantalone, watching from across the table, said nothing at all, which was somehow worse than if he had. Childe raised both hands in mock surrender and let it go, but not without one last look your way, amused, calculating, filing the reaction away for later the same way Pantalone had.

Dottore didn't look at you for the rest of the meeting. You noticed his hand had settled, at some point, on the back of your chair not touching you, not quite, but closer than procedure required, and it stayed there long after any reasonable justification for it had run out. When you finally caught his eye, he looked, for just a moment, faintly annoyed not at Childe, not at you, but at himself, at the shape of whatever he'd just let slip in front of a room full of people who'd remember it.

He didn't explain himself later. He never did. But that night the dish of nuts appeared again, unprompted, with exactly the kind you liked best already sorted to the top, and neither of you said a single word about what that meant.

The order came directly from the Tsaritsa, which meant there was no version of refusal available to him. You were to accompany Sandrone to Sumeru, to retrieve something the Akademiya had buried deep enough that a subtler pair of hands was required than his usual methods allowed and subtlety, everyone at the table seemed to silently agree, was not among Dottore's more reliable qualities.

He didn't argue. Arguing with a direct order from her was not a mistake he'd ever make twice. But you caught the stillness that settled over him when the assignment was read aloud the same stillness you'd learned, by now, meant something was being suppressed rather than simply absent.

"Two weeks," Sandrone said mildly, already gathering his notes. "Perhaps three."

"I'm aware of the estimated timeline," Dottore said, in a tone flat enough to cut. He didn't look at you. You didn't need him to.

That night, before you left, he said almost nothing useful a list of standard precautions, a reminder to report any anomalous data, nothing that acknowledged what the separation actually was. But he pressed something small into your palm before you go, wordlessly, without ceremony: not a farewell, not affection, just a habit he seemed to need to complete before he could let you leave his sight, and you understood, without either of you saying it, that this was as close to be careful as he was ever going to get.

Sumeru was strange in a way you hadn't expected not the climate, which was gentler than Snezhnaya in every conceivable way, but the sense of walking through a place that had shaped someone you knew without ever having said so. You found yourself noticing things you had no real reason to notice. A particular shade of sandstone. The layout of old Akademiya corridors, half-reclaimed by the forest, that felt, absurdly, like the kind of place a much younger, much angrier version of him might have once walked through unnoticed.

You found the trinket in an abandoned research annex. Sandrone had no interest in a small brass instrument, delicate and old, some kind of measuring device whose function you couldn't fully place, etched with faded Sumeru script along its edge. It caught the light in a way that made your fingers itch before you'd even decided to pick it up. You told yourself it was simply a habit. You didn't entirely believe it.

You didn't decide to bring it back for him until you were already halfway home.

Sandrone noticed, of course. She noticed everything, in that quiet, clinical way of hers that made you suspect she filed people the same way Dottore filed data. She watched you turn the little brass instrument over in your hands more than once during the return trip, watched you wrap it carefully before you'd even reached the border, and said nothing about it until you were both standing in the doorway of his study, waiting to be acknowledged.

"How curious," she said, not quite looking at you, not quite looking at him. "Y/N randomly picked up some old, forgotten thing in the middle of an assignment." A pause, deliberate. "It's rather surprising she wanted to gift it to you, out of all people. How strange."

There was no warmth in it. You'd gathered by then that there rarely was, where Dottore was concerned whatever history sat between them, it clearly hadn't left room for particular fondness. Dottore didn't rise to it. He rarely did, with her.

"Was there a report to file, or did you simply come to observe," he said, without looking up from his notes, "because I don't recall requesting commentary on either."

Sandrone's mouth curved, thin and unbothered. "No report worth mentioning. The mission was uneventful." Her gaze slid to you, briefly, unreadable. "Mostly."

She left without waiting for a response, the door falling shut behind her with a quiet, unhurried click, and it was only once her footsteps had faded down the corridor that the room settled.

He was waiting when you returned, not visibly, not obviously, He didn't ask about the mission first. He asked, instead, with a carefully measured indifference that didn't fool you in the slightest, whether Sumeru had been "tolerable."

You held out the instrument instead of answering.

He went very still.

He took it slowly, turning it over in his hands the way he examined everything, clinically, at first, cataloguing its make, its age, the faded scriptwork along the edge until his thumb found a small, worn inscription near the base, and something in his expression shifted into territory you'd never once seen it occupy. Not detachment. Not amusement. Something quieter, and much harder for him to hold steady.

"Where did you find this," he said. It wasn't quite a question.

"An old annex. It looked forgotten." You hesitated. "I thought-" you stopped yourself, unsure, suddenly, how much of the truth you were willing to hand him along with the object. "I thought it might mean something. To you."

He didn't answer right away. He was still looking at the inscription, thumb tracing it once more as though checking it hadn't changed since the first pass, and when he finally looked up at you, the distance he usually kept so carefully maintained between observation and feeling had, for once, entirely failed to hold.

"It does," he said, quietly, and offered nothing further to explain it no clinical justification, no rationalization dressed as data, nothing to file this under but exactly what it was.

For the first time since the snow, he reached for you the way you'd once reached for shiny, precious things without meaning to not out of usefulness, not out of ownership, but because some part of him had apparently decided, somewhere between the storm and this moment, that he wanted to.

The mission after that one went wrong in a way none of you had accounted for.

It wasn't catastrophic, you'd walk away from it, you knew that much even as it was happening, but a blade caught you across the ribs before you could shift clear, and by the time you made it back to the lab, your human form was shaking too hard to be useful and your crow form wasn't an option, not with a wound that size. You didn't remember much of the walk back. You remembered his hands.

He didn't send for anyone else. That, more than anything, told you how seriously he was taking it. Dottore, who delegated everything that didn't personally interest him, doing the cleaning and stitching himself, sleeves pushed back, face unreadable in the particular way it went when he needed complete focus. His hands were steady at first, clinical, exactly as precise as you'd expect from a man who'd done far worse to far less willing patients. He didn't speak much. He didn't need to; the quiet was its own kind of attention, the sort he rarely gave anything that wasn't a problem worth solving.

Somewhere in the middle of it, though, cleaning a cut that had already stopped bleeding, checking a bandage that didn't need checking again, his hands stopped being quite so steady.

You noticed before he did, or maybe he noticed and simply didn't stop. His fingers lingered at the edge of the bandage a beat too long, tracing skin that had nothing left to examine, and when you looked up at him, he wasn't looking at the wound anymore.

"You should rest," he said, low, though he made no move to step back.

"You're not moving," you pointed out.

Something flickered behind his eyes, irritation, maybe, at being caught, or at himself, for the same reason as always. "I'm making sure the wound is properly closed."

"It's already closed."

He didn't have an answer for that. For the first time since you'd known him, he didn't reach for one.

You could have let the silence hold. You didn't.

The surgical lamp hummed, a steady, droning vibration that echoed the throb in your ribs. The world tasted of copper and sterile alcohol. Everything felt distant, as if the room were viewed through a thick sheet of frosted glass. The anesthesia clung to your mind like wet wool, heavy and suffocating, turning your thoughts into slow, drifting clouds.

Dottore leaned into your line of sight. His mask caught the harsh white light, splitting his face into a void of porcelain and shadow. He didn't move. He simply watched, his gaze tracing the rise and fall of your chest with the precision of a clockmaker.

"Can you hear me?"

The words sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a well. You tried to nod, but your neck felt like it belonged to someone else. A small, broken sound escaped her throat.

"Focus. I need to know the level of cognitive impairment remaining."

He reached out, his gloved fingers pressing firmly against your cheeks. The coldness of the latex was a shock, a sharp needle of reality piercing through the fog. He shifted, his weight leaning over you, the scent of ozone and expensive chemicals enveloping her.

"You're drifting," he noted. His voice had lost its clinical edge, it had dipped into something lower, a resonant vibration that seemed to hum against your skin. "The sedative is still saturated in your bloodstream. Your heart rate is elevated. Interesting."

You blinked, your eyelashes heavy. You tried to lift a hand to push him back, but your arm felt like lead, flopping uselessly against the metal table.

"I... can't..."

"I know you can't."

He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand slid down, tracing the line of your jaw, then dipping lower to the edge of the bandages wrapping your torso. He didn't touch the wound, but his fingers lingered on the healthy skin just beside it.

"You were reckless," he murmured. "A lapse in judgment. A variable I hadn't accounted for."

"Did I... fix it?"

"The wound is closed. The internal bleeding stopped. You are, physically, a success."

He paused. The silence in the lab grew heavy, thick with a tension that felt different from the sterile atmosphere of the surgery. Dottore’s breathing shifted, becoming rhythmic and shallow. He moved his hand, sliding it beneath the hem of the thin hospital gown, his palm flat against the warmth of her stomach.

You shivered. The sensation was magnified by the drugs, every touch feeling like a lightning strike across a numb landscape. You tried to speak, to ask what he was doing, but the words dissolved into a hazy sigh.

"Your skin is flushed," Dottore whispered, his face inches from hers. "A systemic reaction to the trauma, or perhaps a response to the stimulus. I find myself wondering which."

"Dottore... stop..."

"Hm, should I?"

He didn't stop. He shifted his position, stepping between your sprawled legs, the heavy fabric of his coat brushing against your thighs. The movement was deliberate, devoid of the usual clinical haste. He looked at you really looked at you, not as a specimen or an assistant, but as something he intended to consume.

"You've spent months learning my rhythms, y/n. You've corrected my notes. You've anticipated my needs."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The heat of his breath contrasted sharply with the chill of the room.

"Now, I want to see how you react to a variable you cannot anticipate."

His hand moved higher, his fingers grazing the underside of your breast. You gasped, your back arching instinctively. The anesthesia made the pleasure feel distorted, an overwhelming wave that crashed over you without warning, stripping away your ability to resist. You felt the world tilt, the white ceiling spinning as he captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperation and dominance, blowing your mind away.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. He tasted of iron and obsession.

Dottore pulled back just enough to look into your glazed eyes. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the red of his irises.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded. "Fight through the fog. Give me a conscious response." He was completely aware that you did not have the strength to protest.

You struggled. You wanted to say no, to reclaim the boundary he was systematically erasing. However, your body was screaming for something else, your hole clenching around nothing and your mind going more cloudy not because of the anesthesia, but the intimacy you are in. The warmth of him was the only thing keeping the cold of the lab at bay. The bond you guys had built, the shared silences, the hidden gifts, the unspoken trust, warped under the pressure of the moment. Your hand, trembling and weak, managed to clutch at the lapel of his coat, pulling him closer.

"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Just... don't leave."

A dark, triumphant sound vibrated in his chest. He stripped away the remaining barriers of cloth with a sudden, violent efficiency. The air hit her skin, cold and biting, before he replaced it with the crushing weight of his body.

He did not waste time entertaining you with his tip, and pushed his length all the way inside you.

You cried out, the sound echoing off the walls. It was too much, the pain in your ribs, the haze in your mind, and the sudden, invasive fullness of him. He froze for a second, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against yours.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes-..," you whispered, your voice so vulnerable, near to crying.

"Good."

He began to move, a steady, punishing rhythm that mirrored the precision of his research. Each thrust was a calculation, designed to elicit a specific response. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flicker of pleasure and pain, as if he were recording the data in real-time.

