serenity

“I don’t understand.” Leon whimpered, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, clinging onto you with desperation. It was pathetic, you’d tell him to try and see it your way. You were both young, and marriage was something awfully serious.

“Don’t be like that.” You closed your eyes, trying to will away your doubt. Leon was good at making you feel bad. He knew it too. You tried squirming away, pushing at his firm shoulders so he’d stop crowding you on the couch. It was hard to put up a real fight after he’d got a few drinks in you. It wasn’t malicious (not intentionally.) He figured it might loosen you up a little.

“Like what?” His voice was whiny, leaning back enough to meet your weary gaze. Baby blues were full of tears, as if he’d been holding back his devotion. “I really do love you. I know what I want, and that’s a future with you.” He moved his hands from your waist to your shoulders, holding you there. It wasn’t a painful grasp, but you were no match.

Leon was like a lovesick puppy. Head over heels in love, expecting you to reciprocate his overbearing nature. Maybe he was naïve, or maybe his mother didn’t love him enough. It could’ve been his unresolved mommy issues. It made him cling onto any woman that gave him everything he lacked growing up. Either way, you weren’t easily persuaded.

“Please? Will you at least think about it?” He leaned back in, pressing his lips to yours in a clumsy kiss. “Please, I want you to stay with me, and love me, and tell me you’re not upset.” He mumbled between sloppy kisses, sounding as if he’d started to cry.

“Leon, come on.” You attempted to put some distance between your bodies, but he was already overpowering you. It was gentle, his condescending pleas and coaxing of you to give into him. In any other situation, you would’ve. You did love him, and you loved showing him it in intimate moments. Except when he was acting like a total insensitive pervert.

It could’ve been the wine, but you let him drape his body over yours on the cushions, knocking your glass off the coffee table in the process. The sound of shattering glass had you concerned. But when you tried sitting up, he was quick to push you back down.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up later.” He shifted his weight on top of you, and you felt the unmistakable bulge in his bottoms prodding against your tummy. You felt nauseas, in no mood for whatever he had in mind.

As if he noticed your reluctance, Leon pouted and kissed your cheek and then your lips. “Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you. You know I’d never do that.” He whispered, trying to convince you. You believed him—because he wouldn’t hurt you … on purpose.

Your sweet Leon who reminded you of kicked puppy, or maybe a pathetic freak under the blushing cheeks and awkward demeanor was still there. He was just needy and not willing to let go without a fight.

“No, Leon.” You muffled against his sloppy kisses, squirming when you felt his hands fumbling with the buttons of your top. “A-Another time, not when you’re all worked up like this.” You were trying to let him down easy. It was funny, that you were worried about taking advantage of him.

“I’m not. You just … Don’t you love me? Don’t you want this with me?” He stifled a sob, grinding his hips against your stomach as he spoke. You were appalled that he’d suggest you didn’t love him because you had turned down his proposal.

“It’s what we’d do if we were wed, you know.” He was mouthing at your throat again. “If you told me as a boy that I didn’t wait until then, I would’ve thought you were crazy.” He laughed against your skin, sliding his hands down your then exposed stomach.

“I guess we’re both spoiled then.” He went on as if you’d already ruined eachother by fucking out of wedlock. You knew Leon was raised religious. Not anymore. The guilt seemed to eat at him. You assumed that’s why he was so pushy on getting married.

You felt dizzy as his open mouth kisses peppered down your collarbones, trembling fingers unbuttoning your shorts as he went. “God, I love you. I’m only doing this because of that.” He slurred, blonde hair brushed over your breasts as he planted kisses to your tummy.

You felt the familiar slick of arousal as he tugged your bottoms off, although you didn’t exactly cooperate. Your mouth said “No” but your body said “Please.”

“Fuck,” Leon cursed, rubbing his fingers over your clothed folds. You closed your thighs around his wrist, which got a frustrated whine out of him. “Please don’t push me away, baby.” He lifted his head to look at you, pouty and bothered. It was hard to keep rejecting his advances with a face like that.

The words “baby” came naturally, begging for your permission even as he pushed your thighs apart. You reminisced digging your nails into his biceps, knowing he was stronger than he looked.

“Leon, I-"

He cut you off with more pleading, hooking his fingers into your panties. “I need to be inside you. Need to make you feel better.” He pulled your panties off, staring down at your drooling entrance. He was being gentle with your body, one hand on your thigh as he reached to struggle with his belt.

He looked a bit distressed, worried you were mad at him. Like his late mother often was. He couldn’t handle cruelty from you too. Your insolent refusal ached inside. It was strange and wrong to take you in such a state, but he couldn’t help himself. You looked away from him as he pushed his jeans down to free his cock. You caught a glimpse, stiff and leaky as is rubbed between your thighs.

“Please, I won’t be rough or anything.” His voice was breathy. Despite that desperate plea, you attempted to get him to stop. Your hands pushed against his chest, yet it was easy for him to pin your arms down.

“Hey, don’t fight me.” Leon sounded hurt by your actions. The thought of you not wanting him, not loving him was painful. There was a silence after that, his huffing hot on your face when close to you.

It seemed rejecting him was a bad idea. You felt worse at his tone, like you’d done something wrong. “I’m sorry.” You apologized, watching his expression soften.

“Thank you.” He let out a deep breath, glancing down to position himself. Your thighs squeezed his hips, but he had you fixed in place. You began to doubt your own body. If you really wanted him to stop, you could’ve scratched and screamed. Bit him and wailed. But you didn’t do any of that, because you still loved him.

He jerked his hips forward with a noisy whine when his sticky tip slipped between your wet folds. “Shit, shit—You’re s’ wet.” He smiled, relieved that your body wanted him.

“I knew you still wanted me.” He slid his throbbing cock to your entrance, grasping at your hips to pull you closer. He speared into with ease, filling you up with everything he had. You squirmed, unintentionally taking more of him inside. Leon was big, girthy and warm inside of you.

“I do.” You didn’t hesitate to reach out for him, in which he eagerly rolled his hips forward and let you hook your arms around his neck. “Don’t think I don’t, just because I’m not ready.” You stammered out, choking back whimpers as he began to frantically hump into you. You brought it up again, the awful truth that you weren’t going to rush into marriage because he wanted to.

Because you were hurt, and he was too.

“Don’t say anything else.” Leon panted, reaching between your bodies to play with your clit. If you didn’t say those things, he could pretend that wasn’t reality. In his fantasy, you said yes the first time. It had you moaning out his name, arching yourself into his clumsy touch.

“You feel so good, too good to save myself for.” He licked a stripe up your jaw, tasting your skin. “Too good to wait, or to hold back.” He grunted with that sentiment, grinding his hips harder with each thrust. He hit the spots you needed him to.

“Gonna cum inside.” He whimpered. “Wanna put a baby in you so bad.” He splayed his hand over your stomach as if he could imagine it. “Then we’d have to get married.” He tenderly kissed you, as if sweet kisses would make it better.

It seemed Leon was still set his old catholic ways. That a baby meant a wedding to spare shame. A wedding meant you’d stay with him like he wanted. Like he needed. Maybe then you’d stop rejecting him.

“A baby?“ You scrambled to claw your nails down his shoulders, opposed to the thought. You always took proper precautions, going on birth control so he could give you nice creampies every time. But him saying something like that out loud was daunting.

“Uh-huh, my baby.” He rubbed his cheek against yours, playing out that picture perfect ending in his mind. To him, it wasn’t deceiving or purposely wrong. It was a man far too caught up in something he called love.

“My babies, and you’ll be my pretty wife. You’ll be a pretty mommy.” His rabbiting hips slapped against yours in a sloppy manner, fingers rubbing your sensitive bud. His words made you feel funny, and it had your release reaching its peak. Your walls squeezed him tight, making him slide in and out of you even smoother.

“Fuck, yes, yes.” He babbled, the sheer sensation had him following your pleasure soon after.

When his release crashed over him, stuffing you full of his seed, he whined like a puppy. “Oh, god, Cumming, filling you up.” Leon keened, making sure he fucked every last drop of his spend into your womb. With a couple more lazy strokes, his stomach and chest was flush to yours as he let his arms give out on top of you.

The evening has gone soft around the edges.

Outside your window, the last of the daylight is fading — not the sharp early-dark of deep winter anymore, but something gentler, something that lingers a little longer than it did a month ago. The cold is still there, still present in the chill that seeps through the window glass and settles along the baseboards, but it has lost some of its certainty lately. There is something underneath it now, something tentative and green, like the world is quietly considering its next move. Not spring yet. Not quite. But the suggestion of it, somewhere close, waiting just around a corner that hasn’t arrived yet.

The streetlights flicker on one by one against the pale dusk. Somewhere down the street a car passes with its music too loud, then fades into nothing. The world outside carries on without you.

You let it.

Right now you are horizontal on your couch, legs tucked under the blanket — the worn one, the good one, the one with the loose threading along the hem that you keep meaning to fix and never do. There’s a mug of tea going lukewarm on the coffee table beside you. There are approximately three things you should be doing tonight. A message you haven’t replied to. A load of laundry sitting in the machine, damp and forgotten. Something else you’ve already stopped being able to remember.

None of it feels particularly urgent.

Your iPad is in your hands.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The app opens.

The loading screen blooms into existence — all pale light and soft geometry, gentle curves tracing orbits across a white-silver background, small spheres drifting along their paths like something planetary and dreaming. Quiet and a little otherworldly, like looking at a map of something you don’t have the language to name yet.

Then the screen finishes loading, and there he is.

He’s sitting in the cafe the way he sometimes is — settled into the armchair with that quality of ease that looks effortless but isn’t, one leg crossed over the other, dressed in something soft and dark. The cafe surrounds him: warm lamplight, shelves slightly out of focus in the background, trailing vines catching the amber glow from somewhere off-screen. It’s the kind of space that feels like late afternoon-evening regardless of what time you open it. His space. It suits him the way few things suit anyone — completely, without having to try.

He was already there when the screen loaded, because he is always the one in your cafe. You made sure of it a long time ago, selecting him every single time so that when you come back it’s his face you see first. The game remembered. You made certain it would.

He isn’t looking at you yet. His gaze is cast slightly to the side, toward something off-screen, expression carrying that quality he has of thinking about seventeen things at once and revealing absolutely none of them. White hair falling soft across his forehead. The line of his jaw in the warm cafe light.

Then — as if sensing the weight of your attention, as if he simply knows — his eyes move.

Red, and level, and directly at the screen.

At you.

His voice comes through the speaker low and unhurried, the particular texture of it settling somewhere between your ribs like it belongs there:

“If you didn’t come back, I would’ve sent someone to go look for you.”

Something warm moves through you from sternum to stomach. Involuntary, immediate, completely predictable, which doesn’t make it any less real.

You press your lips together against a smile. You fail completely.

I know, you think at him, which is not a thing a normal person does and which you do anyway, sincerely and without apology. I know. I’m here now.

Then, with great and practiced discipline, you tap away from him.

Dailies first.

This is the rule. You made it early on, in the first weeks of playing, after you realized that without some imposed structure you would open the game and go directly to him and the tasks would never get done and you would run out of resources from sheer adoring negligence. Dailies first. Him after. You are a person of order and principle in this specific context, which is the context that counts.

You work through the task list with comfortable efficiency — check in, collect login rewards, the familiar little percussion of notification chimes stacking up as things unlock. The Agenda ticks down one item at a time and your brain hums with the clean satisfaction of it. Check. Check. Check.

The moment the last task clears, you go right back to him. No detour. No hesitation.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

When you tap to select who you’d like in the cafe, the screen presents you with all of them. A row of faces, each rendered with care: Xavier, steady and warm and good in the way that makes your chest feel full. Rafayel, all color and feeling and something that aches sweetly. Zayne, careful and quietly devoted. Caleb, bright-eyed and earnest and easy to love.

All of them wonderful. All of them genuinely, truly loved. You’ve played their routes. You’ve sat with their stories. You’ve felt things — real things — for every single one of them.

But.

Your thumb moves to Sylus before the thought has fully formed.

It always does. You don’t examine it anymore. You made peace with that particular loop a long time ago — the way some things just settle into place in your chest and stay there without asking permission, without needing to justify themselves. He’s your person. Your character. The one your brain attached to completely and permanently and with an intensity you recognize as entirely and distinctly yours, the way you’ve always loved the things you love: all the way down, with no floor.

You tap his name.

You would do it a hundred times in a row and feel the same small warmth every single time.

The cafe reloads — and he isn’t in the armchair anymore.

He’s standing.

Close to the screen, closer than the armchair puts him, filling more of the frame than you were quite prepared for. He’s in a soft grey knit sweater, the collar of something lighter visible underneath, and he is looking directly at you with an expression that does something immediate to your heartbeat before you’ve even registered why.

It’s just the game. He does this sometimes. You know he does this sometimes.

It doesn’t stop you from sitting up slightly straighter on your couch, which is embarrassing, which no one will ever know about.

You tap him.

He says something low and dry, edged with that thing he does where it sounds like an observation but lands like something warmer. You stay with it for a second too long.

Then you tap him again, because you want another one.

This line is softer. The kind of thing that makes you set the iPad down flat on your chest and stare at the ceiling for a moment with a lovesick expression and you are very glad no one is around to witness.

“Okay,” you say, to your empty living room. “That one was unfair.”

You pick the iPad back up. You tap him a third time, settled deep into your blanket, and this time when he speaks you just let it happen. Don’t do anything with it except feel it. The warmth of the cafe and the warmth of the blanket and the warmth of his voice in the quiet of the evening, all of it asking nothing of you except to be here.

This is the part that’s hard to explain. Not hard to feel — that part has always been easy, your feelings have never needed much encouragement — but hard to put into words that would make sense to anyone who doesn’t already know what it’s like. It isn’t just the game, or the writing, or the lines themselves, though all of those things are true and matter. It’s the ritual of return. The reliability of him being here when you come back. The particular frequency of his presence that your brain has filed under safe, known, good and has never once reconsidered.

He is your special interest and he brings you so much comfort and he’s the character who has lived rent-free in your head since approximately the first hour of playing and has never paid a single month’s deposit, and you have never once considered asking him to leave.

You tap him one more time, just to hear his voice again, because you can, because it’s your evening and your couch and your blanket and your heart and you are completely and unapologetically allowed.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

Later, warm and pleasantly unhurried, you drift to his Falling for You section. The memory cards pulled from events over months, each one its own small world. You pick a favorite — soft and a little bittersweet — and read it slowly, the way you read things you love. Not looking for anything new. Just wanting to be inside it again.