"Your pupils are dilating. Your respiration is erratic."

He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, bruising the pale flesh. He wasn't being careful anymore. The mask of the Doctor had slipped, leaving behind a man driven by a hunger that no amount of knowledge could satisfy.

"You are the only thing in this facility that doesn't bore me," he groaned, his voice breaking for the first time. "The only variable that refuses to be solved."

As you parted your lips to gasp for air, he captured them with his, giving you no room to breathe. It was messy and almost like a predator devouring its prey.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The fog in her mind began to clear, replaced by a strong desire for release. You could feel the friction, the heat, the way your breaths mingled in the chilled air. You stopped being a subject. You stopped being an assistant. In the wreckage of the moment, you were simply two broken things colliding in the dark.

“Ngh- Doctor I-..!”

Dottore gently wiped the single tear trailing down your cheek and arranged your strands of hair.

“Shh.. Not yet. You can hold it in for a bit, can't you?”

After few moments, the doctor's movements accelerated vigorously, hinting an immediate need for orgasm.

“Come for me,” he groaned in the crook of your neck as he slapped into you faster. “I- I’m close.”

As the climax hit, it felt like a physical blow. You clung to him, your nails scratching into his back, your world narrowing down to the point where your bodies met. Dottore let out a low, guttural sound, his body shuddering as he collapsed against you, his weight pinning you to the table.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the surgical lamp and their ragged, synchronized breathing.

Dottore eventually shifted, pulling away slowly. He didn't offer a hand to help you up, nor did he apologize. He stood and began to dress, his movements returning to their usual, effortless composure. He reached for his mask, sliding it back into place, the porcelain void returning to hide his expression.

He looked down at you, lying breathless and shattered on the metal table.

"The recovery period will now be extended," he said, his voice once again flat and clinical. "I'll need to monitor the effects of the physical exertion on your sutures."

You watched him, her chest heaving. The haze was gone, and in its place was a terrifyingly clear understanding of what you were to each other.

"Was that part of the research?" You asked, your voice raw.

Dottore paused at the door, his silhouette sharp against the hall light as he looked back to you over his shoulders.

"No," he replied. "That was for me."

But just as the tension coils toward a breaking point, he abruptly froze.  

Lohen completely halted his rhythm, holding his length deep within your pulsing warmth and leaving you torturously suspended right on the precipice of a climax. “No, why𑁋 why did you stop…” 

He let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His own face remained deeply flushed, his jaw locking tight as he fought down his own burning urge to finish, stranded right at the brink of his own release. Tilting his head with a slightly irritated yet playful smirk, he looked down at you. “Oh, so you can talk,” Lohen panted out, a mocking edge to his voice. “You wouldn’t say a single word to me all day, but look at you now.”

“The second I stop, you start begging.” You shook your head, your core throbbing around him as the sudden, agonising denial left you entirely unraveled. “Please, Lohen… I was so close…” you whine, moving your hips upward against his frozen pelvis in a desperate search for friction.

Instead of granting your relief, he leaned forward, his grin widening at the sight of your desperation. “Consider this your punishment for being so quiet all day. I want to hear how loud you can get for me,” he teases, his voice dropping into a low murmur as your needy sighs filedl the space between you. His lips captured yours and you immediately melted into the heat of the kiss.

Right as his mouth seals your lips, he slammed deep inside you, a single thrust hitting your sweet spot perfectly. The sudden overwhelming sensation makes you gasp into his mouth.

When he pulls from the kiss, shifting his weight to sit up straight, your hands break free from his loosened grip to desperately wrap around his neck, clawing at his shoulders to lock him down in a tight embrace so he can’t move away. Driven entirely mad by the agonising friction, you lifted your hips to grind and roll your core against his buried length.

The unexpected movement forced a low groan from the back of Lohen’s throat, his entire frame shuddering as your slick heat squeezed him tightly. He lets out a dark, muffled chuckle. “Look at you, so needy for me.” His forehead now pressed against yours as he meets your needy gaze directly, his fingers digging deep into your hips to take control of your desperate pace. “Ignoring me the whole day and now you’re practically riding my cock just to make yourself come.”

He grinds his hips hard against yours to completely pin you beneath him, “keep doing that and I’ll make sure you’re begging me to let you come for the rest of the night.”

.𖥔 ݁ 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄

Watching you play your little silent game all day had merely amused him, your pathetic attempt at psychological defiance registering to his clinical mind as nothing more than a minor behavioral defect that required a thoroughly hands-on correction. Rather than breaking your silence through force, he decides to turn your own game into a strict, agonisingly sensual rule.

Pinning you face-down against the heavy mahogany desk in his lab, his left hand gathers both of your wrists behind your lower back to anchor you in place as he slides deep into your slick heat from behind. 

Every heavy, calculated push of his hips is an exercise in intense friction, right hand holding you perfectly still on your sides to deliberately stretch out the deep pleasure, making you tremble helplessly beneath his cold, unyielding weight. 

He watches the way your back arches, a low laugh vibrating against your skin as he leans down to press his masked face right beside your ear. “Since you found it so easy to keep your mouth shut today…” he pauses, his pelvis rolling in a slow, heavy circle to grind hard against your sensitive core, making your breath hitch.  “...let’s see you do it now, hm?” Dottore whispers teasingly against your ear.

His right hand moves from your hip to firmly cup over your mouth, and even with his palm sealing your lips, he can feel the rapid, heavy heat of your frantic panting as you whine shamelessly straight into his skin. “Mmmph𑁋! D-Dottore…” you whimper desperately, your body involuntarily twitching against his as he hits your sweet spot with a sharp, deep thrust that sends a violent wave of pleasure. 

“Dottore?” he interrupts, his voice dropping into a stern tone of absolute authority. “It’s Doctor to you when you’re misbehaving on my desk.” Dottore momentarily yanks his hand away from your lips just as he slams his hips entirely, driving into you as deeply as possible. The sudden shattering wave of pleasure breaks your control completely, forcing a loud, needy sob to echo through the empty lab as your body arches helplessly against his. “Ah! Please, Doctor𑁋 haah, it’s too much𑁋!” 

“Shh…” He instantly clamps his palm back over your lips, covering your loud, frantic gasps into muffled whimpers.

“Quiet now, my dear. My subordinates are just outside that door.” Dottore glances over at the heavy entryway, listening to the distant sound of muffled footsteps passing by in the corridor. Capitalizing on the danger, he releases your wrists from his left hand, letting your arms fall forward so your fingers can frantically claw at the smooth edge of the desk for leverage.

“You wouldn’t want them to hear exactly how pathetic and loud you get when your master decides to play along with your little games, would you?” His free hand that held your wrist now moved between your thighs, his fingers finding your swollen, drenched clit and delierately rubbing it in a fast, teasing rhythm while his hips continue to grind at an accelerating pace from behind.

Your eyes widen at the sudden, intense overstimulation that hit you, your hips rolling against his touch, trying to swallow the frantic sounds building in your chest. 

Dottore leans closer, his lips awfully close to the skin of your neck. “Let’s see just how much it takes to break that stubborn little silence of yours completely, my little dove.”

.𖥔 ݁ 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀

Your stubborn determination to maintain silence all day had only served to provide him with a clear target. To Childe, your silence was an open invitation, a dare from an opponent who mistakenly believed they could outlast his patience. If you refuse to grant him words, he was entirely confident in his ability to extract a reaction physically, transforming the bedroom into a high-stakes arena where he held every distinct advantage.

Dragging your trembling form toward the edge of the mattress, he settled himself between your thighs and effortlessly hooked your knees over his shoulders, exposing your flushed skin completely to his gaze. “Look at how pretty you are for me, darling,” he murmured, a low breathy chuckle vibrating his throat, “so soaked and you haven’t even let me touch you yet. Were you thinking about this while you were ignoring me all day?”

Before you could twist away, Childe leaned down to anchor your hips firmly beneath his hands. His mouth pressed directly against your drenched core, his tongue flickering over your swollen clit with a rapid precision, while he simultaneously buried two long fingers deep within your slick warmth.

The dual assault of his ruthless lapping and the deep, rhythmic stretch of his fingers induced a state of overwhelming overstimulation. Your hands flew downward to tangle desperately in his messy ginger hair, your fingers tugging as if to pull him away, yet the gesture only pinned him closer. Your hips rolled helplessly against his face, entirely unable to resist the piercing friction.

Pausing for a brief fraction of a second, he looked up to observe your dazed expression, a smug grin gracing his wet lips as your high-pitched moans finally fractured the quiet room. “Come on, darling,” Childe sighed, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin before his tongue resumed its merciless rhythm against your sweet spot. “You were so resilient all morning. Let’s see how long that stubborn composure lasts now.”

The intense stimulation of his mouth coupled with the deliberate curling of his fingers completely broke your remaining restraint. A violent, twitching climax seized your body, forcing your spine to arch off the sheets. Yet, before you could recover or catch your breath, without removing his lips, Childe drove his fingers deeper, stretching your post-orgasmic walls and accelerating his movements without a single hint of leniency.

A loud wail tore from your throat as his tongue lashed your hypersensitive flesh while his knuckles bottomed out inside you. “Ajax, wait𑁋 Ah! It’s t-too much𑁋!” you sobbed, your thighs trembling violently against his shoulders and your fingers gripped on to the sheets of the bed, your entire being shuddered around his hand.

He let out a sharp breathless laugh against your inner thigh. Tilting his head just enough to meet your lewd gaze, his blue eyes sparked with a thrilling triumphant heat. “There’s that pretty voice,” Childe teased, his tone dropping into a low raspy growl. “Look at you, so desperate. You kept avoiding me all day, but the second you’re touched, you’re crying my name just like that?”

He refused to grant you a reprieve, instead his grip shifted to the back of your knees, tilting your pelvis upward to expose your aching core even further. “Ahh! Oh my god, Ajax!” His tongue swept deeply into your opening before driving upward to punish your clit, while his fingers maintained a frantic, unhinged sprint inside your pulsing warmth.

“Say it again,” he growled against your skin, watching your body writhe beneath his touch, dragging desperate cries from your lips with every stroke. “Keep calling me that, sweetheart. Let me hear how noisy you get when you’re being ruined like this.”

"hmm? pretty sensitive here, aren't you. adorable," pulling off the gloves using his teeth before prodding at your inner thighs, "tell me, what do you call this?" the cold temperature of his fingers against your skin made you shiver.

"i... nnh— err... it's a femur right?" a haze fielded your view, the atmosphere turning only thicker, and thicker. it was something he found adorable, the way you perched on his lap, your bare body on his own that stayed in clothing. leaving a hand to stay between your legs,

he loved inspecting you.

"correct, good. how about right here?" caressing around neck, briefly moving over your throat before resting on your collarbone. "and i want the scientific name,"

your mind blanked for a second, his touch making you shudder again, "ahhn, w- wait! waitwaitwait... s—scapula...!" you could feel his free hand slowly run over your heat, another chilly breeze passing over your body, twitching subconsciously.

"mmmn- haah, fuck.." throwing your head back onto the empty slot beside his own nape. his finger runs briefly over your slit as you did.

you shut your eyes again, as if to brace for whatever he'd be planning. fuck.

"tell me, i'm staying right here till you can tell me all about this body."

...

even when he held onto your hips, he'd ask you for all their names even when he has you bent over the cold countertop, dangerous liquids, and vials pushed to the side. your chest being pushed up the frigid temperature of the marble countertop.

maybe being buried deep inside you wasn't enough for him because he wouldn't stop placing little lovebites down your spine.

it was harsh how he could thrust in you hitting all the spots your fingers have been aching to do.

"just tell me, mmn- haah. my newest little assistant,"

stopping his fast-paced thrusts for a moment, watching his cock twitch and htrob before waiting for answer. "m'gonna count to ten, i want you to answer before you come,"

"adorable, shaking this much and i haven't released inside you yet. you've only answered fifteen of my twenty questions..."

stroking the sensitive skin of your waist once more before-

"one." plap!

you yelped in surprise, you could already see the smirk on his face.

"two," plap!

another whimper leaving your lips, your back arching all of a sudden, god what the hell were they called?! "whaah! w- wait! it- it's called... called os coxae!"

"good, that's sixteen out of twenty,"

you let out a sigh of relief,

"now, this," moving his hand downwards a little bit more before he resumes his merciless pounding, "is called y- your ilium, you feel that?"

dottore lets out his signature evil laugh before it turns into a deep groan, "mmmmfuuckk! so, so fucking good," the obscene sounds that echoed across the room made your breath hitch again.

"three— oooh.." ramming his hips into yours consistently was enough to make you forget the rest of whatever he had just told you about earlier, god you were supposed to help him; now it just feels like he's using this teaching as an excuse to fuck you :(

"yeah? you like that? like my length this deep in you?" your cunt ached around him as he continued,

"four..." his voice faded into the white noise you barely hung onto your conscience with, biting your lip- your arms having lost feeling a while ago; "f-uuuck, f- four..." his grasp on your waist had his nails indenting crescent-shaped marks into your skin,

"whhngh, d- do... dottore... pl—eeaseeff m'gonna-" he cuts your voice off with a harsh stop to his thrusts, "don't come yet brat, don't fucking come yet."

your gummy walls clench around him so suddenly, hearing the hiss through his teeth, rubbing small circles on your waist, his fingertips caressing over the little moons in your hips.

"you're gonna hold that in until ten, yes?"

you nod frantically, already whimpering under your breath at the loss of your high.

one of his hands moved over the poor bulge his cock caused into your stomach. "oh my, is my lovely little assistant upset about their little climax being taken?"

before you knew it he was picking you up to pin your body against the wall instead. "apologies, i'd prefer a good view when i see you trying to hold this in."

"five." starting his pace again when you start to tighten around his cock, making you scrunch your face, your legs wrapped around his waist while his arms have no problem carrying you, even moreso to have you so neatly pinned to the wall.

"fuuck- fiivvee..." repeating the number again had you trying your best not to squirt on his dick again, it was charming- endearing even. "just hold it right there, yes? mmf- such a good assistant for me."

grinding his tip against your core was heavenly, barely being able to think was one, now he can't stop overstimulating you? oh god no, not before your fourth orgasm :(

"six," voice trailing on, you could feel your weight quietly sag onto the wall behind you when one of his arms moved away, into a position he could rub your poor swollen clit in, of course ^_^

"seven... can you still hold it?" maniacal laughter—you could already imagine it spilling from his throat once more. your breaths getting heavier as you tried your best,

"ah, i think i lost count... where were we? five?" his digit dips itself into your sopping wet cunt, making you jolt in surprise, a gasp for air again, "hhaah- i'm... s- sure... we w—ere on... s- seven, sir." his eyes roll back into his skull hearing your tantalizing little tone managing to mutter out 'sir'.

"tell me more about the ilium first, then i'll go from seven, hmm?" a mean pinch was sent to your poor clit when you winced. letting out a moan before shaking it off; mustering up an answer, "i- its the, nghaah... the... mmn—largest bone in the os coxae... mmnnhaah! aka o- our hips!"

"mhm, so we were on six." stray strands of hair fell on your forehead as you tried your best to look your boss in the eyes. "m- mhm?" - "you know what my favorite part about your os coxae is?"

you couldn't get yourself to even hum in acknowledgement, yet he persisted; "how your skin bounces at my force, and how i can control how easily you break just by holding you. very charming, i must admit,"

"you've been far more entertaining than any of the assistants i've had throughout the years,"

leaning in to place a brief hungry kiss on your lips, not before licking the skin right beside them.

"mine."

The grand hall of Zapolyarny Palace gleamed with cold opulence—crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors. The hall’s high arched stained windows revealed the quiet chaos of the snowstorm outside; snowflakes painted the palace with its icy elegance. Today’s agenda was rather bleak, no new missions from Her Majesty had been tasked, nor was there anything of pure interest beyond the palace walls. 

Naturally, with a dull day like this, Sandrone held her tea parties to combat idle bodies within the palace. Her parties were far from formal, more so a casual gathering between friends and people alike—if the Harbingers even considered each other friends. Nonetheless, the get-together was always immaculate—every pristine teacup was aligned and every mechanical attendant moved with flawless precision. As expected from the Seventh Harbinger herself.

Amongst the group sat you with your usual stillness—calm like the ocean yet as mysterious as its azure depths. What lay beneath its tranquil surface was nothing but a façade of lies. It wasn’t a surprise you lived up to your title—Prevaricator.

Sandrone presided at the head of the table, she sat with precision, back pin-straight as she nursed the freshly brewed beverage. Straight across from her, sat Columbina, and Arlecchino on a vermillion sofa; you and Rosalyne to her right, leaving two empty chairs across from you. On some days, The Captain and Childe would occupy those seats.

“When do you leave for Inazuma, Rosalyne?” Sandrone peeked through the steam that rose from her cup, cerulean eyes piercing yet held no ill intent.

The blonde swallowed down a piece of biscuit before replying, a sharp hand covered her crimson-stained lips out of etiquette, “In three days’ time. I’ll make sure to get you Inazuman tea once I get back.” Rosalyne laughed which pulled an eye roll from Sandrone.

Before the latter could entertain the banter, Columbina spoke up, her dainty voice just enough for all to hear, “Inazuma? I’ve heard The Balladeer is also assigned there.” Rosalyne nodded, despite her quiet response, her displeased face conveyed all emotions needed to conclude how she felt about the Inazuman puppet.

As for you, your feelings toward The Balladeer were nothing but neutral. Sure, you’ve previously exchanged disagreements on several occasions but that was all there was to your ‘relationship’. Though, his mannerisms and sharp words awfully reminded you of a certain Harbinger—one you could barely stand even if your life depended on it.

You weren’t alone in that opinion.

As you spiraled into pure disdain for your colleague, a set of icy footsteps against the marbled floors halted all conversation—your thoughts included. For a mere second, it was as though time had stopped and the snowfall outside was suspended mid-air. Oxygen grew thin within the palace and you swore the temperature dipped below necessary. Even Sandrone’s automatons seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat.

Dottore stepped inside. Uninvited. Unannounced. Unwelcomed. As if your unkind thoughts had somewhat summoned the devil himself.

With pure mockery and amusement, Dottore tilted his head slightly, taking in the frozen expressions of his colleagues. His pointed mask shone beneath the crystal chandeliers. 

“Is this how you welcome a guest?” The Doctor drawled. “How cold. You should all be delighted I’m even attending this . . . get-together.” He ended the sentence with absolute scorn, obviously looking down at his fellow Harbingers.

Sandrone’s fingers tightened around the porcelain cup, “You weren’t invited.” She said flatly.

“Ah.” Dottore started, already headed towards the mahogany table, “Details.” He ignored the Seventh entirely and claimed an empty seat, a seat reserved for anyone but him—directly across from you.

You did not react. Nor did you acknowledge his presence beyond the faint clink of porcelain as you set your cup down as if it were any other tea party. Unlike Sandrone who wore her negative emotions proudly, you remained expressionless—cool, unreadable, and infuriatingly indifferent.

Dottore watched your calm figure from beneath his mask.

Of course you would pretend he didn’t exist. That was what fascinated him the most.

Nothing but a lowly ranked Harbinger yet you carried yourself like someone who had already surpassed every soul in the room. And that’s what made Dottore’s skin itch.

Oh, how badly he wanted to break that false persona of yours, and reveal the weak, poor human you were beneath all those layers. After all, your very existence was built on lies—delusions, just like your genius invention.

Being the Tenth Harbinger meant that your physical prowess wasn’t as refined as the others but your intellect was a different story, and admittedly, it utterly amazed Dottore more than anything.

Who could’ve come up with such a brilliant idea of manufacturing Delusions? Even though the entire process was a joint project between you and Dottore—much to your dismay—he had to give you credit. Not only did your invention further aid each Harbinger with their combat skills but it was also being mass produced in Inazuma right this very moment.

Such a feat a lowly Harbinger could obtain.

Which is why you have piqued his very interest. Dottore wanted to study you, to dissect each and every neuron, and learn how your action potentials differed from the rest—was it your synapses? Or maybe your neurotransmitters? Maybe that’s where your blind arrogance came from.

“Well, don’t mind me. Do carry on with your trivial matters.” The Doctor dismissively waved a gloved hand, a smirk curled at the end of his carmine lips.

Silence remained for a beat or two before Sandrone cleared her throat and resumed conversation with Rosalyne in hopes to drown out a certain parasite amongst the group, “This tea is from Liyue, huh? Quite different from Fontaine, I must say . . . but I’m not complaining.”

Naturally, you followed suit by bringing your cup to your lips to finally get a taste of Liyuean tea—your sip earlier had been abruptly interrupted by The Doctor. The fresh brew tasted of intense floral notes . . Was it apricot and peach? Nonetheless, the flavour was right up your alley. You had to hand it to Rosalyne for having such an exquisite taste.

It had already been a couple of minutes since Dottore crashed the tea party and you were two cups in, having taken a liking to this particular brew. Huh, maybe you might just visit Liyue for yourself. Though, this second round felt a little off—not the taste, no, it was still as lovely as before—something to do with how it made you feel. Sure, the heater was on and around your shoulders was a thick ivory Fatui coat you regularly wore in Snezhnaya but they didn’t usually leave you extremely warm—blazing, even.

You frowned.

Dottore noticed instantaneously. 

How your posture shifted imperceptibly—one leg crossing over the other, shoulders rising with a much deeper breath than before. A faint warmth kissed its way down to your collar, even extending as far as to your chest. The slight shift was invisible to most in the room, except Dottore.

Ah. There it is. He thought.

Your fingers lingered at the rim of the porcelain piece as you set it down once again; you weren’t clumsy, nor weak, just a tad slower than your usual movement. Annoyed, you exhaled through your nose, absolutely oblivious to the reason as to why your body was somewhat disobeying you. Was it the long term effects of your Delusion finally catching up?

Dottore leaned back into the plush vermillion chair, fingers intertwined atop his crossed legs. Oh, how utterly delighted he was. Patience really is a virtue! His little experiment of the day had finally fallen into its rightful place; now, he shall sit and watch how you would handle the independent variable given. Of course, with this experiment of his, you were the controlled variable.

Upon instinct, your gaze finally lifted to meet Dottore’s—albeit behind a mask, there was no denying he had his crimson gaze set upon you. He responded with a mere head tilt, as if he were studying a rare specimen who finally gave him some kind of result.