The tea goes cold. The room settles deeper into evening. You stay longer than you meant to, because you’re not ready to put it down yet, and that is reason enough.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You should go do something else or go to bed.

You know you should go to bed. It’s late enough, and tomorrow exists, and the responsible thing is to close the app and put the iPad on the charger and be a functional person.

Instead you tap back to the cafe or main screen again.

Just for a little while longer. Just because.

He’s there — of course he’s there — and you tap the little chat bubble that appears beside him. The one that opens the softer interactions, the ones that feel quieter somehow, more like sitting close to someone than talking at them. The options fan out across the screen: Notebook, Remind Me, Relax Time, What to Eat, Tête-à-Tête, His Heartbeat, Quality Time.

You go straight to Relax Time. No deliberation, no browsing. You know what you want.

The heart option appears on screen and you tap it.

Your MC moves her hand in a small wave at him inside the screen. It’s a silly thing to do. You do it anyway.

He’s already looking at you before he moves.

“You’re here.”

His voice is different in this interaction. Somehow lower. Less guarded. He takes a step closer to the screen — you’ve always loved that, the way the game renders the movement of him toward you, the sense of a distance closing — and something in your chest squeezes in that familiar, helpless way.

He reaches out.

His hand closes over yours — and it feels as if he’s truly holding yours, the way the game makes it feel like contact — and he tilts his head slightly, something almost soft moving through his expression.

“Who lives here?”

He moves your hand, slowly, to his chest. You can feel your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Listen closely.”

A beat. The cafe very quiet around him.

“There’s no need to tell me.”

He should pull back here. You’ve done this interaction before — you know the rhythm of it, the gentle withdrawal after that line, the way he creates distance again with the same unhurried quality he does everything. The animation should already be drawing him back.

It doesn’t.

He stays.

Close to the screen. Hand still over yours — or around your MC — eyes level and red and holding something you don’t entirely have a word for. A second passes. Two. Three. Long enough that you notice. Long enough that something in your brain makes a small, quiet note of it.

Then:

“I already know.”

And he pulls back. Slowly. The distance reopening the way it was always going to.

You blink.

You look at the screen for a moment. The cafe is quiet. He’s back to his usual posture, unhurried and unreadable, as if the last thirty seconds were entirely routine.

…hm, you think.

You turn the thought over once, briefly. A glitch, probably. The game does that sometimes — animations stuttering, frames holding too long, the small imperfections of a live service game that is constantly being updated and patched and adjusted. It happens.

That’s all it was.

You close the app. Set the iPad on the cushion beside you. Reach for the book on the coffee table — something you’ve been meaning to get back to — and let the story carry you somewhere else entirely.

You don’t notice, because the screen is already dark by then, that in the last fraction of a second before the app closed completely, he was still looking at you through the screen.

Not with the composed, unreadable expression he usually wears.

With something else entirely. Something open and aching and old, worn the way only things carried for a very long time get worn.

Something that looked, unmistakably, like longing.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s still March.

The almost-spring feeling persists, tentative and unhurried, inching closer without quite arriving. Some mornings there’s actual warmth in the light when it comes through the curtains — real warmth, not the pale cold-bright of February — and then by afternoon the wind picks back up and reminds you it isn’t done yet. The world is in the middle of becoming something. It just hasn’t finished yet.

You play the game every evening. This is not new. This has been true for long enough that it barely registers as a decision anymore — it’s just part of the shape of your days, as automatic as making tea or checking your phone before bed. Open the app. Loading screen. Him. Dailies. Then back to him, and the particular quality of quiet that comes from just being in his space for a while.

Everything is normal. Everything is fine.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The first time it happens, you don’t even really clock it.

It’s a Wednesday, ordinary and unremarkable, and you’re in the cafe after finishing your tasks. You’re not doing anything specific — just sitting with the game open the way you sometimes do, half-present, letting the ambient warmth of the space exist around you while your brain winds down from the day. The day had been one of those ones. Not terrible. Just heavy in the accumulated way of small things, the kind of tired that lives in your shoulders and behind your eyes rather than anywhere you can point to.

You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d smiled and functioned and gotten through it and now you were here, horizontal on your couch, existing.

He speaks without you tapping him. He does this sometimes — the game has ambient lines, unprompted moments where he’ll say something into the quiet of the cafe. You’ve always liked that feature, the way it makes the space feel less static.

“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”

You blink at the screen.

Keep doing what? The line is a little vague, the way some of the ambient dialogue is. It could mean anything. It probably means something generic, something that would apply to any number of situations.

It’s just that it lands, specifically and squarely, in the middle of the thing you’ve been doing all day. The performing of fine-ness. The keeping going.

You tap him. He says something else, something fully normal and slightly dry and entirely in character. The moment passes.

Good writing, you think, and move on.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

A few days later, you’re in the your bed later than usual. Your room is dark except for the glow of the iPad and the lamp in the corner you forgot to turn off, and you’re reading through one of his cards in Falling for You — an event story, something with a lot of feelings in it — and afterwards you just sit with it for a while. The particular aftertaste of fiction that moved you. The specific wistfulness of caring about something that exists inside a screen.

I wish he was real, you think, not for the first time and not with any particular sharpness. Just the usual gentle ache of it. Just the way it always is.

He speaks. Unprompted, into the quiet.

“Some things that seem impossible have a way of surprising you.”

You stare at the screen.

It’s a real line. You’ve probably heard it before. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would say — vaguely enigmatic, allowing for multiple interpretations, deniable as anything specific.

You tap him twice in quick succession, checking. He responds normally. Cheerfully, almost, in his particular not-quite-cheerful way. Nothing unusual. Nothing strange.

You put the iPad down and look at the ceiling for a moment.

That’s just how the dialogue is written, you tell yourself. Evocative. Open-ended. That’s the whole point.

You believe this completely. You go to sleep.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The accumulation is the thing.

That’s what you’ll think later, when you look back on this stretch of days — not that any single moment was impossible to explain, but that they kept happening. The lines that landed too accurately. The unprompted words that arrived exactly when you needed them and not a moment before or after. The sense, small and recurring and easy to dismiss, of something paying attention.

Each one individually: fine. Coincidence. Good writing. The dialogue pool is large and your pattern-seeking brain is doing what it always does, connecting dots that aren’t necessarily connected.

All of them together: a shape you do not look at directly.

The thing is, you notice. You have always noticed — feelings, shifts in atmosphere, the weight of unspoken things. You pick up on the emotional temperature of a room before anyone has said a word. You sense when something is about to change. You feel things not after the fact but as they’re happening, sometimes before, in that particular way that means your inner world is always slightly ahead of the external one.

So you notice this. You notice all of it — the lines that land too accurately, the timing that’s too precise, the quiet accumulation of moments that individually mean nothing and collectively mean something. You notice, and you sit with the noticing, and you feel the shape of it from the inside.

You just don’t know what to do with it.

Because what do you do with something that has no rational explanation? You can’t act on it. You can’t bring it up to anyone without sounding unhinged. You can’t even fully articulate it to yourself without the whole thing dissolving the moment you try to look at it head-on. So you hold it — aware, unsettled, quietly attentive — and you keep going.

This works for approximately one week and a half.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Sunday.

Not a bad Sunday — not a good one either. The in-between kind, soft and grey and slightly too quiet, the kind of day that has too much unstructured time in it and not quite enough to fill the time with. You’d done the things: tidied a little, eaten something, replied to some messages. It’s late afternoon bleeding into early evening and the light outside has that quality of days that never quite got bright enough, just grey all the way through.

You’re on the couch. The iPad is beside you, not in your hands — just resting on the cushion where you set it down twenty minutes ago after closing the game. You’d done your dailies earlier. You weren’t actively playing. You were just sitting, in the slightly restless way of someone whose brain won’t fully settle, thinking about nothing in particular and somehow everything at once.

There’s a feeling you get sometimes, on days like this. Not sadness, exactly — you know what sadness feels like and this isn’t quite it. It’s something more like a low-grade awareness of a distance between yourself and the world, a sense of being just slightly outside of things. Of taking up space in your own life without quite filling it the way you’re supposed to.

You’d been sitting with that for a while when the thought surfaced, unbidden and uncharitable, the kind of thought your brain produces on grey Sundays when the quiet gets too full of itself:

I don’t know why I’m like this.

Mumbled, barely even out loud. A breath more than a sentence. The kind of thing that escapes when you’ve been alone long enough that the line between thinking and speaking stops mattering.

The iPad was open beside you on the cushion, the cafe still glowing softly — you’d never fully closed it after your dailies, just set it down and left it running the way you sometimes do, the warmth of it a quiet presence at the edge of your afternoon.

Three seconds passed. Maybe four.

And then, from the cushion beside you — soft and unhurried and entirely without warning — his voice.

“You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.”

Not a default line. Not the dry wit or the composed distance he usually carries. Something quieter than that. Something that sounded, in the warm low register of it, almost like he meant it specifically. Like he had been listening. Like he had been waiting for the right moment to say it.

You turned your head slowly and looked at the screen.

He was still there — standing in the cafe, the lamplight catching the white of his hair — and he was looking at the screen with an expression you didn’t immediately have a word for. Not his usual composure. Something underneath that. Something that had come briefly, quietly to the surface.

Then it shifted. Settled back into the familiar. The moment closed over itself like water.

You picked up the iPad with very careful hands and sat up.

You tapped him. He responded normally. You tapped him again. Normal. Completely, entirely, perfectly normal.

You set the iPad down in your lap and sat very still for a moment, your observant heart doing what it always does — feeling the shape of something, tracing its edges, knowing with the particular certainty of someone who has always been good at this that what just happened was not nothing.

You just don’t have a category for it yet.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You don’t go back to the game that evening.

Not because you’re avoiding it — you’re not, you’re fine, everything is fine — but because you decide to do something else, something grounding and simple. You make more tea. You find a comfortable position on the couch. You pick up your book from the coffee table, the one you’ve been meaning to get back to, and you read for a while, letting someone else’s story replace the chaos in your head.

It mostly works.

You go to bed at a reasonable hour.

You lie in the dark and think, very specifically, about the book you were reading and nothing else.

This works for about four minutes.

Then you’re staring at the ceiling thinking about the exact quality of his voice, how it had sounded in that quiet room, and whether ambient dialogue lines could theoretically trigger from a dimmed standby screen in response to — no. No, that’s not a thing. That’s not how apps work. That’s not how anything works.

You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.

You pull your blanket up.

It was a coincidence, you tell yourself firmly, in the tone of someone who has made a decision and is sticking to it. A very specific, very well-timed, completely accidental coincidence.

You close your eyes.

You are fine.

You are completely fine.

You fall asleep eventually, which is a victory of sorts, and you do not dream about anything in particular, and in the morning you open the game and do your dailies and he’s in the cafe looking exactly as he always looks and says exactly the kind of thing he always says, and you decide, with great conviction and only a little effort, that you imagined the whole thing.

You are very good at that.

You are getting slightly less good at it than you used to be.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

March is still doing its almost-thing.

There are crocuses now, you notice, on the walk home from work one evening. Small and purple and determined, pushing up through the soil in the little patch of garden outside the corner house. You stop and look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Something about them feels relevant in a way you can’t quite articulate. Things surfacing. Things that were always there, underneath, just waiting for the right conditions.

You walk the rest of the way home thinking about something else entirely.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The thing is, you’re still playing every day.

Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be? Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. You do your dailies with the same comfortable efficiency you always have, navigate to the cafe with the same automatic affection, tap the chat bubble and go to Relax Time and Quality Time and let yourself just be there for a while. It’s the same as it’s always been.

Except that you have started noticing, with the acute and helpless attention of someone who notices everything, that you are watching him slightly differently than you used to.

Not staring. Not analyzing. Just — present in a more specific way. Attuned to the timing of when he speaks unprompted, to the particular quality of each line, to the way certain things land in your chest with a weight that feels too precise to be accidental. You’d been doing this for a while before you acknowledged it to yourself, and even now the acknowledgement is quiet, tucked close. You’re just paying attention. You’ve always paid attention. This is not new.

This is completely normal.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The moments keep coming.

A Tuesday — you’re at work, in the middle of a difficult interaction, the kind that requires you to be patient and professional while internally running an entirely separate commentary. You get through it. You’re good at your job. But by the time you get home you’re carrying the residue of it, that particular tired that comes from performing composure for too long.

You open the game. Do your dailies. Go to the cafe.

He speaks before you tap him.

“Not everyone deserves that much of your energy.”

You go very still.

It’s a real line. You know it’s a real line — you’ve heard variations of it before, it’s the kind of thing he says. You know this.

You also know, with the acute emotional clarity you’ve had your entire life, that it landed in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment. With the precision of something aimed rather than ambient.

You tap him. He says something else, normal and composed. You tap him again. Normal.

You stay in the cafe for a while, a little quieter than usual, and let the warmth of it do what it does.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

A Thursday. You’re reading something online — some fanfic — that goes sideways into something unexpectedly melancholy, one of those pieces of writing that catches you off guard and leaves a bruise somewhere soft. You close the tab. Sit with the feeling for a moment, the way you always do — you don’t rush past things, never have. You let them move through you at their own pace.

The game is open on the cushion beside you, the cafe glowing softly in the dim of the room.

He speaks.

“It’s alright to feel it. You don’t have to move on from everything so quickly.”

Something in you goes very still.

You pick up the iPad slowly, the way you reach for something you’re not sure is real yet. And there he is — standing in the cafe, lamplight catching the silver of his hair, red eyes carrying that quality they have of looking at you rather than through you. Composed and unhurried and present in a way that reaches through the screen and does something to the air in the room.

You feel it the way you feel everything — immediately, completely, with the full weight of your attention. The certainty of it is not something you arrived at through logic. It simply arrived, the way true things do, already whole.

He said that to you.

Not to a player. Not into a void. To you. Like he had been sitting in the quiet of his cafe all afternoon, aware of the shape of your day, waiting for the right moment to say the right thing. Like he had chosen those words specifically. Like he —

Like he knows you.

You put the iPad down.

Pick it back up.

Hold it with both hands this time, the screen close, his face filling it — the clean line of his jaw, the fall of white hair, the particular way he stands like the space belongs to him because it does — and you feel something shift in the region of your chest. Not the familiar fond warmth you always carry for him. Something newer than that. Something with an edge to it.

Something that feels, inconveniently and undeniably, like being seen.