A sly smile spread across his lips, “Are you unwell, Prevaricator?” Dottore asked pleasantly, voice full of concern yet you knew it was all mockery and amusement; that’s all the Harbingers were to him, a group of people convenient enough for him to play with, unfortunately for The Balladeer, he bore most of Dottore’s little games.

It seemed like you were next in line, though.

The Doctor had easily rerouted Sandrone’s automatons earlier before the tea party—a few adjustments just enough to programme her machinery to serve one cup differently from the rest with a diluted compound, a compound barely enough for your body to register. It wasn’t as potent as the final product but it was sure to disrupt your system even by a smidge.

And that’s where Dottore thrived the most, on small differences.

His question drew unwanted attention from the rest, their curious gaze now upon you. It was more so the fact that no one else wanted to engage in a conversation with Dottore.

Your eyes narrowed a fraction, “No,” A small pause.

“Just . . . warm.” Curt and icy, a response only he deserved. “Oh?” The Second Harbinger pressed further.

“This hall is simply overheated.” At your clipped response, his smile stretched even further behind his pointed mask. What an unsettling sight.

Liar. The Doctor thought.

You shifted in your seat once again, this time, your jaw tightened, fully irritated by your own body. Aside from the sharp heat that clung to every corner of your skin, you felt . . . Sensitive; the distinct contrast of the frost bitten air that ghosted your cheeks once in a while against feverish skin formed goosebumps all over your body. Even your chest ached with slight sensitivity as it rubbed against your undergarment. You weren’t utterly uncomfortable but it was enough to fuel your budding annoyance.

That, alone, fascinated Dottore.

He leaned forward slightly as if to study you closer for a brief moment before getting up from his seat, “How disappointing,” Dottore murmured lowly to himself but it was certainly loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I was hoping for something . . . More telling.” He gave you one last look which was met with a cold glare from you. Ah, he adored that look on you, that expression of pure defiance and hatred; you could bury your innermost feelings with such expressions yet it didn’t deny the fact that your pupils were a touch wider now, breathing a fraction slower—heavier.

This was only a tiny crack on the surface but it was more than enough to prove Dottore’s hypothesis—that beneath your seemingly unbreakable façade, you were susceptible to breaking.

Now, he only needed to calculate your breaking point.

How far were you willing to endure? Would you fold after the next experiment? Or would you stick to your stubborn façade and refuse to give in while you suffered in silence? Dottore could barely wait to write his next hypothesis.

Without another word, The Doctor turned to leave.

Confusion amongst you and your colleagues lingered in the air but soon dissipated upon conversations of shared dislike for the Second Harbinger; you could only nod along, heat that simmered beneath your skin needed your attention far more than the conversation at hand. Even your head began to spin. You wanted to call it a day but Rosalyne was bound for Inazuma for an unknown period of time in a few days and you wanted to spend today with her since she had just gotten back from Liyue regarding a previous task.

The get-together rolled on for a couple more hours until conversations ran dry and tea turned cold and it was time to finally call it a day. Everyone excused themselves without ceremony and returned to their respective homes—thankfully, the snowstorm had died down. On another day, you would have done the same but your body proved to be more disoriented than you had assumed, thus, the best option was to reside within the Zapolyarny Palace for the night.

Each Harbinger was assigned personalised quarters by the Tsaritsa for the purpose of convenience such as summonings before lengthy meetings and other matters but of course, no one was obligated to stay in those quarters during other times. Though, Sandrone and Columbina did frequent their respective spaces; you assumed for the former’s case, it was for pure convenience since it was nearer to the Fatui’s Experimental Bureau.

By the time you had reached the upper corridors of the Palace, the cold marble beneath your boots felt wrong; the hear of your skin also hadn’t faded, if anything, it had deepened into something more unbearable: a persistent awareness which you resented with every step. 

You hated this. Hated the way your mind slipped when it should’ve been sharp and precise, hated the dull tension your lower spine housed, and the irritation that came with not knowing why. You knew your body far better than anyone else, so why hasn’t your mind come up with a concise conclusion?

As you rounded the corner, you reached out a hand against the wall to steady yourself, just a few more steps and you’d reach your quarters. Pull it together.

“Are you sure you’re well?”

At the familiar voice, you stopped in your tracks, body swaying ever so slightly as if calm tides of the ocean lulled you back and forth. You hadn't even heard footsteps trailing behind you nor did you sense anyone else’s presence, was this because of your cognitive decline?

Dottore stood behind you, half-shadowed by the dimly lit corridor, posture relaxed as if he had every reason to be outside your quarters so late in the afternoon. You didn’t own the entire hallway, of course but he rarely presented himself in the Palace unless he was summoned by the Tsaritsa, let alone step foot on the upper corridors.

His voice was smooth, almost considerate, “You look like you need . . .” He paused for a heartbeat, “Help.” Whether it was your soiled mind talking or simply the tone of Dottore’s voice, the implication sat heavy in the air like an unpleasant smoke, and it wasn’t innocent either. Just the thought of it coming from The Doctor had you shuddering.

“I’m fine.” You straightened, not even bothering to turn around. “Whatever you’re implying, save it for someone who cares.” Before you could continue your step, Dottore swiftly crossed the distance between the two of you, grabbing a firm hold of your wrist. There was no skin to skin contact yet his touch burned, almost enough to let out an embarrassing gasp.

“Implying? What a bold conclusion. What could you possibly mean by that?” Your pulse jumped at his words, utterly betraying your entire soul. “Let go.” You spun to face him, eyes flashing with raw fury.

Dottore ignored your protest, instead, he stepped forward, ultimately caging you between himself and the icy wall behind your back. An arm braced beside your head, body close enough to feel the heat radiating off him; the faint scent of antiseptics and a few more chemicals you couldn’t name invaded your senses. It made you nauseous.

“There it is. That look.” He murmured, positively amused at your reaction. Your breath came a fraction faster and you despised the thought of Dottore being able to notice the slight difference.

Huh, who knew dosing you a diluted version of the independent variable would incite such a mix of reactions, if only The Doctor had known he’d obtain a variety of results from this simple experiment, he would’ve gone all the way and given you the undiluted compound. But alas, he was nice enough to ease you into the drug.

“Do you have any idea how insufferable you are?”

You scoffed, "You're blocking my way, I think you’re the more insufferable one here.”

Dottore leaned in, only slightly—not to invade your space but just enough to threaten it.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already above everyone in them. You don’t beg for relevance, nor do you perform—it’s as if you believe you’re untouchable.” His voice dipped, much sharper this time.

Your jaw tightened, “Move.”

“That arrogance,” Dottore retorted. “Is precisely what irks me.”

Refusing to look away and lose the fight, you met his gaze head-on through his mask, ignoring the fact that your skin now burned a thousand flames, and you were hyperaware of every inch of space between yourself and The Doctor.

“Yet here you are. Following me—cornering me. If I’m beneath you then why bother tailing after some lowly Harbinger?” Dottore’s amusement completely vanished at your words, and something much, much colder took its place.

“People who think they’re superior are usually just hiding something.” The grip around your wrist tightened, it wasn’t painful but it was deliberate. “And I am very good at uncovering what lies beneath façades.”

“Seems like you’re projecting. Let go of me before you regret it.” Obviously, you were no match for The Doctor when it came to physical combat but at least with your Delusion, you could hold him off for a bit until Her Majesty finally notices two of her Harbingers are at each other’s throats. 

Dottore chuckled, “How fascinating. Even compromised, you still bare your teeth.” That was another result for him, he made a mental note of it so he could jot all his findings down later.

At least, Dottore released your wrist and stepped back, allowing some of your senses to finally return, “For now, get some rest, Prevaricator. I’d hate for you to collapse before I’ve satisfied my curiosity.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, akin to a ghostly apparition.

You stood there for a good minute, trying to process the whole situation despite your impaired cognitive ability. Fury and unease twisted in your gut, creating a ball of mixed emotions, it sat heavy and absolutely uncomfortable but that wasn’t the worst part. It was the fact that whatever you were experiencing right now, Dottore had somewhat gotten his bloodstained hands involved.

On purpose, too, and all the while a sly smile plastered upon his masked face.

You felt sick.

With Dottore, there was never really an end in things, he was like a parasitic species—stubborn and hard to get rid of once they got a hold of their host. With this in mind, you stumbled into tomorrow with your defenses up, walls built higher this time.

At 10 AM, you found yourself in one of the auxiliary research lounges in the Experimental Bureau, the symptoms of yesterday long gone but not forgotten. The auxiliary served as an informal space within the building, an area for research staff and people alike to collaborate and discuss findings over a hot cup. Even though these rooms were built for relaxation, they certainly didn’t look the part—just like any other experimental building under the Fatui, it was all metal and cold; sound travelled far and beyond within these walls.

Safe to say you rarely bumped into your fellow Harbingers in spaces like these—especially Sandrone and Dottore who were frequent users of the facilities at the Bureau.

Just like the two, you conducted experiments and built items but your focus was on physical enhancement, mainly in combat. Human experiments weren’t ruled out of the list but you weren’t like The Doctor—unethical trials weren’t your cup of tea. Your research focused on enhancing what has already existed, not creating something that didn’t exist. Sure, there were times unwanted adverse effects spiraled out of control but that was all part of the process. Not every experiment was perfect.

“Prevaricator. You look well rested.” Unbelievable.

Now, even your coffee break was interrupted? Dottore’s laboratory was on the other side of the building, how could he have possibly ended up in your territory?

He walked in with confidence that had your eye twitching; you hadn’t even noticed the sound of the large metallic door hissing open—were you really that out of it today?

“You tampered with my tea.” You replied flatly, gaze locked onto the hot beverage resting on the table before you.

“An accusation. How unlike you.” Dottore placed a gloved hand atop his chest, feigning offense.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “You don’t attend social gatherings outside banquets, you don’t follow people to their quarters, and I don’t experience unexplained physiological changes unless someone interferes.”

Dottore stood there for a moment before breaking into an unsettling smile, “Very good. You finally noticed.” He praised you. You frowned, seething at the fact that he had treated you like one of his test subjects—they were always unwilling to participate in his experiments yet he proceeded nonetheless without a care, every single time. Their bone-chilling screams haunted your late night projects and you had no choice but to ignore them.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Dottore made his way over to the table you sat on. “About how resilient you were yesterday. Sure, it was only a diluted compound but any other subject would have pathetically . . . Given in.” He reached into his pocket and took out a tiny vial filled with an iridescent liquid, it glimmered beneath the warm lights of the auxiliary.

“This is more refined.” “If you think I’m going to drink that, you are wholly mistaken.”

“Of course you will.” Dottore placed the vial on the table with a clink, right next to your steaming coffee. “Because you’re curious, and you hate unanswered questions more than you hate me.” In truth, the hatred you harboured for both were equal; unanswered questions in research were your biggest enemy and it drove you absolutely mad.

At your indifference, he spoke up once again, “Or because you want to prove that you’re still in control. You’d want that, wouldn’t you?” 

Silence stretched longer than Dottore had wanted but he was a patient man, perfect results took time and with the gears turning in your head, he would conclude he’s not far off.

The thought of Dottore being in control of even a sliver of your life had you fuming, no one wanted that. Surely the effect of this substance wouldn’t be as bad, right? If anything went horrendously wrong, you could always trust in your expertise but would your cognitive abilities even pull through under a more potent chemical?