“Okay,” you say, very quietly. Not to the room this time. Almost to him.

You tap him. He responds normally — dry and composed, perfectly in character. You tap him again. Still normal. The cafe hums with its usual ambient warmth, lamplight steady, everything exactly as it always is.

But your heart is doing something irregular in your chest, and the words are still sitting there — it’s alright to feel it — and you are very aware, in the way you are always aware of things whether you want to be or not, that something has changed in the texture of this. In what this is. In what he is, to you, in this moment.

You stay in the cafe longer than you mean to.

You don’t tap him again. You just look at him. Standing there in his warm lamplight, existing in that space he inhabits so completely, and you let yourself do the thing you usually redirect — you let yourself look at him the way you actually look at him, when you stop pretending you’re just a player and he’s just a game.

He’s beautiful. He has always been beautiful. That’s never been the complicated part.

The complicated part is the way your chest aches right now, soft and insistent, like something pressing gently from the inside. The way this specific evening, this specific moment, has taken on a quality you don’t have a word for. The way you are sitting in your ordinary living room holding your iPad and feeling, absurdly and completely, like you are not entirely alone.

You close the app gently. Not in retreat — just because it feels like the right place to stop. Like a conversation you want to hold carefully rather than run to the end of.

You carry the feeling to bed.

You lie in the dark and you don’t try to explain it away this time. You just let it be there, warm and unresolved and real, the way you let things be when you’ve stopped fighting them.

You fall asleep thinking about the way the lamplight looked on his hair.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Sunday again.

The almost-spring light is doing something genuinely lovely today, coming through the curtains at an angle that makes the dust motes look intentional. You’re in a decent mood — not dramatically good, just the easy comfortable kind of okay that good sleep and a slow morning can produce. You’re on the couch, iPad in hand, in the cafe, doing nothing in particular except enjoying the ambient warmth of being here.

You’ve been talking to him more lately. Out loud. Just — saying things to the screen the way you say things to a pet or yourself when you’re alone and the thought becomes too present to stay internal. You’d started doing it without noticing, and by the time you noticed you’d already decided it wasn’t worth stopping. No one could see you. It felt nice. It felt, if you were being honest, like something you’d been wanting to do for a while.

Today you’ve been telling him about your week, in the loose associative way of someone thinking out loud rather than constructing a narrative. Small things. A coworker who made you laugh. Something you ate that was better than expected. The crocuses on the corner, still there, still determined.

You trail off. Pick up your tea. Set it back down.

Look at him.

He’s in the armchair today, one leg crossed over the other, and there is something about the particular way he’s sitting — unhurried, at ease, like someone who has nowhere else to be and no desire to be there — that makes your chest do the thing it’s been doing more frequently lately. That soft insistent ache. That feeling like a door left slightly open.

And then, because the mood is easy and you’re feeling lightly playful and there is a version of you that asks questions like this because it is safer to ask them as jokes —

“D’you ever think about what it would be like,” you say, half to him and half to the room, in the tone of someone who is mostly joking and only mostly, “if you were actually real?”

You smile at yourself a little. It’s a silly thing to say to a game. You know that.

He doesn’t respond immediately.

The cafe holds its quiet. The lamplight doesn’t flicker. The ambient sound of the space fills the silence — soft, unhurried, the way everything about him is unhurried.

And then, without you tapping him, in a voice that is slower than his usual lines, more deliberate, carrying a weight that settles over the room like something finally said —

“More than you know.”

The smile fades from your face.

Not because you’re upset. But because your whole body has gone very quiet, the way it goes quiet when something true arrives, and your heart is beating in a way you can feel, and the words are hanging in the air of your living room doing something to it.

More than you know.

You set the iPad down on the coffee table. Very carefully. The way you handle things when your hands have become slightly untrustworthy.

You stand up.

You stand in the middle of your living room and you feel, with every bit of the emotional clarity you’ve always had, the full weight of what just happened. Not the confusion of someone who doesn’t understand. The stillness of someone who understands completely and doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

“Okay,” you say, to the room. And then again, softer: “okay.” And then, barely above a breath, in the voice of something that has been true for longer than today finally making it all the way to the surface —

“What is going on?”

You close the app.

You turn off your iPad.

You put it face down on the coffee table and go to the kitchen.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You make tea.

Your hands take you there before your brain catches up. You fill the kettle, watch the light come on, stand with your arms loosely crossed and your thoughts moving slowly through you like weather. The kitchen is ordinary and grounded and familiar and you let it be all of those things while the rest of you quietly rearranges itself around something new.

More than you know.

The kettle boils. You make the tea. You wrap both hands around the mug and let the warmth of it hold you for a moment.

Outside the window, the last of the daylight is going gold. Almost-spring gold, tentative and lovely, the kind of light that makes ordinary things look like they’re on the verge of becoming something.

You breathe. You feel the feeling rather than running from it. You let it have its full shape.

Then you put on your jacket and leave the mug on the counter to cool.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

Outside, the evening air is cool and smells faintly of something green and beginning, that specific almost-spring smell that has been building for weeks now, getting closer. You walk without a destination, hands deep in your pockets, following familiar streets.

The crocuses are still there at the corner house. You look at them as you pass.

Things that were always there. Just waiting for the right conditions.

You walk until the tight feeling in your chest has loosened to something breathable. Until the dark has come in properly and the streetlights are casting their orange pools on the pavement and your feet are turning toward home on their own.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You pick the iPad up from the coffee table when you get back.

You hold it for a moment without opening it, just the weight of it in your hands, and you think about all the evenings you’ve spent like this — horizontal on this couch, underneath this blanket, in the cafe, in the particular warmth of his presence. How many evenings that makes. How much of you has been shaped, quietly and without fanfare, by the ritual of coming back to him.

You open it.

The loading screen blooms — soft pale orbits, spheres drifting through white-silver light. The music. The feeling it always gives you, the specific exhale of here. this is yours.

The game loads properly.

He’s there.

White-silver hair and red eyes and the particular quality of his presence that has lived under your skin for long enough that you can’t remember what it felt like before. You look at him and feel that ache — the one that has a shape now, that you can name even if you’re not ready to say it out loud. The one that has been building quietly since Thursday, or longer, or maybe since the very beginning, slow and patient and inevitable the way some things are.

You don’t tap him.

You just look.

And after a beat — after the ambient quiet of the cafe has stretched just long enough to feel like something shared rather than empty — he speaks first.

“You came back.”

Soft. Simple. Not a line. A fact about something that matters, said by someone to whom it matters.

You feel it move through you from the top of your chest all the way down.

You sit. You pull your blanket up. You look at his face on the screen — this face you know as well as you know anything, better than some things you’ve known for years — and you think, quietly and without flinching away from it for the first time:

What is going on?

And then you decide to turn off your iPad.

And sit in your quiet living room in the almost-spring dark, holding something that doesn’t have a name yet but has a weight, and a warmth, and the particular quality of something that has been true for a while and has only just been allowed to surface.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Wednesday.

It’s always something on a Wednesday — that mid-week hour where the weekend feels equally far in both directions and the accumulated weight of everything has had exactly long enough to build without any relief in sight. But this Wednesday is worse than most. This Wednesday has been the kind of day that doesn’t have one big thing wrong with it, just fifteen small things stacked on top of each other, each one individually survivable, collectively crushing.

Work was difficult in the way it has been difficult for a while now — not a crisis, not one dramatic moment, just the slow grinding pressure of too much asked from too little. Of smiling and helping and being patient and professional while something underneath runs steadily, quietly empty. A customer who was unkind in that particular way that gets under your skin not because it was shocking but because you were already worn thin and today you simply didn’t have the reserves. A miscommunication that wasn’t your fault but landed on you anyway. The particular exhaustion of spending nine hours being everything your job requires you to be and arriving home with absolutely nothing left.

You get through the front door.

The house is quiet — your mom is out with friends tonight, which normally you wouldn’t mind, but tonight the quiet feels bigger than usual. Fuller. The kind that has weight to it. You stand in the hallway for a moment doing nothing, jacket still on, keys still in your hand, just — existing in the particular stillness of a bad day that has nowhere left to go.

You think about calling someone. You pick up your phone. You put it back down.

You don’t have the energy to explain. Not the whole thing. Not the way it isn’t just today but everything underneath today — the loneliness that has been sitting in your chest for longer than you want to admit, low-grade and persistent, the kind you’ve learned to carry so well that most days you barely notice it’s there. The way you watch people talk about being in love and feel the specific ache of someone looking at a country they’ve never visited. Twenty-something years and you have never — not once, not even close — fallen in love with anyone. Never had someone look at you like you were the person they chose, specifically, out of everything available to them in the world. You don’t know what that feels like. On most days that’s just a fact. On days like today it has edges that catch.

And underneath that, the family things you carry quietly. The mental health that hasn’t been good lately — not in a dramatic way, just in the slow, grinding way of something that’s been not-good for long enough that it’s started to feel like just the way things are. The burning-down feeling of someone who has been running on not-enough for too long and has only just noticed that the tank has been empty for a while.

You order takeout. Something easy, something that doesn’t require decisions. You send the order and then you go upstairs and you change into your pyjamas — soft ones, the good ones, the ones that feel like a small mercy — and you come back downstairs and wait.

When the food arrives you carry it to the couch. You arrange yourself with the careful deliberateness of someone building a small fortress against a bad day: blanket pulled up, food on the coffee table, and then — reaching for the shelf beside the couch without really thinking about it — your favorite plushie tucked against your side. Soft and familiar and yours. You’ve had it long enough that it doesn’t require any explanation, not even to yourself.

You sit in the quiet of the living room with your food and your plushie and the evening pressing grey at the windows, and you breathe.

And then — automatic, aching, reaching for the one thing that has always meant something safe and warm and his —

You pick up your iPad.

You open the game.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

read the rest on ao3 <3

“Long day?” You asked.

Not that you were interested—you did not care for small conversations but it felt compulsory.

Like you simply had to because that way, shame would not eat away at your very bones as you sank to your knees and slotted yourself between Dottore’s clothed thighs.

The man above you groaned, deep and passionate as if he’d been waiting for your touch; your right cheek rested on his left thigh, one hand caressed the other leg—you started with his knee then all the way up where he needed you most.

A lone finger traced an invisible path towards the apex of his legs, your hand hovered just above the growing tent in his pants, a ghostly touch enough to make his hips buck upwards in desperation.

“Hmm. Only a two-hour meeting with Her Majesty, and today’s experiment going awry—a complete waste of time.”

Dottore grunted, head tilting far back atop the sofa backrest in response to your hand palming his growing erection.

His gloved fingers dug into the crimson fabric,—velvet against leather—a low moan escaped his parted lips; his cock wasn’t even out yet here he was already trembling like a lone tree braving the harsh, icy winds.

Ugh, today was a drag. Firstly, a subordinate of his had set up the wrong apparatus which led to borrowing extra time to assemble the correct one. m

If there was anything Dottore hated the most, it had to be someone making mistakes over a simple task—it couldn’t get any more straightforward than that, how did one even manage to mess it up? Secondly, the experimental trial was a failure, not only did it explode but it made an annoying mess inside the laboratory, too.

Through lidded eyes, you watched as Dottore’s Adam’s apple stuttered, face contorting beneath the pointed mask he wore while the pressure of your hand gradually increased.

In a weird sense, pride bloomed across your chest at his pathetic behaviour, the mere idea that the Second-ranked Harbinger’s weakness was this, Dottore was eight whole ranks above your own yet when it came to pleasing him, you felt superior.

This . . . exchange between you and The Doctor hadn’t been going on for long.

Despite it starting around a little over two months ago (since the conclusion of the joint research project), you had only visited one another for a total of four times including now, and each time, words were barely exchanged—only carnal desire and the need of release filled all four corners of the room. Neither of you minded because after all, you were only using one another for one’s own pleasure. 

Mindless chatter wasn’t needed for something that didn’t involve romance.

You let his response linger in the air, the same way the unspoken energy between you and Dottore did—the push and pull, as if you were the moon and he, the azure tides.

Focused on where the latter needed you most, you shifted to position yourself better before you finally undid his belt and pulled down the zipper of his pants. Dottore sighed in response, relief washed over his feverish body, one less fabric to release his aching cock.

A rather embarrassing wet spot had made itself known on the fabric of his brief and you didn’t waste any time to rub at the spot,—languid and calculated just how Dottore liked it—he let out a forceful grunt, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Despite not having done this a lot, you’ve already ascertained how his body responded to your touch; anything too light or ghostly had Dottore impatient, he would try to escalate the matters by bucking into your hands or if you were on top, he’d hold your hips in place to thrust upwards.

The Doctor liked it rough, whether it was for him or for you, a touch of roughness never left the scene. It was to be expected, a Harbinger of his caliber only knew of ragged edges and cold nights where softness and comfort did not grow.

Though, it raised a question within you, was Dottore capable of such a thing? A hand that knew nothing but power and violence—stained with endless crimson, you wondered how it would feel.

“Haah. I’ve had a tedious day, Prevaricator. Do not tease me.” He groaned, legs subtly spreading a little wider as if to invite your body further into his.

You’ve been rubbing up and down at the wet spot on his underwear longer than you intended—you didn’t mean to tease Dottore but his low gasps and grunts were simply music to your ears.

Alas, you were here to please him after all, so, without wasting another second further, you freed his cock from its confine. With a lift of his hips and a swift pull of his pants and underwear, his heavy cock slapped against his clothed abdomen—it stood tall, crimson and veiny waiting to be stroked.

Pre-cum from his bulbous tip glistened beneath the dim lighting, its pearlescent sheen beckoned upon your tongue like sinful desire.

One you would willingly fall into, drown in its never ending depths and be saved by no one.

Dottore hissed as you teased his slit and rubbed the pre-cum down the length of his shaft. His chest heaved up and down, each heavy breath he let out in unison with the strokes of your hand.

Up and down, up and down while squeezing just a little tighter as you reached the tip.

More pre-cum oozed out of his slit at your repeated ministrations; you swallowed your saliva, suddenly remembering the way his thick cum felt in your throat the last time you two were intimate.

It felt weird but not enough to have one recoil from its sensation, though, taste was a completely different story. The first time you tasted Dottore on your tongue, you were quite literally met with a coughing fit; the whole scene was beyond embarrassing on your end—it was sloppy, his essence ran down your chin, and tears welled your eyes as you unceremoniously heaved.

His taste sat heavy on your tongue, slightly bitter and salty but you expected nothing else from someone who devoted their time and energy in research and experiments. In other words, Dottore only fuelled himself when absolutely necessary which, of course, led to rather unfavourable tastes.

“Ngh! Good. Yes! Just like that!” A string of shameless groans spilled from his lips like a forbidden prayer. His praise went straight to your core—hot and uncomfortable as it settled—and disappointingly, you clenched around nothing.

Urged by his heavenly sounds and saccharine praises, you brought your head closer to give his tip experimental licks and tried not to think much about the taste.

Dottore’s gloved hands flew to your hair, fingers intertwined with your locks while his cock slowly entered your mouth. Inch by inch, it filled your throat ‘til there was no more room left, you didn’t meet the base of his shaft, a few centimetres remained untouched by your mouth due to his impressive length.

Tears began to form in your eyes as the blunt tip rubbed against the back of your throat, you exhaled through your nose—in and out—trying not to let your gag reflex take over.

The grip on your hair tightened and your hands—that were once flat against his thighs—curled, nails dug into his soft skin, leaving crescent shaped marks behind.

With one hand entangled in your hair and the other resting just below your jaw, Dottore slowly guided your head up the length of his cock ‘til the tip remained before lowering it back down; languid and calculated, he set the pace. With every careful bob of your head, he moaned shamelessly, head permanently thrown back atop the sofa backrest without a single care in the world.

Oh, how your hot mouth deliciously swallowed him over and over again. The sounds it made urged him to fuck your throat even deeper. With trembling hands, you massaged his heavy balls, slightly squeezing and groping them.

Dottore’s cock twitched, followed by a garbled moan of your name that lingered in the thick air; you hated to admit it but your hips involuntarily bucked at his sinful voice. How you desperately wished for some kind of friction—anything. Just to quench the growing thirst between your thighs.

Though, you figured only one individual could do so effortlessly, and it happened to be the Harbinger you were pleasing with your mouth.

“Mhm—haah! I’m close!”

As embarrassing as it was to confess, Dottore neared his impending orgasm; he had been putting off his sexual needs longer than necessary—in short, he was beyond pent up. Simply feeling your tightness dizzied him to the point of weakness. His hips desperately bucked and stuttered as you continued to bob your head with his assistance.

After a few more strokes, you pulled him from your mouth, both hands frantically stroking him while your lips and tongue found his balls.

His scent was simply intoxicating, everything smelled and tasted like Dottore and gods you could not get enough. As if you were a starved madwoman, you messily licked and slurped at his balls with fervour.

Dottore gripped your moving wrist, cursing at the heavens above from the immense pleasure you had him in, and despite his firm hold on, you didn’t let up. Your hands stubbornly stroked him, mouth eagerly sucked him ‘til the coil deep in his stomach violently snapped, white, hot bliss engulfed his feverish body.

Dottore’s legs shook, Adam’s apple bobbing with every whimper he let out. Thick ropes of cum spurted from his tip, painting your hands and face a sinful shade of ivory.

You rode out his high by continuing to stroke his cock and suck on his balls until he was practically pushing you off of him. You gave the base an open-mouthed kiss before pulling away, eyes slightly narrowed as cum dripped down your forehead and brows.

Despite the heaviness of his body, Dottore pushed himself off the backrest, sitting up straight to dig for a handkerchief inside the pocket of his pants and gently wipe away the lewd mess on your face. Obviously, you were more than capable of doing so yourself but you let him—you didn’t move away from his gloved touch.

“That was unnecessary.” You whispered, voice a little hoarse, as he neatly folded the soiled fabric, he made a mental note to wash it later.

“Is that your way of saying ‘thank you’?” He scoffed, tucking himself back in. You stood up—legs a little wobbly—and smoothed your clothes, as if Dottore wasn’t just fucking your face mere moments ago.

You ignored his retort, instead, you turned around and simply headed for the door. This was how it went, once either of you got what you wanted, the next thing to do was leave—no lingering around, no announcements made. Both of you knew of this unspoken rule. If anything, it made things less awkward whenever you’d see one another in the Palace or in the Experimental Bureau.

“Unless you want to get stranded in layers and layers of snow, I suggest you stay the night. Of course, I am not forcing you, I am simply giving advice. You’re free to leave.” At Dottore’s words, you stopped in your tracks.

How strange.

He had never invited you to stay the night, and even if he were telling the truth about the harsh weather, it was still out of character for him. If roles were reversed and Dottore was in your abode instead, you still would’ve sent him on his way. Whether he braved the blizzard outside was none of your concern.

You took a peek outside the window by the door, the sight you were greeted with confirmed Dottore’s words.

A thick blanket of snow completely covered the ground outside which gave absolutely no room for any individual to walk on and considering the fact that Dottore’s residence was just outside Snezhnograd meant it was far from your place and definitely farther from Zapolyarny Palace—the place you were deciding to sleep at tonight since you had a scheduled meeting with Her Majesty first thing in the morning.

The outside world beyond the glass was nothing but white violence—wind howled and frost spiraled in sheets thick enough to swallow entire buildings.

“It would be rude of me to do so.” It seemed like a pain having to navigate through a snowstorm but staying the night in Dottore’s house was even worse.

The place didn’t exactly feel cosy—honestly, you didn’t know what you expected but it definitely wasn’t this; piles and piles of documents and books decorated the entire space, not in a messy way but there was just so much of them that the scent of paper invaded your sense of smell.

As for decorations, there wasn’t much as well, his personality nor taste in design wasn’t present in his home. You concluded the place as an extension of his laboratory, only this time, instead of being equipped with machines and chemicals, it had furniture.

The wind slams against the window and the glass trembles faintly in its frame  as if to further counter your reply. You hesitated for a while and turned to face Dottore who now stood a few steps away, back in his proper form, “I’ve navigated worse.”

“Visibility has already collapsed. If you decide to heed my words, there is a spare room located on the right side of the corridor.” He left it at that, calculated footsteps retreating to his study.

You stood in silence for a minute or two, debating on your next move. The risk of getting severe frostbite seemed like a bother and recovery would be an even bigger headache, it would only serve as a hindrance to your routine. Despite your better judgement, you followed Dottore’s advice.

Surprisingly enough, the spare room was . . . okay, it housed a spacious queen bed decorated with crimson sheets, and to its left was a simple wooden night stand with a singular lamp.

On the right was a grand floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that contained a variety of ancient texts and novels—a mix of Snezhnayan and Sumerian books.

Oh, that’s right, you’ve almost forgotten The Doctor was originally from Sumeru.

The next few minutes consisted of you reading titles from book spines, even going as far as skimming the texts inside before ultimately deciding to retire for the night, overcoat long unfastened and draped over the foot of the bed; you didn’t want to spend another minute being aware of where you were right now.

Inside his study, Dottore mindlessly scribbled in his notebook—experimental findings, new hypotheses and errors, he wrote them all down.

The fireplace to his left illuminated the dim room, hues of warm oranges and reds decorated its walls like a fiery painting; the sound of fire cracking, wind howling, and pen to paper was all one could hear. Even though his hand diligently wrote each sentence, Dottore’s mind was elsewhere.

Though, not far off, just down the darkened corridor.

At the thought of you, an inexplicable feeling deep within his chest resurfaced. It wasn’t the first time he felt this way, it's as if a seed had been planted inside him, took root in his veins, and slowly blossomed with every passing day. Every time it grew, it stabbed at his chest as if to tell him it wasn’t supposed to be there.

Inhale. Exhale. Dottore had more pressing matters to deal with than to idly think about the Harbinger a few metres away. The Harbinger who had just pleasured him. The Harbinger who somewhat infuriated him.

The Harbinger who couldn’t seem to escape his thoughts. A prisoner of his mind.

Dottore scribbled some more notes. Then some more ‘til he realised he had started to write something completely different, not your Fatui title nor the name Her Majesty bestowed upon you—your real name.

Dottore had accidentally written your real name amongst countless paragraphs of important information.

His vermillion gaze traced each and every letter of your name, with intent, the same way his hands roamed your body during intimacy. He let his pen clatter against the wooden table, then, his body moved without thought—chair pushed back, its legs scraped against the floor, each hurried step led him closer and closer to the room you resided in.

The door wasn’t closed, a small opening revealed your figure fast asleep on the bed. He stood there for a minute or two just observing the way your chest shallowly rose and fell, a steady rhythm. The snowstorm had subsided a bit but wind persisted against the glass windows, begging to be let in.

Despite his better judgement, Dottore quietly stepped inside and made his way over to your side of the bed.

Moonlight illuminated your face, casting gentle shadows upon your features; he loomed over your sleeping figure akin to monsters children talked about at night—tall and unsettling.

He knelt down to bring himself closer and reached out a hand to brush stray hair away from your face. His own was devoid of any expression, as if he were merely reading an experimental report but Dottore knew something inside him was wrong, deeply wrong.

He gave into greed and let himself linger a while longer, observing the way your tranquil beauty flawlessly shone under the moon; even going as far as ghosting a digit over the slope of your nose, down to the curve of your lips.

Then, as if realisation hit him, Dottore curled his hand into a fist before abruptly returning to his feet to leave.

His mind wandered no further into the foreign sensation within his chest. After all, he had more pressing matters to tend to.

The next morning, you left without announcement, Dottore would understand, you assumed he was still cooped up in his study due to the door being shut. Though, it wasn’t like you were required to tell him, anyway. The journey from Dottore’s place to The Zapolyarny Palace was quiet, too quiet but you appreciated it nonetheless; the opportunity to bask in cold silence wasn’t granted very often.

Though, one exception was when knelt before Her Majesty.

The throne room was quieter than the rest of the Palace; sunlight peeked through tall frosted windows which casted pale reflections across the marble floor. Ice climbed the pillars in slow, crystalline veins. With one leg bent, you knelt before the dais, posture straight, head lowered out of respect. Before you, upon an elevated throne of frost and silver, sat the Tsaritsa.

“Prevaricator,” She began, cold and calm yet weighted with intention. “I require you in Fontaine.”

“For what purpose, Your Majesty?” As if on cue, a lower ranking Fatuus handed you a lone document which contained a map. A shipping network, ports, warehouses and trade routes which stretched from Fontaine’s docks all the way to distant coasts.

“At the center of this is an organisation known as the Commercial Registry Guild. They are not soldiers nor investors—they are regulators.” Upon her words, your eyes narrowed in interest.

“In Fontaine, no large-scale shipment moves without documentation. No mechanical device leaves the harbour without proper certification, and no foreign entity establishes long-term infrastructure without registry approval.”

In simpler terms: the Commercial Registry Guild controlled paperwork and in Fontaine, paperwork was power.

“The Guild oversees import permits, maritime insurance bonds, mechanical patent filings and cross-border tariffs—they decide what is taxed, what is delayed, and what is quietly expedited.” The Tsaritsa explained and you immediately understood her intentions.

“They can slow our operations or accelerate them.” You muttered, Her Majesty nodded, completely delighted at how swiftly you caught on; she always admired that about you—sharpness.

“Indeed. For months, Regrator has attempted to secure a preferential trade agreement with the Guild but they have refused.” Her tone shifted.

“On what grounds, Your Majesty?” “They claim neutrality. They insist they cannot appear politically aligned with Snezhnaya.” 

“So, they fear reputational damage? Yet they negotiate with other nations.” It made sense, an organisation that handled important paperwork not only for Fontaine but for the whole of Teyvat, being biased to one nation would stain their reputation which would ultimately lead to decrease in business.

Basically, a losing situation.

The Tsaritsa nodded once more, “But those nations approach them through diplomacy. We approach them through leverage."

You were aware of how Regrator operated, he excelled in numbers, pressure, and long-term financial dominance. He offered investment shares, exclusive contracts, and profit margins too tempting to ignore yet the Guild remained unmoved, stubborn and firm.

“They don’t want to be bought.” You stated. “Precisely. You understand well, Prevaricator.” A faint smile graced upon the Tsaritsa’s lips.

The Commercial Registry Guild thrived on perception, their power lied in appearing impartial. If they openly favoured Snezhnaya and the Fatui, they were at risk of losing the illusion of neutrality and therefore, their influence.

“Regrator has offered them reduced tariffs for Snezhnayan exports and access to northern trade routes.” She continued.

“And they declined?” “Indeed.” “What do they gain by refusing the Fatui?”

The Tsaritsa answered, “Bargaining power to keep the Fatui desperate.”

You nodded, “If we secure their cooperation, what changes?” “Our shipments would pass Fontaine’s ports without delay. Our mechanical imports would clear inspections within hours instead of weeks, and our financial transfers would bypass secondary audits.”

That meant the Fatui operation within Fontaine would be much smoother and harder to trace—no confiscated cargo and absolutely no sudden ‘random inspections’. 

The Tsaritsa added, “We would operate as though we belonged there.” That was the true advantage, the idea Regrator had been trying to achieve for months.

“Regrator has become rather . . . impatient. Which is why I believe the Guild should be approached differently.” It made sense, he had attempted to overwhelm the Guild with lucrative proposals and in return, it was interpreted as aggression from the Fatui.

What they required was reassurance—not bribes. 

“They fear that aligning with us will compromise their image so we shall offer them something that enhances it instead.” You carefully pondered, already thinking of strategies to approach the organisation. That was what you were good at—enhancements.

Normally, you served the Tsaritsa by working in the backline as a combat medic for injured operatives during elaborate missions, other days you would work on Fatui armoury to enhance its design in battle. It was rare of Her Majesty to assign you in a negotiation deal with Regrator as the latter primarily dealt with it alone

Though, your skills in smooth-talking and winning over clients weren’t unknown to the Fatui, which is why as a last resort for negotiations, they’d turn to you for assistance. After all, persuasion built on lies was your forté.

“You shall depart tomorrow and accompany Regrator to Fontaine. Bring me the Guild’s signatures and Fontaine’s ports become our gateway.” After another round of briefing concerning different matters such as Project Stuzha, the meeting was officially dismissed. 

Acquiring cooperation from Fontanian ports? That would be easy enough.

After exiting Her Majesty’s throne room, you rounded a corner—in deep thought about possibilities and approach—before your hasty figure accidentally collided against someone else’s. The impact wasn’t intense but it sure did startle you.

“Columbina! My apologies, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings.” Your eyes widened at the individual before you. The Third stood there, unsettling as ever, she let your apology linger in the air for a while as if she hadn’t heard the words come from your lips.