Despite your better judgement, you reached for the small vial, unscrewed its metal top off, and drank it all in one gulp. As expected, the taste was absolutely horrid; it stung your throat like you’d swallowed a thousand needles. You let out a cough, tears lining your eyes.

Dottore smirked. Right into the lion’s den.

Due to its higher potency, the substance acted a lot faster this time. The liquid sat heavy on your stomach, as if your gastric acid itself directly rejected it, not only did it make you nauseous but it also left an uncomfortable feeling. He noticed the way your breath hitched or how your brows furrowed in realisation that this chemical was much, much stronger.

He moved closer, one, two, three steps to close the distance, “Do you feel it? The way your body is betraying your discipline?”

You sat there for a while, wordlessly assessing the substance’s onset effects—increased heart rate, increased body temperature, vasodilation, cognitive fog, slowed motor skills, and slowed breathing. Your hearing became sensitive, both sharp and muffled at the same time, even Dottore’s sentence sounded almost incoherent but not quite.

“I think . .” You started, trying to catch your breath. “I think you should leave.”

Suspiciously  enough, Dottore didn’t push any further, instead, he took a step back, “Rest. This dosage shall pass . . . Eventually.” The click clack of his shoes echoed in your ears as Dottore left the auxiliary.

You’ll be back in no time. He thought to himself.

You sighed a breath of relief, his presence was suffocating to say the least, and being under the influence of some substance didn’t help. Taking a few controlled, deep breaths, you tried to calm yourself; suddenly drinking coffee didn’t feel like the right thing to do. So, with a hazy mind and light feet, you left the auxiliary and headed to your own laboratory.

As you walked in, your subordinates greeted you, they immediately sensed something was wrong but didn’t dare pry—after all, it wasn’t their position to question their Lady Harbinger even if it meant concern. You tried your best to oversee experiments and discuss results but as each minute passed, your body began to feel even stranger.

Indecent thoughts slipped in and out of your mind, your skin yearned to be touched, and not to mention the uncomfortable heat that pooled between your legs. The flu-like symptoms from earlier you could handle but this was something else, it drove you to the borders of insanity; with the absence of another’s touch, your cunt ached.

You tried to hold it out—to let the effects pass but you only lasted about an hour or two before you ultimately kicked out every single soul inside the laboratory out of embarrassment. There was no way in hell you’d let your subordinates see you in such a state; gossip amongst lower ranked Fatui spread like wildfire and you weren’t about to become the topic of the month.

This compound didn’t simmer like the last, instead, it demanded immediate attention.

The laboratory now fell silent, only the constant hum of machines and ventilation accompanied your ragged breaths. You leaned over your desk, fists curling against the smooth surface as you cursed Dottore with every unpleasant word your impaired mind could think of. The period of effect was unknown, so basically you were just playing a waiting game, a dangerous one at that.

But you weren’t about to settle for this—no, you demanded answers from The Doctor. 

Right now. Your patience had been exhausted and could feel a reckless storm brewing within you—one that abandoned rationality.

Without a second thought, you crossed the entire building from one side to the other, it was probably the fastest you’ve walked despite slightly limping from discomfort between your legs. Archons, you could only imagine how crazed you looked.

The door to Dottore’s laboratory screeched upon opening, gaining the attention of all staff inside it, including the Harbinger himself. He didn’t have to wait for the door to fully open to conclude it was you, according to his calculations, he expected you to show up right about now.

Before the staff could murmur amongst themselves, Dottore spoke a singular word—loud, clear and icy.

“Out.”

His subordinates didn’t have to be told twice. They shuffled to their feet rather quickly, immediately dropping whatever task they had at hand before squeezing out the door as if some madman were chasing them. Something in their mind whispered they wouldn’t want to witness what was going to happen next.

As the last person rushed out, the heavy door behind you hissed as it closed, leaving you and Dottore alone in his laboratory.

“Well, this is highly unexpected.”

“You’re going to give me a counteragent.” You demanded immediately.

Dottore momentarily paused before laughing at your retort, it wasn’t a cruel laugh, it was pure amusement. “My, this drug has really done its job, hasn’t it? Your mind is a mess!” Your furrowed brows and downturned lips only fuelled his delight. “You speak of a counteragent yet aphrodisiacs aren’t poisonous—they don’t harm the body, they heighten one’s senses and increase libido. Indeed, anaphrodisiacs exist but they don’t serve as a counteragent. In short, there is no ‘cure’.”

“The effects dissipate only after . . . release.” Dottore added. 

An aphrodisiac? How could you have not come to that conclusion? You were so caught up in Dottore’s scheme that you completely forgot to account for the use of a common drug. Everything about him screamed complex so it was only right to assume he had synthesized a rather intricate substance.

“You’re well-versed in medicine and human physiology. You should know exactly how these types of compounds function.” Dottore slowly circled your unstable figure as if he were a predator sizing up its prey.

“Tell me, Prevaricator. If you rely on this counteragent you speak of, why didn’t you just synthesize your own instead of barging into my territory like a lunatic? I was in the middle of an experimental breakthrough.”

As much as you hated to admit it, Dottore was right you should have known. Now, you felt like an utter fool standing in his laboratory demanding for something that didn’t exist.

“Unless . . . You’re already aware that there is no counteragent. Which raises a far more interesting question,” He stood directly behind you, his tall stature loomed over your own, voice dangerously close to your ear.

“Why did you come to me?”

Your heart pounded violently against your chest, not because of fear but because of the humiliating reality that The Doctor pointed out. Why did you come to him? He was the last person you should’ve sought when it came to human physiology. What happened to relying on your own expertise?

“I came to you for answers. Why are you doing all this? I’m not your test subject!” 

“That’s precisely the problem—you’re not. So, I took matters into my own hands, whether you liked it or not.”

“Why?”

“Your façade infuriates me. And I will use every resource I have to strip you of your false layers.”

You were dumbfounded. Why was Dottore so adamant? Both of you were Harbingers for gods sake!—your identities were built on lies. Every Harbinger was granted a false identity by the Tsaritsa, everyone knew that. 

“Tell me, Prevaricator. Is it the aphrodisiac driving you mad or the fact that you know exactly what you want but refuse to admit it?”

“I . . .” Your sentence faded into thin air.

The aphrodisiac had you on a chokehold; you couldn’t think properly, any rational thoughts were forgotten, and left behind for your future self to pick up. You couldn’t even refute any of Dottore’s arguments even if you badly wanted to—your brain simply just wasn’t working because right now, all you wanted was one thing, release. The heat your body radiated became unbearable and the painful ache between your legs intensified with every passing second.

Dottore stood right before you, he wordlessly studied your unstable, flustered state; this was only the first layer he had stripped off—the tip of the iceberg—and he was more than ready to find out where it ended.

Dottore took a step forward. You took a step back in response.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” He hummed lowly, reaching out a gloved finger to trace the edge of your collar, it was slow and deliberate, cutting you off from what you needed most right this moment, contact. Embarrassingly enough, you shuddered at the sensation of his finger against your clothing, the small vibrations of the friction it created was enough to push you further into insanity.

“Oh. Well, that answers my question from earlier.” Dottore wrapped a gloved hand around your throat, not too tight, not too loose, just enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing. You whimpered at his touch, your sensitive skin finally receiving the contact it has yearned for. His leather gloves felt electric against your feverish skin and you’d be lying if you didn’t want more.

“. . . Please.” You whispered, lips parted to draw shallow breaths in and out. 

“My, what a mess you are and we haven’t even begun the third phase of the experiment.”

Without wasting another second, Dottore pulled you by the neck and pressed his lips against your own. The kiss knocked out all the oxygen in your lungs, it was sloppy, heated, and passionate.

The tip of Dottore’s mask harshly dug into your cheek as he pressed even further, shoving his tongue inside your mouth. Your head spun, the kiss was intoxicating—he was intoxicating. At this point, with how desperately Dottore kissed you, you wondered if you were truly the one under the influence because it seemed like he was more lust driven than you were. Hungrier.

Wet sounds of aggressive lip smacking and the occasional pants you and Dottore let out filled the entire laboratory. If anyone were to walk in right this moment, they’d probably be crimson-cheeked at how lewd and pornographic you both sounded.

Dottore growled into your mouth as he gripped your jaw and tilted your head for better access. Oh, how well you were taking him; you were so obedient and amazing for him to the point where it immensely turned him on. A minute later, he pulled away, flushed and panting, a thin string of saliva connected both your lips.

“How fascinating.” Dottore stated, breathless.

His tongue swiped on his bottom lip, collecting the saliva that pooled there. Your state wasn’t any better, as a matter of fact, the kiss was so messy to the point where saliva was smeared all over your mouth and chin but you didn’t care, you needed him.

Dottore unclipped your ivory Fatui coat, throwing the heavy fabric across the lab, it fell with a distinct thud. With that out of the way, he pushed you to the nearest wall which was right next to the entrance. You stumbled on your feet at his urgency but didn’t bother complaining.

He unbuttoned your blouse, first, second, third, until the fabric revealed skin beneath it. A quiet gasp escaped his kiss-bitten lips, “You’re truly magnificent.” You didn’t know whether Dottore praised you as a human being or as a mere test subject but nonetheless his saccharine words had your cunt pulsing.

Gloved hands momentarily ghosted your feverish skin, as though you were a fragile relic he refused to touch for you were far too precious and pristine to taint. He slipped off your blouse and the cool air of the laboratory kissed your skin, you shuddered at the significant contrast of temperatures.

“Hmm. Sensitive. I wonder what would happen if I press . . . here.” Your body curled in pleasure as Dottore cupped a clothed breast, palms sensually rubbing against your covered nipple. How exquisite you were, he had barely gotten started yet you already seemed like you’ve reached your limit.

“Ngh—Dottore!” Your own hands shot up to your face to cover your mouth, the last thing you wanted was to moan his name embarrassingly loud but it seemed like even your body couldn’t resist.

The Doctor let out a low growl, “Do not tamper with my experiment. This is all part of the result. Uncover your mouth.” 

Humiliation engulfed your almost bare body as you heeded his words. He clicked his tongue and pinned both your wrists with a hand, “Any unwanted changes to my experiment will result in a second trial. Do not test me, Prevaricator.” The only thing you could do was wordlessly nod.

“Good.”

With his free hand, Dottore expertly unclasped your bra, causing it to swiftly fall onto the metal floor. There, he marveled at your hardened nipples, how it seemed to immediately react to external stimuli. He groped a breast, this time squeezing and massaging it, pulling a string of breathless moans from your lips.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

Dottore continued to give each breast his undivided attention ‘til you thrashed your sensitive body from overstimulation, “Dottore . . !” This time his name came out as a plea and he immediately understood what you were begging for, “Tsk. How impatient. We shall then move onto the next phase.” He scoffed.

Within the next minute, you were stripped of your remaining clothing, leaving you vulnerable in front of Dottore. Before you could even try to swallow down the embarrassment, his hand was already on you, toying with your sopping cunt. His gloved finger sensually traced your slit—up and down, up and down ‘til it slowly your clit, then did he only rub tight, hasty circles.

“F-Fuck! Haah!” Your back arched at the electric sensation that kissed down your spine. You weren’t a virgin but it has been a long while since you were touched so lewdly like this, moreover, he seemed to really know what he was doing. Dottore watched as your flustered face contorted in pure pleasure—swollen lips parted, brows knitted together, glassy eyes rolled back, just the result he wanted.

But he was greedy, he wanted more. He wanted to see you absolutely fucked up.

Dottore plunged two long fingers inside your wet cunt, causing you to resist his firm hold on your wrists. He curled his digits upward to meet the spongy patch of nerves there, “Mmf—! That feels good—Ah!” You could only moan in response as he picked up the pace.

Each harsh thrust of his fingers had your abdomen squeezing with pleasure, attempting to bear the force of his hand. Loud squelches coming from your cunt reverberated throughout the laboratory’s metallic walls and you could only hope no one would walk by to hear such sinful sounds.

Dottore grunted as he felt you squeeze around his fingers, he could feel the growing tent in his pants, cock aching to be freed from its restraint. He watched as your entrance greedily took him in, your sweet essence oozing out every time he pumped inside.

His crimson eyes beneath the mask glimmered at the way your slick messily coated not only his palm but as well as your inner thighs; he had never seen anything quite like this before. What spectacular results he was given! 

It didn’t take long to feel the coil deep inside your stomach to start unravelling slowly. Dottore noticed it too, how your breath quickened and eyes tightly shut. He kept going, in and out, in and out steadily guiding you closer and closer to the sweet release you yearned for.

But just before you were pushed over the edge, he abruptly pulled his fingers out, causing you to shamelessly whine in protest. Confused, our eyes shot open, vision blurred with tears of pleasure, “Wha-What . . ? Why did you stop?” 

Pleasure slowly faded away from your body, the high that once engulfed you now felt farther and farther away. Dottore brought his slick-stained fingers up, casually examining it under the laboratory’s fluorescent lights like he didn’t just almost fingerfuck you to an orgasm.

“We’re simply moving on to the final phase.”

Final phase?

At the sound of metal clinking, you were pulled out of your thoughts. Before you, Dottore hastily undid his ebony-coloured pants, he pulled the fabric down with his underwear just enough to free his aching cock. Your eyes widened as it stood proudly against his abdomen; he wasn’t as girthy but his length definitely made up for it, his blunt tip was a deep shade of blush, and a prominent vein ran along the underside of his cock. More interestingly, it curved a little to the left.

You could almost drool at the sight.

Dottore let out a low hiss as he wrapped a gloved hand around his sensitive cock to spread his pre-cum all over it, he gave it three languid pumps before stepping closer to your naked body. With one swift movement, he nudged your legs apart—resulting in you briefly losing balance—before slotting himself between them.

You whimpered at the sensation of Dottore’s cock rubbing against your slit, you could already feel how hot and heavy it was from the simple contact alone. Without warning he slowly pushed in, its blunt tip separating your wet folds apart. Your arms immediately flew to his clothed shoulders, nails digging into the expensive fabric as he inched deeper and deeper.

Dottore muttered a curse, lips slightly quivering. The sensation of your warm walls around his cock drove him absolutely insane and he wasn’t even all the way in yet; your cunt hugged him oh, so tightly and greedily sucked him in he could almost come right then and there as embarrassing as it sounded.

It had been quite a while since Dottore engaged in sex since he had more important matters to attend to so this feeling of being inside someone was closer to foreign than not.

Soon enough, he bottomed out with ease. The two of you took a moment to steady your breaths and adjust to each other’s body, though, you did try your best to stand as still as possible as the tip of his cock gently nudged your sweet spot—any hasty movements would cause it to press further inside.

“You’re so—Haah!—Tight!” Dottore let out an amused chuckle, a smirk plastered on his lips.

“S-Shut up.” You flushed.

Without another word, Dottore hooked a hand beneath your right knee and forced it up to rest on his shoulder. That movement alone brought your hips closer to his, allowing his cock to slip deeper; you involuntarily squeezed around him in response, back arching off the icy wall which earned a low growl from him.

Faint wet sounds echoed in your ears as Dottore pulled out all the way until only his tip remained, your cunt sucked him in so much that merely drawing his hips back was met with such resistance. He wasted no time thrusting back in, this time, with the entire length of his cock, it made your knee buckle, and your lips immediately parted to let out a garbled moan.

Dottore started off with an experimental pace—he studied how your expressions differed with each push and pull.. When met with shallow, hasty thrusts, your breathing seemed to mimic the rhythm of his hips, whereas with deep, slower thrusts, you seemed to bite down on your bottom lip while your eyes slightly rolled back.

How interesting. What about deep, swift thrusts?

Dottore picked up the pace to test his next experimental question, blunt tip bullying your sweet spot, and heavy balls slapping against your skin.

“Fuck! Fuck! Ngh—! Dottore!” You mercilessly clawed at his back. The expression you gave him was simply exquisite, your whole face contorted in raw pleasure. Hot tears rolled down your flushed cheeks and he took the opportunity to lick it off your face.

Using a free hand, Dottore reached for one of your breasts, teasing and massaging it while he watched the other bounce with each thrust.

Earlier, the laboratory faintly smelled of chemicals, now, the air smelled of sinful sex—your’s and Dottore’s scent entangled with one another, a completely volatile pair.

“That’s it—Mhm!—Let me hear your pathetic whimpers as I push you further and further into insanity.” He growled in your ear and bit the column of your neck.

Dottore unhooked your leg from his shoulder before securing both arms around to lift you up, “Jump.” He didn’t have to repeat his word for you to do so. As you jumped, he supported your weight with his hands which allowed you to wrap your legs around his waist.

With his hands planted on your ass, Dottore began to expertly bounce you on his cock; this position left you more vulnerable since there was nothing you could do but take each and every thrust. Since gravity also came into play, his thrusts were far deeper than before and you swore you could feel him on your throat.

“Right there! Ah! Right there, Dottore! Please don’t stop—Fuck!” The tight coil inside your stomach began to unravel once again and the high you experienced earlier came flooding back. It was an overwhelming pressure, it pressed on every part of your sensitive body, sending waves of shock up and down your spine.

Dottore observed your cock drunk state—head lolled to the side, hair a complete mess, face flushed with lust, lips locked in a permanent part to let out moans, tear-stained cheeks, and eyes rolled far back enough you could probably see your own skull. This. This was precisely what Dottore wanted from you—an expression so raw, so vulnerable it was an unbelievable contrast from the usual one you wore.

You looked absolutely broken and helpless like he was the only one who could save you. And The Doctor loved everything about it.

He moaned your name as you clamped on his cock—not your title, but the name bestowed upon you by Her Majesty. The name only your female colleagues used to express closeness.

“I’m close,” Dottore panted. “Open your eyes and look at me while you come. Surely you can perform this simple task, right?” You responded with an incoherent sentence but nonetheless used your remaining energy to open your eyes, your body felt absolutely limp as pleasure weighed down on you, and you were positive you’d have trouble walking tomorrow.

He praised you for your obedience and you could only respond with a pathetic whine.

Dottore did his best to keep up the brutal pace but with his impending orgasm looming over, his movements began to falter, he could only hold out for a certain amount of time.

“Ngh! Cumming! Ah! Ah!” The coil inside you violently snapped and your vision flashed white as you creamed around his cock. Dottore let out a deep grunt and followed suit, hips stuttering before fully sheathing his cock inside and shooting a heavy load. Thick ribbons of his cum painted your walls white, he made sure it remained inside of you by thrusting a few more times.

The two of you stilled for a moment to catch your breaths before Dottore pulled out to gently get you back on your feet. As expected, your legs have turned weak and embarrassingly enough, you held onto him for support—not because you wanted to but you needed to.

As you came down from your high, this allowed the haunting reality to finally settle in for you. You just fucked your colleague. And not just any colleague but the one you absolutely despised most. Were you insane? Regret gnawed at your feverish skin.

Out of instinct, you weakly pushed Dottore away, a familiar expression painted on your face—the one you always wore, the one he loathed—cold and indifferent, “This . . This doesn’t change anything. At all.” 

The Doctor could only half-heartedly laugh at your declaration because you both knew it was a complete lie, after all, you were the Prevaricator.

—

One thing about you made everything clear…you awaken him. The first time you two of you fucked was the best thing that ever happened to him. You both are anxious, but loving touches and soft gazes change so much. As time has passed, you both have experimented more and realized that sometimes rough is the best way to go about it.

However, recently, he has changed his tune. He’s not quite sure when it started. Maybe it was when you were playing and being oh-so-sweet with his siblings, or perhaps it was when his heart sank a bit when he saw you take your birth control. But it’s been aching him for a while. He wants to make you his forever. He wants you to bear his children. The two of you can find a lovely little house and raise your beautiful children. God, he wants it so bad.

“Ajax,” you coo as he rubs your nipples in between his fingers, his mouth happily attached to your neck. Your hands are threaded through his red hair. He’d come to see you before he was set off the next day on a business trip. Your clothes had been discarded long ago with him only in his pants.

“Baby,” he replies, still kissing your soft neck. “I want you so bad.” You moan as his teeth dig into your skin slightly.

“You…you have me,” you tell him. He stops kissing your neck and instead nuzzles his face in it.

“I mean differently,” he begins.

“Different?” you question.

“I want to be with you forever,” he says. You raise his face so he will look at you. His blue eyes are big under your gaze.

“We are going to be together forever,” you reassure. He looks away from you as if trying to figure out what to say next.

“But I guess you could say I want to ensure that,” he says. You give him a confused look. He places his hand on your lower stomach to emphasize his next point. “I want to have kids with you.” Your eyes widen, and you flinch a bit. He’s never made any sort of implication on this idea before.

“You do?” you ask. He raises himself to look down at you, his blue eyes dark.

“I want it so bad,” he says. He goes up to your ear, his breath tickling it. “I fuck my fist to the thought of it every day.” He uses his other hand to cup his clothed cock; it’s tent evident to you now. “Won’t you fulfill my wish, Y/N?”

Won’t you?

“I want it too,” you answer. “I want to bear your children, Ajax.” His smile is felt on your ear slightly. He swiftly opens your thighs and reveals your pussy.

“Let’s get you nice and prepped then, baby,” he says, his hand traveling to your pussy. His long fingers enter your pussy slowly, his eyes intently watching your reactions. They curl within, and your breath hitches. His thumb circles your clit while his fingers thrust in and out of you quickly.

“Ah! Ajax,” you moan. The speed of his fingers was not what you expected. His hand moves even faster, his palm slapping against your pussy entrance. Your head is thrown back, and your hands begin to fondle your breasts. Your legs start to shake your pussy begins to pulse around his fingers. “Mm! ‘M gonna cum!” He doesn’t stop his speed and uses his free hand to bring your face to look at him.

“Good girl,” he compliments. “Keep your pretty eyes on me, yeah?” Your eyes flutter as your thighs continue to shake as you ride your orgasm on his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” He removes his fingers from you slowly and brings them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, tasting you.

He removes his pants quickly, and you see his hard cock leak precum making the tip pink and sticky.

“You’re gonna take all my cum,” he tells you. You nod absentmindedly, just wanting his cock in you. He grabs your legs and moves them to your chest, giving him full access to your pussy. You look up at him, and his smirk grows, seeing how needy you are even after just cumming. He lines himself up with you and pushes in. He softly groans, feeling you around him.