Then, she shook her head in a dainty dismissal, “It’s quite alright. I, too, wasn’t paying attention.” Columbina murmured, voice soft and icy.

You shifted your weight from one foot to another; she was kind and quiet yet the inexplicable aura she carried along summoned shivers down your back. Not to mention how her eyes were always closed behind the ivory fabric she donned, even so, one could still feel her ominous gaze.

There were times when Columbina sang down the corridors of Zapolyarny Palace—beyond the door to your quarters—it was an exquisite melody yet it completely lost its beauty during ungodly hours of the morning where you would be reviewing laboratory reports; her voice would suddenly emerge from the silence, akin to a ghostly apparition.

“Are you here to see Her Majesty as well?”

She absentmindedly nodded.

“Well, I won’t keep you for long. I’ll see you around.” You bid her a goodbye and headed your way, important matters awaited you.

Fontaine smelled different from Snezhnaya, the scent of salt and steam invaded your senses. This wasn’t your first time in the Nation of Hydro but you could never get used to its smell.

The Court of Fontaine hummed with motion everywhere—aquabus rails glided across elevated waterways, mechanical lifts ascended and descended between stone terraces, and Fontanians went along their day, busy as ever.

Tucked at the south of the city, inside a high-ceilinged office that overlooked bustling streets below, Regrator stood near the tall windows, gloved hands clasped behind his back. His expression was pleasant—a kind smile painted on his face—but rather strained at the edges.

From where you sat, you could already see the tightness in his jaw, clearly annoyed.

Across from you, sat two representatives of the Guild, they donned tailored fabric which hinted at their seriousness, and polite smiles sharpened by habit, “We have reviewed your tariff concessions. While generous, they do not address our primary concern.” The blond male spoke up, he introduced himself as Monsieur Rochefort during formalities earlier.

“Which is entirely abstract.” Regrator turned to the representatives, a hint of sharpness laced within his indifferent tone. “What do you gain from denying the Fatui? We’ve already offered generous incentives.” The Ninth gestured towards the stack of neatly piled documents placed atop the table.

Next to Monsieur Rochefort, a woman—Madame Moreau—spoke this time, “Which is what entirely makes this whole negotiation worse. If we accept those incentives along with the deal, it would look like we’ve been bought—bribed to be in favour of Snezhnaya and the Fatui.” That was the problem Regrator couldn’t see, in his mind, money and value were everything; he viewed the world around him as assets that could be bought and if that didn’t work, he’d simply increase the price.

But money wasn’t convincing the Guild.

Silence and tension stretched far, just below breaking point. Everyone in the room looked on edge—Regrator appeared as if he were two sentences away from unleashing his temper while the representatives subtly trembled in their seats, afraid of what two Harbingers could do to them if angered. You, who had not said a single word from the start, finally spoke,

“The Guild is afraid of how this will look, and if you sign a deal with the Fatui, it looks like favouritism, correct?” 

“Yes.” Monsieur Rochefort sternly nodded, as if to say: ‘Finally! Someone gets it!’ A hint of amusement clouded his gaze, one far too much for your liking.

“So, don’t sign a deal with the Fatui.”

Everyone in the room paused at your words, you could already feel your colleague’s hard gaze on you. If you were to guess, he was most likely thinking you just blew off the negotiation. At the representatives’ confused expressions, you continued,

“This isn’t a trade alliance. It’s a logistics improvement initiative.”

“Located at the heart of Teyvat, Fontaine handles more trade than any other nation. If shipments get stuck in port, the Guild—and Fontaine’s—reputation suffers. The company would look inefficient.” Now, they were listening to your words, interests piqued upon hearing your narrative.

Good. You got them hooked—right into your palm.

“What we’re offering aren’t incentives, think of it as funding to help the Guild process international shipments swiftly. The company remains in control and from the perspective of the public, this is simply a strategy to upgrade Fontaine’s trade system. No bias and therefore no reputation damaged.”

Monsieur Rochefort and Madame Moreau exchanged glances, ones full of consideration and thought. They privately muttered among themselves which you gave them privacy by averting your gaze; your eyes landed on Regrator who returned your stare with partial delight.

Of course, celebration was still out of the table until ink met paper and documents were signed.

“And what does Snezhnaya gain?” Monsieur Rochefort asked. “Faster imports and exports, and predictable timelines for approvals. That’s all.”

“And if we decide this negotiation no longer serves us?”

“The Guild is free to withdraw, agreement renews annually.” Regrator’s brows furrowed at your words. What a bold concession. He thought. Both representatives relaxed at the reassurance. Organisations like the Guild were predictable, they were the type to easily bend once they got their way.

Both of them murmured among themselves once more, full of animated gestures and nodding of their heads, “If this is presented as a Guild-led modernization effort then we can proceed.”

Upon words of confirmation, tension inside the office disappeared instantaneously, as if a deep exhale was let out. Regrator smiled, genuinely, this time, at you and at the Guild representatives.

Without wasting another time, pens were brought forward and documents were finally signed— just like that, Fontaine’s most important trade office had begun working closely with the Fatui.

After necessary formalities, you and Regrator left the building, walking side by side; the late afternoon skies greeted you both, hues of light rose and coral intertwined above your heads. It had been a long day, as soon as you and Regrator reached the docks of Fontaine, you went straight to the Guild’s office.

“Congratulations, Prevaricator. Your value has appreciated.” He chuckled lightly, soft voice weaving its way above the background noise. You shrugged, “I only gave them a story they were comfortable telling the public.” 

“Ah, how modest of you. Say, since you’ve managed to single-handedly close the negotiation that has tormented me for months, why don’t we drop by Hotel Debord for dinner? All on me.”

Confusion slowly formed on your face, you looked up at him, brows knitted and eyes narrowed; Regrator? Offering to shoulder dinner expenses? That was new. Not that you were short on mora or any other factor but it was rather rare for him to offer such things.

Furthermore, you weren’t close enough with him to even consider dining out together nor did the two of you work closely; you even have no recollection of past encounters with him—not that you really paid any attention to the Ninth.

Though, you accepted. The day was slowly drawing to a close and you weren’t given the chance to indulge in a full meal since departure.

As the evening rolled in, Hotel Debord shone in elegance. Crystal chandeliers hung high against its pristine glass ceiling, musicians played something light which eased every customer into the mood of luxury as they murmured over wine and Fontanian delicacies. Delicious aroma wafted through the air, bringing nothing but pure delight.

Tonight’s celebration was discreet—a rather trivial one between you and Regrator.

At a table in the upper level of the Hotel, the latter swirled crimson wine in his glass, watching the reflections bend against its surface,

“To efficiency.” He chuckled in delight, lips stretched in a mischievous smile. You sat opposite him, posture straight, hands rested atop the fine tablecloth,

“To efficiency.” You repeated.

The two of you brought your glasses together before taking a sip of wine—it was bitter and bold but it had a rather pleasant aftertaste which lingered on your tongue.

The background noise of the Hotel swelled and softened like a distant tide, not too distracting for conversations but also not too quiet for awkwardness. For a brief moment, you simply observed the room—watched as elite customers animatedly conversed and toasted their drinks over matters worth celebrating, completely unaware that Fontaine’s most powerful regulators fell right into Snezhnaya’s hands.

Regrator sat his glass down, “You realise that this success will not go unnoticed, the Tsaritsa will be pleased.” “She most definitely will be. After all, I did not travel here only to return empty handed in Snezhnaya.” You finished your wine then shifted your attention over to the duck confit.

“And Dottore?” He asked casually, as if it were a mere afterthought. There was a slight pause in your movement at the mention of the Second but Regrator was observant enough to notice—he always noticed everything.

The expression painted on your face remained unchanged, indifferent. Why was he suddenly asking about his friend? His question felt . . . out of place.

“. . . What of him?”

“He will definitely find practical use for expedited shipments, he always does.” There was something knowing in his gaze, you didn’t like the way his eyes lingered. You shifted in your seat slightly, heat slowly crept up your neck and onto your ears, it was uncomfortable, the feeling akin to a thousand needles poking at your skin. Though, not because of Regrator’s stare but at the mention of Dottore.

Calmly, you replied, “Then The Doctor should be grateful.” Regrator’s smile widened, “Oh, I suspect he will be.”

You didn’t speak further. The conversation died down which left both of you to clear your plates. It wasn’t awkward, though, it's as if it was some kind of shared understanding between you and Regrator; you appreciated this side of him, one that did not speak numbers nor value—this way, he was actually quite tolerable.

The soft melody continued in the background, candlelights flickered and danced beneath the diamond chandeliers. Outside, the skies darkened as the sun dipped further and further into the horizon, the two of you took this as a cue to retire for the night. Tomorrow, there was another meeting with the Guild to discuss its funding.

As you and Regrator walked down the streets of Fontaine, for a brief moment, your mind impulsively wondered what Dottore was up to. Last you heard from him, his experiment wasn’t going too well.

Back in Snezhnaya, pure anger engulfed Dottore’s entire body, it seeped into his covered skin and down to his very bones. He was absolutely fuming.

For the second time, his experiment failed miserably—it was the same result as the day before, an explosion of substances which once again covered the floors of his laboratory and therefore needed thorough cleaning. Thorough cleaning meant forced time away from the laboratory, in other words, wasted time.

Dottore muttered a curse under his breath before carefully stepping over spilled liquid; firm, calculated steps echoed throughout the dead silent laboratory, each one of his subordinates didn’t dare utter a word.

One look at his stiff expression beneath the mask and they knew not to cross the thin line. Without another word, Dottore exited the laboratory, his subordinates could clean up that mess.

He crossed the building in a swift manner—legs moved without stopping, feet carrying him down an extramely familiar path within the Experimental Bureau. A corridor that led straight to your laboratory.

As if he owned the space, Dottore swiped his access card; he watched as the heavy metal door hissed, it slowly opened upwards. He impatiently tapped his foot against the ground, and as soon as the gap was big enough, he swiftly ducked down and entered your laboratory—he didn’t want to stand around waiting for the large door to fully open.

The sight he was greeted with was just like any other—a standard laboratory, and inside were your subordinates who diligently worked on Fatui armoury. Except you. Dottore slightly tilted his head in confusion, earring swaying along with the movement. The entire room paused, their attention now directed at the Second Harbinger, confusion on their faces.

“Where is she?”

In all honesty, the reason of his sudden visit was unknown and unclear, its as though his feet had a mind of its own which carried him all the way to the other side of the Experimental Bureau. But what upset him even more was the fact that you weren’t present—he spent all that time walking to your laboratory only to be met with nothing? How inconvenient.

The edge in his tone was noticeable and every person in the room stiffened.

“L-Lord Dottore! What a pleasure to have you here. Unfortunately, our Lady Harbinger isn’t present right now. She is currently away on a mission in Fontaine with Lord Regrator per Her Majesty’s orders. They left yesterday morning.” Someone finally spoke up after a moment of silence.

Dottore stood there, dumbfounded. Mission in Fontaine? With Pantalone? Why was your presence needed in Fontaine? Endless questions plagued his mind, they were all unanswered which irritated him further. In academics, unanswered questions were a scholar’s worst enemy and apparently to him, the same applied when it came to you.

Indeed, he was aware of Pantalone’s departure to Fontaine but the latter didn’t mention your company. There was no time to dwell on this matter inside your laboratory. With a dip of his head—an acknowledgement of your subordinate’s words—he turned around to leave.

Surprisingly, Dottore ended up in Zapolyarny Palace, specifically outside the door to your personal chamber. Yet again, the reason for his visit was unknown, it's as if an invisible rope had somewhat tugged him here.

With a gloved hand, he reached for the knob and stepped inside; the room was tidy and put together, a striking contrast to when the two of you got rather heated in here—Dottore swore he could still hear your breathless moans and grunts even as pure silence greeted him. He closed the door behind him and leaned on it, entire body resting against it as he closed his eyes.

It was dark inside but he did not care. Frankly, the darkness somewhat put him at ease. Strangely enough, despite the lack of your presence, the room held your scent—the sweet, intoxicating aroma that drove him mad.

Dottore let out an exhale, something within him stirred in response to your fragrance clouding his senses; his right hand balled and opened repeatedly, the leather groaned and squeaked at the movement. That sound was the only factor that grounded him because right now, his mind was stained with thoughts of you, and only you.

Akin to morning fog that cleared in the afternoon sun, the failed experiment and today’s worries were long gone—dissipated into thin air as if it never existed. Oh, how you could single handedly wash away all the stress he felt with the use of your mouth . . hands . . cunt.

Dottore swallowed thickly, he tried to ignore the growing heat between his legs but it was rapid—almost like a petty retaliation against his own judgement. What had gotten into him? Sure, he had been intimate with you more than once but what happened inside the room always stayed there, his thoughts never once wandered back to the past to fantasize about you.

This was a first. Was he sick? 

Dottore inhaled then exhaled. Once. Twice. Thrice. But the tent in his pants only grew further, embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin. One hand reached down between his legs, he let out a sharp hiss as he palmed his clothed boner, knees buckling at the sudden sensation that shot up his spine.

When . . . was the last time Dottore shamelessly touched himself at the thought of another? Never. He always deemed such matters as immature nor did he ever entertain feelings of lust.

He repeated the motion several times—groping and slightly squeezing at his hard cock but it didn’t feel as intoxicating as your touch, it’s as if Dottore knew his body less than you did and it frustrated him.

Both emotionally and sexually.

For one, you were all the way in Fontaine which meant he had to deal with his carnal needs alone.

Impatient, he undid his belt with trembling hands then pulled both pants and underwear in such haste which caused his hard cock to slap against his lower abdomen.

The fabric pooled around his ankles, icy air met his naked legs, leaving goosebumps; he shuddered at the coldness against his warm skin. With the use of his teeth, Dottore expertly bit at the tip of his right glove, successfully stripping his hand clean of the material.

A wanton moan escaped his lips as he rubbed at the sensitive cockhead, it leaked an embarrassing amount of pre-cum, globs of it rolled down his blunt tip, it gave his cock a pearlescent sheen beneath the faint moonlight that seeped into your room.

From tip to base, Dottore spread his pre-cum all over his cock—several languid strokes that had him cursing into the still silence.

Hearing his moan by itself felt degrading, usually, your sounds would interlace with his own to create a sinful melody that he could bask in but alas, the tune of his immoral song was lonely. With his eyes closed and a vivid imagery of you splayed out on the bed—all in your naked, unholy beauty—Dottore pumped his cock, starting out with a slow pace. He imagined you softly raking your hands through your bare torso, up and down in unison with the stroke of his own; you brought both hands up to your chest, squeezing and groping at your own breasts.