“Ajax,” you plea.

“You’re always so needy, huh?” he asks. “Well, let me fix that.” He moves his hips so his cock can momentarily leave your pussy and slams himself back in. He sets a fast and hard pace to satisfy you both. Your body bounces from each thrust, making your tits move in tandem with his movements. His strong hands keep their hold on your thighs. The sound of his hips meeting yours every time fills your ears–almost as loud as your moans. You watch him chase his orgasm, wanting to be able to claim you as his finally.

His groans grow louder as his thrusts become a bit sloppy. He’s close.

“Take it,” he chants. His muscles tense as he cums hard inside you. Breathy moans leave his mouth. He halts his actions for a second, seeing your fucked out expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll pump more into you, baby.”

main masterlist || genshin impact masterlist

you wake up drenched, sheets clinging to your hips — twisted, damp, uncomfortably warm. sweat cools slow at the nape of your neck, sticky and thick, mixing with the haze of dreams you can’t quite hold onto. everything aches — like your body’s been moving without you, like your mind got left behind. your head feels foggy. heavy. like it’s been held underwater too long.

you try to move but the stiffness in your muscles reminds you how little sleep you really got.

this isn’t new. the nights have been like this lately — hazy, broken, your thoughts slipping away just as you reach for them. you never know if you took your meds before bed, or if you just forgot entirely. sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the days, the hours, yourself.

albedo has been there, always hovering somewhere near the edges of your fractured mornings. not just a friend, not quite something else, but something you don’t fully understand — someone who knows the parts of you that you try to hide even from yourself.

he’s not what you’d call gentle — more like pressure that never lets up. but he’s always there. steady hands, steady voice, steady ruin.

this morning is no different.

“morning” he says, his voice low, almost soft, but there’s an edge beneath it — a quiet warning hidden behind the tenderness.

his eyes catch the empty pill bottle on the bedside table without needing to ask, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

he slides onto the bed beside you, his fingers threading through your damp hair, tugging your face toward him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his breath is warm on your skin, and his gaze burns with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“you’re restless again” he murmurs, voice smooth like silk. “you don’t have to fight it. i’ll keep you steady.”

his hand slides down your ribs, settling possessively on your hip. you want to pull away—but your body won’t let you.

you don’t want to.

the haze clouds your mind — confusion folding into something darker, something sharper and far more dangerous.

he leans down, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear, whispering, “i’m the only one who knows what you need.”

his fingers tighten slightly, claiming you like a secret.

you taste the salt of your own fear, mingled with something electric that leaves you trembling.

because you don’t remember the last time you said no.

his hand slips beneath the waistband of your clothes, fingers ghosting over the heated skin beneath. your breath catches — shallow, quick — your body responding before your mind can catch up, every nerve alive despite the fog clouding your thoughts. the pill bottle lies forgotten now — empty, just like everything else he’s taken from you.

he leans down, lips trailing along your jaw, a whisper against your skin. “you don’t have to hide from me.”

your body trembles, the haze swirling around your thoughts as his fingers press lower, tracing the delicate curve of your hip, sliding beneath the fabric. your breath hitches, a knot of want and hesitation tightening in your stomach.

you try to pull away, the last flickers of resistance burning like flames. but his touch is steady, insistent.

before you can find the words, his fingers part you gently, exploring with slow, deliberate pressure.

his fingers don’t stop. one slips inside you, slow and probing, and despite the fog curling in your brain, your body tightens around him — a reflex you don’t control. you try to pull away, a soft whimper escaping your lips. “albedo… please…”

his fingers don’t stop.

one pushes deeper, slow and careful, dragging along your walls in a way that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. the resistance in your voice melts into something breathy, pleading — but not for him to stop.

“albedo… i don’t…” you try again, weak, words tangled in your throat.

he kisses the corner of your mouth, hand still working between your legs, fingers moving in a rhythm that makes it impossible to think straight. “you’re doing so well” he whispers. “your body always knows what it needs, even if your mind tries to resist it.”

he curls his fingers just right and your hips jerk before you can stop yourself. shame floods your chest.

“you don’t have to be scared” he murmurs, voice sweet and cruel all at once. “i’ll be gentle. i always am, aren’t i?”

you barely have the strength to nod.

the moment you do, he withdraws his hand — wet with you, glistening in the low light — and licks his fingers clean like he’s tasting something he made himself. like he’s savoring it. savoring you.

you blink up at him, dazed, and he’s already pushing your legs apart again, slow and reverent.

“good” he murmurs, unbuckling his belt, voice turning velvet. “let me give you more. let me make you feel full.”

you whimper, legs instinctively trying to close, but his hands hold you open with quiet, terrifying patience.

“you can take it” he says, lining himself up, cock brushing hot and heavy against your slick entrance. “you always do.”

before you can form a protest, he pushes in — slow, steady, relentless.

you gasp — he’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. your body betrays you, slick and ready in ways your mind hasn’t caught up with.

albedo moans softly at the feeling, burying himself deeper. “so tight” he breathes, like it’s a gift. “so perfect like this… molded to me.”

he bottoms out with a final roll of his hips, stealing the air from your lungs. you shake beneath him, too full, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to move.

his lips brush your temple. “that’s it. just like that. don’t fight it.”

and you don’t.

you can’t.

you press your palms weakly against his chest, barely a push, the last thread of protest in your body.

“albedo, stop…” you breathe, voice strained, watery, caught somewhere between fear and guilt. “this isn’t… it doesn’t feel right.”

he freezes for just a heartbeat. his expression barely shifts, but something flickers in his eyes — not guilt. not remorse.

control.

his hands slide to your waist, stroking softly, grounding you as he stays buried deep inside. he leans in close, forehead pressing to yours like a lover, lips ghosting over your skin with a tenderness that twists your chest into aching knots.

“you’re confused” he whispers, soothing, like he’s rocking you through a nightmare. “it’s just the meds, the exhaustion… you always get like this when you forget how much you need me.”

you shake your head, barely. “but i didn’t — i didn’t say yes—”

he hushes you, thumb brushing your cheek. “you didn’t say no, either. and your body… sweetheart, look at how you’re clinging to me.”

shame blooms hot and heavy in your chest. your walls flutter around him with every tiny shift, holding him in like you don’t want to let go. your thighs tremble, slick and open. even now, even through the panic, part of you aches for more.

he smiles — a soft, cruel curl of lips.

“there you are” he breathes, rocking his hips once, gentle but firm, and you gasp, back arching as he grinds against that sweet spot inside you. “you’re okay. i’m here. i’m the only one who’s ever taken care of you like this, remember?”

“good girl” he murmurs low, lips brushing your skin, voice thick with something possessive and proud. “you’re doing so well for me.”

you want to argue, scream, claw your way out — but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and your mind is a fogged-up mirror where your own thoughts can’t find their reflection.

“you don’t have to think anymore” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “i’ll do that for you.”

he starts moving again — slow and deep — like he’s sinking his name into you, like he’s making sure you never forget who you belong to.

and all you can do is cry his name.

his pace never falters. he fucks you like it’s a ritual, like every thrust rewires something inside you, slow enough to draw out the torment, deep enough to touch where you can’t reach. your nails drag across his back — not in pleasure, not quite in protest — just a helpless twitch, the last echo of whatever will you had left.

your climax hits like a betrayal. it takes you by surprise, your body clenching around him with a broken sob, muscles locking and trembling. he shushes you through it, praises you. tells you how proud he is. how sweet you feel when you give in.

he follows just after, burying himself as deep as he can, groaning low in your ear as he fills you, thick and warm and overwhelming. it’s too much — spilling out of you, seeping into the sheets, into the part of you that still remembers shame.

you don’t remember how long it lasts — how long he holds you down, whispering soft praises between thrusts, how long your body trembles beneath him until the air tastes like salt and heat and nothing else.

when it’s over, your limbs feel like lead. too heavy to move. your eyes sting. your throat is sore from whatever half-formed protests you made before your voice gave out.

he kisses your cheek, your temple, your jaw — treating you like something sacred he just finished breaking.

you’re still full of him when he pulls out, slow and careful, holding your hips still as your body twitches from oversensitivity. his cock slips free with a quiet wet sound, and you flinch.

he hushes you like a lullaby.

“shhh. it’s alright now” albedo murmurs, already reaching for a cloth to wipe between your legs, movements disturbingly gentle. “i know it was a little too much. you always get overwhelmed when you don’t take the right dosage.”

you blink at the ceiling, dazed. “i didn’t forget” you whisper, paper-thin.

he pauses — just a second too long — then smiles. “mm. must’ve mixed the bottles again. it’s okay. that’s why i keep track for you, remember?”

he moves your hair out of your face, fingers slow and careful, like he’s tidying up something he owns. “you’re so good for me. you did so well. you let me help you.”

his words are warm, loving even, but they feel like cotton stuffed in your mouth — suffocating in their softness.

you try to sit up, but your muscles give out. he presses you back down gently.

“don’t strain yourself” he says, adjusting the blanket over your bare skin. “you need rest.”

your hands tremble. “i didn’t want that.”

he stills.

for a moment, the air turns colder. sharper.

then he smiles again — softer this time — like he’s sorry for you, not for what he did.

“i know” he says, brushing his fingers down your cheek. “that’s why i had to do it. you weren’t thinking clearly. i had to help.”

you want to scream.

but you’re so tired.

so fucking tired.

he kisses your forehead like a reward.

and when he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your half-numb body close, you let him.

because your mind can’t fight.

and your heart’s already forgotten what safety feels like.

“sleep” he murmurs, holding you close. “i’ll be here when you wake up. i always am.”

and he is.

Zenin Naoya was the poster boy of leading wars with an ego as big as the sun. 

One of his staff called him “terrible” once. A normal person responds with embarrassment and defensiveness. His response was a wolfish grin. As if to reinforce the description, Naoya immediately banished the staff with nothing but his clothes on his back.

He was the golden boy of the Zenin clan, one of the Big Three Sorcerer Clans with foundations in collecting and molding power in all forms with no compromises. The Hei unit, the strongest unit in the Zenin Clan, was Naoya’s turf. With his unit, he ruthlessly scours territories to acquire different kinds of cursed weapons. This was their biggest advantage against all the other clans and they were uncompromising with gatekeeping and hoarding the weapons they acquired.

And you, a civilian, a woman with a mundane job as an office worker who had no reason to be involved in the world of jujutsu sorcerers, are in possession of a tanto style knife that reeked of ancient untapped energies that the Zenin collects.

Without you knowing, Naoya Zenin personally had his eyes set on you. A pathetic commoner who knows nothing of the power they have in their hands. And a woman too. His smile was smug and predatory. This was not a transaction to be done with brute force. This was simply about playing a man’s game.

And he was going to play for the quick dopamine hit.

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The umbrella in your hands did almost nothing to protect you from the rain. The winds threatened to destroy it, the water soaking into your blouse and skirt. Despite the storm landfalling into the city, your company decided to open their offices for work. You needed this job. So you sucked it up and held on to the umbrella, tightly clutching your bag to your chest. You made it by the bus step, barely.

As you checked the time on your phone to see if you were late, a sleek, black car stopped in front of you. You barely noticed it in your frazzled state. Then you hear a voice, slightly condescending but laced with patronizing charm. 

“Need a lift?”

You looked up to see the car, and then the source of the voice. The car window was down, and you saw a blonde man who seems to be about your age. Normally the idea of getting into a car with a random stranger to hitch a ride would send alarm bells in your head. 

But you are running late for your job and you’re not about to storm through the rain with your flimsy umbrella.

With a heavy sigh, you nodded. The man opened the door from the inside and you hurriedly stepped in. “Sorry, I’m kind of wet,” you said apologetically, closing your umbrella and putting it on the car floor. You sighed, relaxing. The car smelled of leather and a faint scent of incense. 

You turned to him and registered the bored gaze, his eyes lined with lashes that curled upwards, the traditional hakama, his crossed arms. Devastatingly handsome. You blushed for a moment, a simple response to a face so pretty it can be a model.

And then he spoke. “You’re getting my leather seat dirty. Clean yourself up.”

The blush immediately disappeared.

“Excuse me?”

The sheer audacity of his comment made you sit up straight, glaring at the man next to you. He simply rolled his eyes in response, making a gesture to the driver to move.

“Hey anyway, I need to get to this address,” you ignored the rude comment for now to show the man your office location. He simply glanced at it for a few seconds before giving a curt instruction to the driver about the destination. You checked your estimated time of arrival. 10 minutes.

You moved back, shifting your position as far as you can from this man. Yes he was rude but you also needed the ride. Maybe he’s one of those really rich smug people who’s got a heart of gold? 

The ride was painfully, awkwardly silent. None of you speak. Not one of you even bother to look at each other. You had a blank, far-off stare, waiting for the ride to be over, checking your phone every now and then.

“You have something I need,”

“What?”

“Do you have the tanto knife with you?”

“What?”

“Don’t play coy with me, woman.”

“Don’t you woman me. What are you talking about?”

He let out a Tch sound. He turned to you, his voice clipped and impatient. “I will give 1,000,000 yen for the knife. I know you have it. I know you have a shit job and you need the money. Hand over the weapon and let’s get this over with.”

“First of all, how do you know about my job? And how do you know about the knife?”

“I’ll spare you the technical details.” He said coolly.  “Your knife is a weapon that is highly sought after by my family. Our clan specializes in collecting defense tools for combat, something a civilian like you with no pedigree could know how to wield. Let’s just say my family has enough resources to track you down and be generous enough to pay you off for something you’re treating like a toy.”

You look at him, confused at how much he knew. You do have a short, Japanese knife she kept with her at all times. It was an heirloom from her grandmother who claimed to have used it to defend against predatory men. In fact, this very moment is a good chance to use against him after he just told you he knew you like a stalker would.

Against all logic and reason, your need for money surfaced. You were a single woman in your mid twenties living paycheck after paycheck with almost no money left for indulging your inner, materialistic desires. You found yourself rationalizing. It was not everyday you’re gonna get offered a million yen for a knife that you could…frankly speaking, just replace it with another self-defense weapon. 

The pragmatism won over your survival instinct. 

Yes I do need the money.

But. Your logical side finally peeked in. I also need to keep my job just in case this was a scam.

“I need to get to my job first and get through this work day.” You said with a tone of finality.

He sighed impatiently. “You will resign from your job and take the money, woman.”

“I don’t even know who you are and if the money’s real. If you’re so sure about this, and if this is not some sort of weird, financial scam, I will go through my work day, and I will meet you somewhere to have the transaction.”

He glared at you but remained silent for a few seconds. Then he spoke. “Fine. I’ll be waiting outside your building. Don’t be late. I’m not offering this again.”

“Fine.” She responded, vindicated. “I’ll be there but you should actually make decent conversation with someone you’re trying to buy an item for.”

He didn’t bother to respond. You didn't care. You just want to get to the office. Even if it meant hitching a ride with a man who had the face of an angel and the attitude of the devil.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

You clocked out of work but your head was unusually focused. The rain didn’t stop pouring. Naoya was already there, waiting inside his car parked in front of the building.

Unfortunately, there was no decent conversation to be had. It was the same cyclical loop of masculine ego and reiterating his clan and his name. But you did learn a few important things: Naoya is in a hurry to attend a gala and wanted the transaction to be over with. 

You also learned that he was filthy rich and this transaction was definitely not a scam. His driver handed him his checkbook. He flipped it open and signed a check for 1 million yen, handing it to you like it was just a bus ticket.

As you examined the check in your hands, an idea flashed in your head. If this weapon was truly valuable to him, then I’m in a place to negotiate. Everything about him screamed old money. You needed a chance to maybe taste some of it, even before you cashed in on this check.

“Bring me with you.” You said boldly. “I’ll give you the weapon after.”

He looked at you and you expected him to reject you immediately.

Surprisingly he didn’t say no. He didn’t neg you for negotiating.

Instead, a sly smile formed on his face.  “It’s an incredibly dull event full of airheaded elders with outdated, uninspired comments about high society. Perhaps…a little trouble wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.” 

You grinned. “Great. Let me in on the mischief.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. He let out a scoff but he lifted his hand to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

“Be careful what you wish for. You might just love it more than you think.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He brought you to his penthouse. With a quick call to his assistant, the transformation began. It only took him 2 hours to transform you with a team of stylists and make-up artists molding you to become a different, shinier version of you.

By the end of it, you looked like a living, breathing work of art, dressed in a black dress with thousands of dark silk and gold threads. It hugged your figure, accentuating your curves, and the Louboutin heels made your posture straight and elegant. Your black, long, wavy hair flowed onto your shoulders, framing your soft face. 

You looked nothing like a simple lady with a simple data entry job from a small company. 

You looked like you ruled the world. And Naoya Zenin made it possible. He himself was dressed impeccably in a suit and pants that had subtle gold flecks. 

“Just a moment.” He went behind you and gently wrapped a necklace on your neck. You looked at the mirror in front of you. It was a necklace made of diamonds. You gasped. 

He smiled. He rested his chin on your shoulder, whispering intimately. “You look magnificent for a pretend princess.” You rolled your eyes, but the intimacy of the act, and the sheer arrogance of his actions made him smile more wickedly. “As my pretend princess, you only have two things to do. First, you let me do the talking, and second, you stand there like the beautiful, made-up doll that you are. Agreed?”

You nodded, your eyes still fixed on the diamonds adorning your neck. He moved back, and you focused on smoothing your dress to calm your heart beating fast. You completely missed the predatory, possessive glint in his eyes reflected in the mirror.

The moment you step foot at the gala ballroom, he made sure that everybody knew you were his. Naoya’s hand hovered on the small of your back, a constant reminder. His smile was charming and fixed but his eyes darted dangerously at anyone who attempted to stare too long. 

You let him take the lead. He never introduced you, and the men who spoke to him regarded you for a second before talking to him. They spoke of a world that was both utterly alien and strange to you–talks about energies, combat formations, offshore investments, clan meetings. You don’t understand the technicalities but you understand the emotions around it. Fear. Paranoia. Authority. 

You felt a chill go down your spine when one of the men spoke about bankrupting a rival company in a day by leaking scandalous information about the company CEO. Seeing your reaction, Naoya pushed you closer to him. 

“This is power, my dear,” Naoya whispered to your ear. “This is a life you wish you had.”

You looked up at him and smiled, but your voice was pure venom. “Talk to me again like that and you’re not getting the knife.”

He glared at you, but he conceded, moving you with him as he talked to another “airheaded outdated elder” who spoke only of clan wealth and the painful progressivism happening in the country. Naoya, in his ruthless and utterly charming smile, agreed with all of his points. Both men dismissed you as if you weren’t there. 

With all the opulence, there was a blatant display of misogyny and greed. Yet most of them seemed to make way for Naoya, let him speak out of turn, and avoid your gaze  as if to show respect to him, not you.

It was not just a dull event. It was suffocating and immoral.

So you tried to make a run for it. You whispered to Naoya that you needed to go to the bathroom and he let you. You assumed he was too busy preening to care for you at this point.

But before you could step out of the ballroom, he was already there by the entrance, looking bored. As if he knew what you were going to do. You locked eyes. His smile was all teeth. 

“Let’s get you home.” He said. But it sounded like a threat.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t bring you home. He brought you back to his penthouse. 

The moment you entered, he pinned you against the wall. 

He tangled his hand on your hair, baring your throat to him. He leaned in, his lips exploring the space between your jaw and your ear. “You look so good, so delicious, the other men wished they could have you,” he purred. "But you tried to leave without me. That was not very good of you."

Without any warning, he plunged his teeth into your neck and you let out a sound that Naoya only registered as you begging for more.

“Only because I had to–”

He captured your mouth with his own, stopping your protest. It was a kiss of claiming, making sure you knew who was giving you this pleasure. His thigh spread your legs, grinding his knee on your core.

“You think you can have your night of pretend royalty and walk away with my money in your bank account like a thief.” He started taking off his suit, his eyes dark and full of lust. “Because of that, I will  make you scream in this dress I paid for, and you’ll thank me for it. And then, I’ll take the weapon from you. I’ll have your body and what I came for. And you’ll take my cock like the common, opportunistic whore that you are."

Naoya turned you around, his hand pinning your wrists on your back. His hand hiked up the dress to your waist. You heard shuffling and the sound of a zipper opening, and you felt his other hand tear your panties off. He spit on your ass, smearing the filthy saliva on your ass and folds. It was an act of pure degradation. 

You should’ve recoiled, fought back. 

Instead, your response was to arch your back, seeking more of his touch. 

Naoya took this as a sign to fuck you hard, fast, and rough. You couldn’t hold back your moans. You felt him laugh. The sex was utter humiliation and a consuming act of dominance. 

You felt him lean in and whisper to your ear. 

“You know, I could love you like this.”

And a scary part of you believed you could too.

He grinned. It was so easy.

He pulled out and turned you around, leading you to the bed. He laid you down gently and entered you with a gentleness that was so unexpected from him. 

“Naoya…” you moaned out loud now. 

“Yes. Say my name,” he growled. He thrusted deeper, grinding his cock into a sensitive spot.

“N-Naoya…”

“Say it again.” His thrusts became faster, knocking the breath out of your lungs. “Tell me who’s fucking your brains out. Tell me who owns you. Tell me who makes you feel this good.”

“Naoya…Naoya…Naoya…”

“Good girl.” He felt your muscle tighten on his cock when he said this. And he grinned. He leaned in to lick the shell of your ear. “Do you love it when I fuck you like you’re my lover? Do you love it when I tell you how much I love your pussy clamping on my cock?” 

It was too much. He’s just a man. An arrogant, full of himself, rich man who thought of no one but himself. But all you could think of in this moment was his weight on you and the effect his fucking and his words were doing to you. 

You almost said “I love you.” But you didn’t. You knew better. This was a transaction. 

Your shared orgasms that night were explosive and euphoric. As he collapsed next to you, you glanced at him and knew this was not good for you. But you’ll crave it. He turned to you and met your gaze.

His smile was a knowing, arrogant agreement. He knows it too. 

It was not about owning the weapon anymore. It was about owning you.

A/N: [The theme song for this fic is Norman Fucking Rockwell.] I like to think this was the origin story of the tanto-knife Naoya carries around. It’s a very Naoya thing to keep a tool that reminds him of a conquest in his tiny man brain. Manchild behavior. (I hate and love this character so much. It’s complicated.)