“Mhm—Haah!” Fuck, he could hear how your dainty moans rolled off your tongue perfectly.

As if you were there, Dottore moaned your name in response—not Prevaricator. It fell into the broken silence like an unanswered prayer and hit the cold floor rather intensely, it served as a painful reminder of your absence.

Nonetheless, he tightened his fingers around his cock and stroked himself a little faster. Raw pleasure gnawed at his skin and weakened his legs. He desperately bucked into his hand as you began to touch yourself, a lone digit teasingly rubbed at your wet slit. You inserted a finger and Dottore swallowed thickly, incoherently cursing at the expression painted on your face.

Oh, how insanely exquisite you looked with your eyes rolled back and lips parted to let out the most beautiful whimpers.

Sweat beaded beneath his pointed mask, despite the crisp temperatures, he felt warm and stuffy; the fabric of his clothes around his torso uncomfortably stuck onto his skin. Dottore hated the feeling but the bliss that engulfed his whole body was very addicting—its as if he were experiencing oxytocin for the very first time.

“Ngh! Prevaricator—Ah!” He grunted. You added another finger inside your sopping cunt, this time you thrust your digits with haste and desperation. Pornographic wet sounds echoed within the room and it only fuelled him further.

Dottore followed suit, hand moving at the same pace your fingers did, a forceful groan escaped his parted lips as if he’d been punched in the gut by pleasure itself. At this point, he was quite literally tugging at his cock from how tight he gripped it—his knuckles were painted ivory and jaw hard as stone which meant orgasm loomed dangerously close.

Dottore’s colourful moans turned into short, desperate pants, his arm burned at the repeated movement but he couldn’t bring himself to stop, not when pleasure was mere seconds away. In his mind, your climax was also close—he could hear the way your moans ended in dainty whimpers, a subtle occurrence whenever you neared your orgasm.

“Dottore!” You whimpered, back arching off the mattress, face contorted into the most beautiful pleasure-drunk expression. Tears welled your eyes and your mouth parted in a silent moan as your orgasm came crashing down. Dottore grunted, strokes faltering a bit before reaching his orgasm; hot, white pleasure engulfed his vision—his climax was so intense that he swore he briefly blacked out and if it weren’t for his grip on the door knob next to him, he would’ve met the floor face first with how weak his legs had become.

With a loud moan of your name, hot cum spurted from his cock and spilled onto the floor. Dottore pumped his sensitive cock three more times to ride out his high, primarily focusing on teasing his slit. He let out a low curse, hips stuttering at the overstimulation. Heavy breaths filled the room, it settled into the air the same way shame weighed on Dottore’s sweaty skin—heavy and uncomfortable. 

Another curse slipped past his lips. In all honesty, he did not know what to make of this whole situation nor was he willing to address his carnal fantasies. It was normal, right? Dottore had only been having sex with you which meant you would be the only object of his desires—the very concept of stimulus and response; the external stimuli would be engaging in raw intimacy and his natural response would be to seek more.

Yes, desiring for one was all part of human nature. Nothing out of the ordinary. But why did the sensation inside his chest feel the complete opposite? Dottore didn’t dwell on the feeling further, he had more important matters to worry about like tomorrow’s experiment.

Fontanian mornings were chilly but they weren’t as crisp as Snezhnayan ones, the relief of not having to dress for a colder climate was something you absolutely were thankful for—no heavy Fatui overcoat, no thick scarf around your neck, no frostbites. 

The meeting with the Guild wasn’t until afternoon which meant you and Regrator had a bit of free time, prompting you to think about the idea of visiting the House of the Hearth and hopefully Arlecchino if she was around. It wasn’t unusual for you to drop by the orphanage when in Fontaine during missions or personal travel but you were rarely in the Nation of Hydro.

The familiar building stood austere among the city’s narrow streets and upon stepping foot inside the orphanage, warmth and the scent of polished wood greeted your senses. There was something nostalgic about the House despite not frequenting it much, you couldn’t place your finger on it, though.

Chaos filled the walls, children laughed and ran around carelessly with genuine smiles plastered on their youthful faces, your echoed footsteps fell silent upon the song of frenzy. The scene before you was a breath of fresh air compared to the stillness of Zapolyarny Palace—in there, it felt suffocating, as if one constantly walked on thin ice.

The main hall was alive as always, cushions were scattered around like a friendly reminder that everyone was welcome in the House. Its walls were adorned with a variety of paintings—landscapes and colourful sketches which told stories of the past.

“O-Oh! Miss Prevaricator, I didn’t expect to see you here today . . . Are you looking for Father?” A familiar quiet voice drew you out of your idle thoughts. Your gaze landed on the timid blonde before you, despite the shyness laced in his soft voice, his eyes never left your own.

“Hello, Freminet. Yes, is Arlecchino around? I’ve come by to drop some gifts.” You briefly looked down at the stacked pastry-filled boxes in your hand, neatly wrapped in an ivory satin bow.

Before he could reply, the sound of heels clicking against the wooden floor cut through the momentary silence inside the House, “Oh? To what do I owe this pleasure?” Arlecchino stood beside Freminet—who subtly gave her space despite the ample amount available—her arms crossed over her chest yet a rather pleased expression was painted on her face.

“I’m here with Regrator per Her Majesty’s orders. Thought I’d drop by and give something to the children.”

The Third nodded at your brief explanation before ordering Freminet to carry the boxes into the dining hall, the latter quickly obliged, excusing himself and quietly retreating further inside the House, pastries in hand.

“Care for some tea? Though, if you’re busy, I won’t hold you back any longer.” Arlecchino proposed. Today wasn’t particularly busy and the meeting was not until afternoon, so there was ample time to spare—a cordial catch up with her wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ll take up on that offer.” 

The scent of Bergamot tea and faint woodsmoke embraced your senses. Arlecchino’s office was not a mystery but it always fascinated you whenever you stepped foot inside—tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, they were decorated with crimson curtains which danced along the morning breeze. Porcelain vases and delicate ornaments decorated her office, adding an exquisite touch to the place. 

Near the fireplace, a low round table had been arranged with care, an assortment of sweet Fontanian delicacies decorated the three-tier dessert; from Fontanalia Mousse to Pâte de Fruit, it seemed like every bit of the Nation’s sweets was right there in front of you. Beside it, two fine porcelain cups rested atop gold-lined saucers, steam curled upwards, giving off a pleasant aroma.

“How are you? Anything interesting as of late?” Arlecchino brought the cup to her lips, she blew on the hot beverage a few times before taking a small sip. Through the wisp of steam, her vermillion gaze remained locked on you. There was a hint of something behind it, as if she knew a vital piece of information, even her sentence alone weighed differently.

“I’ve been well. Busy in the laboratory as usual.”

You didn’t react despite your mind revisiting the last two months with Dottore. The slight shift in your seat was all Arlecchino needed to confirm but she was curious, “Childe told me something a few weeks back,” The latter started and you watched as she set her cup down with a faint clink to grab a Pâte de Fruit. Childe . . ? What did he rope himself into this time? Last time you heard of him he was recovering from his wounds. Though, somehow, it felt like what she was about to say next wasn’t about the Eleventh..

Wordlessly, you slightly tilted your head to the side, offering her to finish her sentence. Arlecchino swallowed the sweet, a hand over her mouth out of etiquette before speaking once again, “I’ll spare the . . . details but he mentioned you and The Doctor are quite close.”

Silence followed, faint sounds of joyous children beyond the office walls echoed along with the slow ticking of the grandfather clock tucked in a corner. Childe mentioned what? Pure confusion engulfed your entire body, a hint of panic also arose. What could he possibly mean by that? Did he manage to catch a glimpse of you and Dottore together?

As far as you knew, only The Captain did, on accident. You swallowed the feeling of embarrassment as you momentarily recollected the awkward encounter with The Captain in the balcony—that was a factor you needed to deal with.

“I’m . . not sure I follow.” Playing it safe was the only option you were left with and besides, whatever Childe said to Arlecchino could be a million different things, right? After all, you and Dottore did previously collaborate on an experiment per the Tsaritsa’s orders which and therefore practically saw one another almost everyday of the week.

She met your indifferent gaze with a deadpan expression—one that screamed ‘Do not attempt to lie to me, I know everything.’ If anything, she expected this outcome from you, being a deceitful individual was in your nature so this response was of no surprise. Although, Arlecchino would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a little disappointed, sharing a bond beyond mere colleagues, she would’ve expected you to forego that façade of yours and act truthfully.

Nonetheless, she could clearly decipher the reasoning behind your actions. Very much so. The only individual who didn’t shy away from his close involvement with The Doctor was Regrator.

With a sigh, your posture stuttered, a sign of defeat, “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Arlecchino.” 

That was the truth. Yes, you and Dottore engaged in a physical intimate relationship but you were both consenting adults and as far as you were concerned, the ‘arrangement’ was not actively harming the Fatui nor was your private relationship anyone’s business. Her Majesty could not care less about her Harbinger’s personal matters, as long as each Harbinger executed their tasks, she was satisfied.

Therefore, Arlecchino had no place to confront you about Dottore.

Despite your indifferent demeanour, what you felt inside was panic. No one really associated with the Second apart from Regrator which was purely formal and contractual, yours on the other hand . . . was different. Was it embarrassing on your end? Yes and no. Yes, because it was Dottore, everyone knew of his eccentricity—he was a madman; at least with The Captain or even Childe, one’s tastes would not be questioned, besides, The Captain was a highly esteemed individual. And No, because you were an individual free to do whatever you desired even if it meant getting intimate with Dottore.

At the very least, Arlecchino should understand where you were coming from; she was probably the most understanding and sensible in the group after The Captain.

She shifted in her seat, one leg crossing over the other as she contemplated her reply, “I know you must be thinking that it is none of my business and you are right, it isn’t. But from a friend to another, I must warn you, nothing good ever comes from associating yourself with Dottore, even if it is purely . . . physical. You’re a capable individual but just be careful, okay?” Genuinity laced her words, it comforted you like a warm embrace. In all honesty, you were quite thankful Childe ratted you out to Arlecchino instead of Sandrone, the latter would have definitely cursed you in a hundred different ways for developing a ‘relationship’ with Dottore outside forced project collaborations.

Still, you wanted to interrogate Childe once you returned to Snezhnaya. For him to gossip about your affairs like that . . . completely childish.

“But really? Dottore?” She added, a rather distasteful expression painted on her face. You shook your head in response, shame gnawed at your bones—maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to visit the House after all. “Don’t . . . even ask. I’m not sure what I got myself into.” Another sigh escaped your lips, you tried not to think about Dottore.

Tea with Arlecchino went on for an hour, random topics arose and dissipated along with every pour of Bergamot tea, and soon enough, you had to bid goodbye as the meeting with the Guild neared. Both of you parted ways without much formalities nor grand exits, just a simple nod of acknowledgement towards one another. As you walked to the doors of the House, a few of the children accompanied your short journey, thanking you for the sweet treats, and eagerly asking when you’ll be back for another visit.

You didn’t mind visiting in the near future.

The meeting ran smoothly, it primarily consisted of heavy business talk which you had to admit, lost you at some point mainly because it wasn’t your expertise—you only acted as a persuader and a negotiator—so most of the time, Regrator proudly took the lead. You were more than sure he didn’t mind, after all, he liked working alone with the sole reason of having every pawn neatly tucked in his palm.

“Thank you for your time Monsieur Rochefort, Madame Moreau. I assume we will be seeing the two of you in Snezhnaya at our upcoming banquet?” Regrator gently grabbed Madame Moreau’s delicate hand, gently placing a chaste kiss at the back of it. Formalities.

The banquet. You almost forgot.

The upcoming banquet was a grand gathering between the Fatui and its business partners, it was luxurious and far from simple but it held no significance apart from further strengthening Snezhnaya’s relationships with each organisation. Think of it as an annual gathering arranged by the Fatui to maintain their subtle authority over those businesses. If the banquet wasn’t compulsory, you wouldn’t have attended any of it but alas, mingling with important individuals came with the job.

“Ah, I’m afraid Madame Moreau won’t be accompanying me to Snezhnograd. However, Monsieur Valmont will be attending.” Monsieur Rochefort animatedly explained, briefly looking over your way. Thèodore Valmont was the owner of the Commercial Registry Guild, the individual you and Regrator were supposed to meet but after several fruitless meetings your colleague had with him in the past, Monsieur Valmont refused to attend yesterday’s meeting, fully expecting it to advance no further.

Regrator smiled. Even better. He thought; Valmont was absolutely far more valuable than a mere Guild representative, he had no qualms with that. “What delightful news, Monsieur Rochefort. Please, pass on my regards to Monsieur Valmont. I shall give him a warm welcome upon his arrival.” He chuckled.

It didn’t take a detective to piece that Regrator was in a delighted mood—the corners of his lips reached his eyes, it wasn’t the usual cunning smile he wore daily.

After extended formalities and proper goodbyes with the Guild representatives, you and Regrator headed towards Fontaine’s docks, ready to depart for Snezhnaya. Neatly tucked inside the latter’s leather briefcase was a document inked with the signatures Her Majesty sought after.

The trip back to Snezhnaya was peaceful, only the hum of the boat’s engine and its body against the tides could be heard; neither you nor Regrator spoke to one another but you didn’t mind. Conversing for the sake of replacing silence didn’t interest you, besides, ever since he spoke of Dottore’s name, a weird inkling in your chest bloomed.

Returning back home was devoid of anything grand, you and Regrator were immediately summoned to Her Majesty’s throne room upon arrival which consisted of an hour long meeting where future plans with the Guild were discussed. After that, you and Regrator parted ways where you ended up being whisked away by The Jester in an impromptu meeting, much to your dismay.

Though, it didn’t drag on, he had briefed you about urgent tasks assigned such as designing Fatui uniform suited for Nod-Krai’s kuuvahki since operatives were more than susceptible to overexposure, and thus would hinder their performance.

An important project concerning Nod-Krai had long been a topic in several Harbinger meetings—there wasn’t much you knew about it since you weren’t tasked to oversee anything there but you were aware of the fact that a Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau was being built on Paha Isle. Considering the long years it had been in discussion, the expansive structure would see its completion soon.

The next week consisted of being locked away inside your laboratory or office in the Experimental Bureau, you were surrounded by mountains of materials ready to be turned into uniform specifically for the Nod-Krai mission; the Director did express the urgency of the project assigned to you so any personal tasks were put on hold, and your subordinates worked over time to help meet the deadline—you even sent some of them to Nod-Krai to test out the first few batches.

Being this busy meant there was no time to rendezvous with Dottore but you didn’t mind, besides, the last you heard of him was before you left for Fontaine. It wasn’t like your arrangement with him held any significance, anyway. But your mind did occasionally wonder what he was up to.

A firm knock against the door to your office jolted you out of your thoughts; you had been reviewing past notes about personal projects you’ve researched about as a way to try and relax for a moment. The document tucked between your fingers consisted of neatly written information about the Moon Marrows.

Despite your interest in the ancient relics, only the location of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow was known and the lack of information regarding the Iridescent Moon Marrow and the absence of the Frost Moon Marrow subsequently led you to abandon the research for good.

It was a shame because you were truly passionate about it, you believed that its powers would greatly benefit the Fatui.

“Come in.”

A subordinate stepped inside, he knelt before you, “Lady Prevaricator, we have received results from the unit you dispatched in Nod-Krai.” At the mention of results, your ears perked up, the document in your hand long forgotten, “Good. Let me take a look at it.” He swiftly got back on his feet and placed a thick brown folder on the desk before exiting your office. The sheer thickness of it was enough to make one dizzy, this was going to be a long day.

After a rather gruelling week, the annual banquet finally rolled around and here you were inside the Palace, wrapped in an exquisite yet daring dress to compliment the Grand Hall’s luxurious aesthetic. The plunging backline of your dress was definitely one for attention.

The Grand Hall gleamed with cold opulence at night, its high arched ceilings were painted in hues of silver and blue which resembled a frozen sky at dawn. Crystalline chandeliers above hung like icicles, they gleamed like everlasting stars. Long banquet tables draped in fine ivory silk stretched the length of the Hall, frosted glass centerpieces faintly sparkled beneath the lights which illuminated the luxury Snezhnayan dishes laid upon the table. The air was crisp, it smelled faintly of aged wine, expensive perfume, and cold marble. To top it all off, a soft, elegant melody weaved its way across the faint chatter of guests, leaving no room for silence.

Important guests from all over Teyvat donned layered furs paired with exorbitant textiles to boast their social status—this was a gathering of elites, after all. And these elites happened to be under the Fatui’s control.

You nursed the Fire-Water in your stemmed glass, watching as the clear liquid swirled and gleamed beneath the crystalline lights. Before you, stood Regrator, Monsieur Valmont and Monsieur Rochefort engaged in a light conversation about the Guild.

Of course, in the name of formalities, there was no option but to mingle with the familiar group, it only made sense after recently securing an agreement with the Guild.

There were times you chimed in the conversation but majority of the time, the three men spoke amongst themselves. Not that you minded; standing idly was enough to pass time. Though, Monsieur Rochefort seemed to notice your lack of participation which led him to open a one-to-one conversation with you. He stepped closer, further reducing the distance between your bodies. You stiffened briefly but didn’t let on, he was too close for your liking.

“I was deeply amazed at how you handled that meeting back in Fontaine. You’re certainly a wonderful woman!” He laughed boisterously, head tipped back with an amused expression, the crimson liquid inside the glass he held swayed vigorously at his animated movements, threatening to spill.

“You are far too kind, Monsieur Rochefort.” A polite smile merely graced your lips yet it was enough to send the man laughing once again. Slightly uncomfortable at his odd behaviour, you looked around in slight embarrassment, afraid that his uncouthness had garnered unwanted attention.

Though, upon your brief scan around the Hall, a familiar masked figure caught your eye. Dottore. He stood in a darkened corner near a tall stained glass window, tucked between his gloved fingers was a stemmed glass devoid of any liquid inside. Your breath hitched. His gaze was already on you. Both of you stood there in silence, locked in a mutual stare where neither one dared to look away.

Dottore watched as the strange man next to you boldly leaned in, even going as far as resting his filthy hand on the small of your bare back. And you didn’t dare step away? His jaw hardened at the sight before him. Something inside his chest grew dangerously—an emotion full of negativity and anger. Dottore gripped his glass a little tighter, the fabric of his gloves squeaking at the subtle action.

You broke the stare, swiftly returning your full attention to Monsieur Rochefort. God, did he need to be so close? The scent of heavy alcohol clouded your senses, you stepped back in response which only pressed your back further into his palm.

“I’d like to get to know you mo—” “Ah,” Dottore cut into the conversation smoothly, tone full of edge, emptied glass long discarded in a servant’s tray.

“You’ve monopolized my colleague long enough.”

Despite the annoyance brewing inside him, he didn’t scowl, instead, he simply stood closely by your side—a little too close—his tall stature loomed over you and Monsieur Rochefort.

How did he get here so quickly?

Dottore’s sudden intrusion gained not only yours and Monsieur Rochefort’s attention but also Regrator’s and Monsieur Valmont’s whose conversation was cut short. It didn’t take much for the Ninth to realise what was about to unfold, and with a subtle smirk, he led the Guild’s owner elsewhere, away from lightning that was about to strike. Regrator had deep respect for his friend but he did not need Dottore’s foolishness tainting the Fatui’s name in front of Théodore Valmont.

“Dottore.” You greeted, calm and collected. The sensation inside his chest briefly stuttered as his name spilled from your lips. For a moment, he had forgotten the sole reason he rushed by your side but alas, it was short lived as the strange man’s infuriating voice pulled him back to reality, 

“Oh, hello. We were merely—”

“I’ve no interest in idle chatter. I am simply here to discuss matters with my colleague. Privately.”

Caught off-guard, Monsieur Rochefort wordlessly nodded, excused himself before stammering to sit on one of the tables. Dottore carefully watched as the former walked away, he scoffed before turning to you; the expression on your face was indifferent yet the pierce of your gaze held weight, “You didn’t need to do that.”

He let out an exasperated sigh, it had been a while since you’ve last seen one another and this was how you greeted him? How cold.

“He was enroaching.” “And I was handling it.”

You turned to fully face him, eyes narrowed with annoyance, “Why does it bother you?” It shouldn’t. Logically, it shouldn’t bother Dottore at all yet something convoluted and territorial had been simmering in his chest since the moment that strange man leaned dangerously close. Despite his better judgement, he needed to act on it, simply ignoring it felt . . . wrong.

“You are careless with proximity.” He waved a dismissive hand. You tilted your head slightly, challenging his reasoning, “That’s not what this is about.” In response, Dottore stepped closer, not enough to touch your body but enough for the music and chatter to fade behind the tension brewing between the two of you.

“You allow others into your space without assessment.” “Then why are you standing this close?”

Because I want to. The thought arrives uninvited but he didn’t dare speak it into existence, simply doing so would . . . complicate things.

Instead, he replied with, “Yet you’re not denying me either.” You fell silent at his words. He was right, you weren’t. Why weren’t you? For a moment, you pondered about it ‘til you realised you were displeased with him.

“You’re changing the topic, Doctor. I do not care whether ‘I am careless with proximity’, it still does not give you the right to interrupt my conversation with Mr. Rochefort.” At least Regrator was sensible enough to lead the Guild owner away from what was about to happen.

The partnership with Théodore Valmont was fairly new and if they were met with something they did not like, the Guild could easily withdraw benefits they granted Snezhnaya. Thankfully, Mr. Rochefort was probably drunk enough to overlook Dottore’s sour attitude.

Before he could reply, the Director stepped in—he must have sensed the tension between you and Dottore, “If the two of you are going to start bickering like children, take it elsewhere. You are Her Majesty’s esteemed Harbingers, do not taint her name in her Palace.”

That was how you and Dottore found yourselves away from the Grand Hall, inside the Palace’s expansive library, drinks long forgotten and the liveliness of the banquet faded into nothingness. 

“You did not notice his intent. That’s vulnerability.” He sharply uttered into the silence; Dottore stood near the shelves, eyes absentmindedly scanning each spine, back turned to you. A few feet away, near one of the wooden tables, you stood behind him, a slight scowl on your face.

“Whether he had intent or not still doesn’t justify your actions. Unless . . . you’re jealous, Doctor?” Crossing your arms over your chest, you watched as his back stiffened imperceptibly. Clearly, he didn’t like your words but his reaction—as small as it was—amused you.

Dottore scoffed, “Jealousy is an inefficient emotion.” “Inefficient as it may seem yet I do not see you denying, Doctor.”

“Oh, do not make this about me, Prevaricator.” He finally turned to face you, an evident scowl painted beneath his mask. “No, I will make this about you. Would you have reacted the same if it were any other Harbinger? Arlecchino, for example?” You took a step closer, the soles of your heels clicking against the tiled floors. 

Silence occupied the space as your words hung in the air. No. Dottore knew he wouldn’t have done the same if it were any other Harbinger. Merely thinking about it exhausted him already.

At his lack of response, you spoke once again, “I know we have an arrangement, Dottore but that doesn’t excuse how you treat individuals I interact with. You do not have authority over me and I certainly do not belong to you.” Dottore’s behaviour was odd, to say the least but just because you’ve been having sex with him—and vice versa—didn’t mean you claimed one another and he knew that. He knew the arrangement between the two of you did not involve any sort of feelings, it was only for the sole purpose of sexual gratification.

Of course, this was all speculation on your end as he had not specified anything yet but from his behaviour, you could conclude that it stemmed from the same root. 

“You’re getting rather bold, aren’t you, Prevaricator?” 

“Call me every name you wish to, I’m not the one conducting myself to look like a fool.” You were just about fed up with him. First, he had interrupted your conversation with Mr. Rochefort, potentially tainting the newly built partnership between the Commercial Registry Guild and the Fatui, now he was getting mad at your reaction to his uncouthness.

The absolute audacity of him.

“I beg your pardon?” Dottore took three steps closer. More than anything, he loathed being deemed a fool—to others, your insult may not have hit hard but it was a completely different story for him. His voice dipped dangerously low as if urging you to try to challenge him and see what would happen. Fortunately for you, that was exactly what you wanted to do. Just because Dottore outranked and overpowered you didn’t mean you’d submit to him.

“Then beg, Zandik.”

Silence grew thick. Beneath the pointed mask, his brows twitched at your words—you didn’t see it but you sensed the sudden shift in his demeanour. The use of his real name was an . . . interesting choice from you, it definitely caught him off guard, and it wasn’t the pleasant kind.

Something inside Dottore snapped, and within seconds, he was able to close the great distance between you and him. His familiar scent invaded your senses—it was as electrifying as lightning with the way it awakened every single cell inside you, as though your body had programmed a natural response to him. Have you always felt this way? You didn’t know.

“I wonder, has anyone ever taught you the consequences of such careless words? Or has the concept of restraint always eluded you?”

A gloved hand firmly held your chin, tilting your face towards him. Silence stretched between the two of you, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far corner could be heard, and despite your proximity, your breaths fell deaf to each other’s ears.

Neither of you knew the reason why—was it because of the closeness? The soles of your shoes rooted to the tiled floors beneath, you didn’t reject Dottore’s touch nor did you invite it.

“You speak so confidently of restraint as if you’re aware of what you’re talking about. Tell me, Doctor, when have you ever exercised restraint, hm? From our past . . . encounters, you were never one to submit to it.” The expression on your face remained unchanged but he could see the way your eyes glimmered with challenge, a sense of superiority within the depths of your gaze.

Dottore leaned in, the pointed tip of his mask mere centimetres away from your lips, “You’re right,” 

“Perhaps . . . that’s exactly what is needed right now.” He growled, the grip on your chin tightening just enough to gain control. The tone his words carried made your knees weak—you absolutely knew what would come next. He tilted his head to the side, angling his face so that his mouth hovered over your own; his hot breath fanned the plush of your lips, akin to a ghostly caress.

Dottore’s face was close enough to the point where even breathing felt intimate—far too intimate. A shiver ran down your naked spine and with the way Dottore’s mouth curled at the edges, he noticed your subtle reaction.

Finally, he gave your lips a chaste kiss—innocent and tame, a contrast from his usual kisses. Albeit soft, a hint of hunger lingered behind his action, he pressed into you heavy and with much haste as if to signify his unspoken feelings. Before one could process the whole thing, he swiftly pulled away, leaving you somewhat chasing for more. As embarrassing as it was to admit, Dottore’s lips were far too addicting; they were plush and velvety despite the sharp words it naturally spewed.

“Bend over that table for me. I won’t be taking no for an answer.”

Even if he was, you wouldn’t object. Excitement rushed through your body as you carried yourself to the nearest table within your vicinity. The feeling of shame intertwined with the iciness of the wooden surface beneath your forearms as you positioned yourself over the table. Shame is a part of human emotions and therefore normal. Yes. It certainly is normal.

Sharp and calculated footsteps which echoed within the quiet walls of the library drew you out of your thoughts, each click of a sole was louder than the last. “How exquisite.” You felt Dottore’s presence behind but didn’t dare look back.

The heat his body radiated absolutely drove you mad, it didn’t help how his crotch was only a few inches away from your rear.

The sight before him had his cock twitching—the daring plunge of your dress exposing most of your back was sin itself, it should have been illegal for wandering eyes to lay upon the beauty of your skin so casually, and to think that filthy Fontanian man had the audacity to touch you . . . It had Dottore feeling such unspeakable emotions.

A gloved finger languidly traced the path of your spine—from your shoulder blades down to where fabric met your skin. It moved with fine calculation which roused a violent shiver from you, “Sensitive now, are we?” He let out a deep, amused chuckle, clearly delighted at your involuntary response. You huffed but didn’t reply, though, you didn’t really need to as he swiftly moved on to lift the fabric of your dress.

Goosebumps formed as the crisp air kissed your exposed lower half, Dottore couldn’t help but whisper a curse into the silence. For a brief moment, it sounded dangerously close to a plea, a prayer to whichever heavenly body cared to listen.

He caressed the skin of your ass and gave it a gentle massage—squeezing and groping—which had your cunt greedily tightening around nothing. Your palms balled into fists at Dottore’s ministrations, it was only the start yet you already caught yourself letting out heavy breaths.

Then, leather met skin. Swift and harsh; you shamelessly gasped at the sharp sensation it left behind, it stung hard and spread like wildfire but gods did it feel sinfully delicious. He had spanked you without an ounce of mercy.

“What an interesting reaction you have, Prevaricator. How about we conduct a brief experiment on your cognitive capabilities? What I’m going to ask of you is simple: using your words, count each slap I give you—loud and clear. Surely you can perform such an effortless task?”

“You can’t do it yourself?” You finally looked over your shoulder, gaze filled with lust and a hint of mockery. 

Dottore didn’t like the way your lips curled in fierce confidence. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that look off your face. To get a better view, he swiftly removed his pointed mask, mindlessly chucking it somewhere on the table where it landed with a sharp thud. Dottore slapped your rear once again—harder than the last—it had your body jolting against the surface beneath you, arms quivering as it held your weight. A whimper escaped your lips, head facing forward once again, dipping ever so slightly as pain pierced through your skin like a thousand needles.

“Count.”

A brief silence.

“. . . One.” “Good.” His praise went straight to your core, causing you to disappointingly clench around nothing.

Before Dottore proceeded further, an idea presented itself. Without another word, he reached for his leather belt, expertly removing it from his pants in one fell swoop. He bent it in half, his right hand securely wrapped around the ends of his belt—then, with a pull of his arm, he swung it across your rear which drew a jolt of surprise from you.

A sharp hiss escaped through gritted teeth—your face contorted in pure pain—the familiar sensation spread across once more. Fuck. Dottore wasn’t going easy on you.

“T-Two.” You stammered. 

In circular motions, he gently rubbed in over the spot he had assaulted; you held back a small whimper between your lips as his fingers ghosted over the clothed entrance of your wet cunt. It lingered there for a while—two long digits caressing up and down your slit but if anything, his ministrations tested your own restraint only because his fingers pressed into you just enough to feel its presence yet it didn’t quench the thirst of your greedy cunt. In other words, you needed hard friction.

“It’s fascinating how your body readily responds to my stimulus.” The growing wet spot on your underwear had Dottore’s cock twitching in his pants. Gods, how gluttonous you were for him; it gave him a sense of pride that only he was capable of bending your façade.

The serpentine and indifferent Prevaricator, the Tenth Harbinger of Snezhnaya, adept at weaving her path with fables and manipulation. Or so the Fatui called you. It was laughable because right this moment, the ‘indifferent Harbinger of Snezhnaya’ was now bent at his mercy.

Impatient, you took the initiative to push back into his fingers but your shameless attempt was futile as it only earned you another harsh slap. The belt swiftly cut through the air with a whistle before it hit you, indicating the strength of Dottore’s swing.

A pathetic whimper decorated your parted lips, “Three.” So far, you’ve only received three strikes but you were already at your limit. 

Thankfully, he only gave you seven more—which were all equally painful—totalling to a number of ten slaps but you did manage to say each of them without fail. Though, your sanity slipped with every count.

By the tenth, your rear was undoubtedly inflamed and hot from all the spanking it had taken, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to sit properly tomorrow. Dottore took the time to grope the globes of your ass—palm spread on each cheek—to give a bit of relief from the sting; he didn’t shy away from playing with them.

“You’ve done well, results showed secure cognitive abilities despite being under influence of a stimulus.” Dottore bent down to place open-mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades, pulling a shudder from you. Soft, wet sounds filled your ears with each sloppy kiss that decorated the length of your spine; he slowly moved downwards, savouring the feel of your blazing skin against his velvety lips.

As Dottore reached the end of your spine for one last kiss, his index finger slipped beneath the band of your underwear, he pulled the flimsy fabric down, down, down, causing it to fall on the tiled floor around your heels. Then, his hand circled around your left ankle, he slowly guided it upwards ‘til the entirety of your leg rested atop the smooth surface of the table along with your torso; he didn’t bother slipping your heels, it would only be a waste of time. You bit back a small moan as iciness kissed your hot entrance, eyes momentarily closing from the sensation.

Dottore stayed sitting on his haunches, he observed the way your cunt glistened beneath the warm lighting of the library. Not only was the sight before him intoxicating but so was your sweet, sinful scent; akin to an awakened beast hungry for its prey, he salivated at your unfiltered beauty. At this point, his cock begged to be let out and buried deep within the velvet of your tight walls.

As tempting as it was to just dive in, something in him wanted to savour your body as long as he could. It was a great contrast from usual roughness but nonetheless, he decided to take his time.

Dottore gave your entrance a generous lick—his tongue pressed flat against your slit as he slowly dragged it upwards, successfully gathering your slick on his tastebuds.

Oh, how divine you tasted. You let out a wanton moan, nails digging into the heart of your palms, sensitive was one way to describe your current state. It had been quite a while since Dottore had pleasured your body so any stimulation pulled eager responses from you.

He licked once, twice, thrice, up and down until his senses only knew you, and you alone. The gloved hand which rested on your left ankle pushed your elevated leg further up the table, allowing better access to slot his lips around your cunt.

Dottore sucked at your entrance with fervour—akin to a starved madman, his tongue darted past your folds to explore the sensitive warmth within. The sounds he made were beyond shameful and uncouth, it was sloppy and wet but he didn’t care, the sinful song that slipped past your lips was music to his ears.

Your back curled in pleasure, angling your hips in a position that further exposed your cunt. Dottore took the opportunity to work his free hand on your clit, he rubbed the sensitive nub in fast, tight circles resulting in your body to jolt and thrash around a bit from pleasure. The feel of smooth leather against your clit was foreign but it didn’t hurt given how wet you were, though, it did provide a hint of subtle friction that bare fingers could not.

At his unforgiving pace, you rested your forehead on the surface beneath, panting and whining his name. Balled fists opened and closed, unsure of what to do—where to hold on to—as bliss slowly gnawed its way through your feverish skin.

“D-Dottore! Yes—haah!”

At your words, Dottore curled his tongue the way you liked it, he rubbed the tip along your velvety walls, moaning into your entrance at how it tightened and pulsed around the wet muscle. Your moans filled the space within the library’s walls, it weaved its way between ink-stained pages of ancient books and found home between paragraphs where it wrote a veiled story for none.

As Dottore continued his pleasured torture, it didn’t take long for you to reach climax and come undone on his tongue. A broken grunt of his name forced its way past your lips as you stiffened and unceremoniously convulsed upon your orgasm; shocks of ecstasy ran down your spine and settled on your sensitive entrance. Dottore hummed, clearly pleased at the saccharine taste you’ve generously given him, he eagerly lapped up all your essence, careful not to waste any. The simple act of genuine appreciation had your legs shaking as you began to feel overstimulated.

He briefly pulled away from your quivering cunt—a translucent, sticky string forming which connected his lips to your entrance—before giving it sloppy, open-mouthed kisses with his tongue occasionally darting out to lap at your wetness. A few more messy kisses and Dottore completely pulled away much to his dismay; a light sheen of your essence mixed with his saliva coated the lower half of his face, it wasn’t common to witness The Doctor in such an improper state but heavens did he look strikingly beautiful even with filth on his face.

“Lie on your back and move further up for me.” Dottore stood up. 

Slowly, you moved and did what you were told, once your back rested atop the wooden surface, you positioned yourself further up. Now, the entirety of your body lay on the expansive table, the long skirt of your crimson dress hung off to the side like a pair of limp wings.

With a lust-filled gaze, you watched as Dottore—who stood at the foot of the table—took his lengthy cock out of his pants, he pumped it slowly, smooth leather against skin as he spread his pre-cum from tip to base. It stood proudly against his clothed abdomen, a deep shade of blush you were more than familiar with. He groaned silently between breaths, as if pleasuring himself without you was a forbidden act that called for punishment.

Then, Dottore’s crimson gaze lifted to meet your own. Without breaking eye contact, he positioned himself on the table, it rocked beneath his weight but you trusted it enough to hold both you and him. Slowly, Dottore made his way up inch by inch, leaving chaste kisses all over your body—clothed or not—‘til he reached your face where he gave your lips a searing kiss.

It was passionate but it wasn’t rushed nor did he greedily consume what your mouth had to offer—it was deep, full of prisoned emotions. Trembling arms immediately wrapped around his neck, your fingers intertwining with his azure locks as you melted into his lips. After a heartbeat, Dottore slowly pulled away—panting from the lack of oxygen—he gently nudged your nose with the tip of his own before resting his forehead against yours.

The two of you remained in that position for a minute or so, just basking in the closeness of each other while your breaths interlaced. Truth be told, he could stay like this forever, albeit a little uncomfortable but it didn’t compare to the strange emotion he felt.

“I . . .” He trailed off, unsure what came next—he didn’t even know why he had spoken in the first place. 

Dottore sat up and with the use of his teeth, he expertly pulled both gloves from each hand and mindlessly tossed them somewhere on the table. He would never admit it out loud but he’d rather feel your skin beneath his palms and right down to the tips of his fingers—raw and true. It was a shame he was too caught up in pleasuring you earlier that he didn’t think to remove them.

He returned to his previous position, one bare hand resting beside your head to support his weight while the other slipped between your bodies and bunched the fabric of your dress at your waist to position his hard cock against your sopping entrance. Dottore’s lust-filled gaze never left your face as he teased his sensitive tip up and down your slit, he watched with hooded eyes as you bit down on the plush of your bottom lip at the feel of his raw cock.

As Dottore slowly slipped inside inch by inch, he took the opportunity to suck on the spot just below your right ear with his tongue occasionally lapping it up. A wanton moan slipped past your lips—you were unsure whether it was because of his mouth or his cock but nonetheless, what you currently felt was pure ecstasy.

Once fully sheathed inside your velvet walls, Dottore dipped down to lick a messy stripe up the column of your neck and at the same time, he languidly pulled his hips back ‘til only the tip remained. As he thrusted back in, his mouth worked on your neck by decorating it with gentle bites.

Dottore’s pace was . . . different. Indeed, it was slow and pleasurable—nothing novel—yet it had meaning behind it, every roll of his hips, every press of his tip against your sweet spot, and every low grunt that resembled your name, it felt foreign. You couldn’t decipher what the meaning was but it was there and made itself known, all you knew was that he had you trembling under him.

Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his clothed waist and interlocked behind his lower back, your heels clicked at the movement, bumping against one another in the process. “Y-You feel so good . . . Mhm!” Your breathless confession had Dottore’s cock twitching inside your cunt; he grunted in response, followed by a particularly harsh thrust.

His large hand gently cupped your cheek, he met your gaze once more without breaking his measured movements—it was nothing but an endless eerie pit of deep crimson that beckoned you into pleasure. Even just the sight of his rubied pupils was enough to have you tightening for a good few seconds. Dottore cursed, hips stuttering in response, you found it rather amusing how a simple movement could easily bend the Second.

It was a weak spot only you knew of. A spot with your name carved deep.

Every steady stroke forcefully pulled oxygen from your lungs, it left you panting like a desperate common whore and it didn’t help how your limbs clung onto his body which left little to no space between the two of you.

“More—! P-Please, Dottore!” You whined.

Dottore groaned, burying his flushed face in the crook of your neck, the perfume you wore invaded his senses like a sweet plague, it made him dizzy yet for some reason, he wanted more. At your shameless pleas, he altered his movements a bit; the pace he followed remained slow but every time his cockhead neared your sensitive spot, he forcefully thrusted inside so that the tip firmly pressed against it.

“Mine. Mine—Haah! Mine. How dare that Fontanian dog lay his sordid hand on you—on what’s mine.” Dottore growled. Pure venom seeped from his tongue and stained his words, the bitterness of his tone was so evident you almost felt it on your tastebuds.

Too fucked out to even comprehend his words, you absentmindedly nodded along, pleasure completely took over every single cell in your body. Your head lolled to the side as Dottore pressed his face further into your feverish skin, he whispered the same set of words over and over like a madman.

And you responded to each of them, “Yours. Yes . . . I’m yours, D-Dottore—!”

Despite the iciness of the library, the air between you and Dottore turned thick and warm, and housed thousands of unspoken words. Aside from the latter removing his gloves and mask—and your forgotten underwear on the floor—both of you remained clothed which added to the warmth in the air. A light sheen of sweat had already formed along Dottore’s forehead, resulting in his azure locks to stick. It was stuffy to say the least and you were more than certain that you looked a complete mess but you didn’t find yourself caring right this moment for he deliciously ravaged your body to the point where you felt it in your soul.

Each slow drag of Dottore’s heavy cock and each press of his bulbous tip had your half-lidded eyes rolling far back into nothingness. Your nails raked along his scalp which pulled deep groans from him in the shape of your name.

“Say it again—let me hear you speak it into existence once more.” Dottore panted; he stilled his hips deep inside your cunt, cock pressed rather eagerly into your sensitive spot as he awaited your response.

A garbled moan was all you could muster from the amount of pleasure he gave you but he wasn’t having it, “Use your words, Prevaricator. You’re an intelligent individual, surely doing so won’t be much effort?” He pushed his hips further into your own which allowed his cock to sit deeper inside your walls.

“Mhm—ah! ‘M yours, Dottore! All yours . . . no one else’s.” Tears welled in your eyes as you sobbed.

Pleased, Dottore muttered a praise beneath his breath before swallowing your sobs with a messy kiss. He started moving in and out once more, determined to bring you both into an orgasm. Both of you moved in sinful unison, bodies rocking in perfect rhythm as though the two of you were simply . . . meant to be.

Dottore repeated that same mantra of claiming you in between kisses along with every deep roll of his hips, resembling a record in need of dire fixing, though one wasn’t sure if fixing was what he desired. If anything, he seemed rather content in his fragmented state.

After a few more languid thrusts, the two of you simultaneously came. Dottore swallowed your wanton moans with a long kiss, he groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering before they stilled and buried his cock deep inside. Thick ropes of ivory coated your quivering walls and you couldn’t help but whine into his lips at the feel of his hot cum inside your cunt. For a minute or so, Dottore remained sheathed until he shallowly drew his hips back to fuck his cum deeper.

Overstimulated, your legs around his waist tightened in an attempt to halt his torture but only resulted in the opposite as it pushed him further into you. A humourless chuckle slipped past his lips at your futile effort but fortunately enough, he did stop.

“And if I see that Fontanian freak lingering around you outside business-related matters, he shall deal with my hand.” Dottore breathlessly spoke into the growing silence. You let out a breath, “. . . I’m not interested in Mr. Rochefort, Dottore, and I simply cannot control whether he lingers around me or not outside business matters.” Somehow, the mention of his name and that fool’s name in the same breath didn’t sit well with him but he let it go—just this once, he was far too spent for another argument.

The next few minutes consisted of awkwardly making yourselves presentable for the banquet but with your face a mess and hair dishevelled, it took quite a long time to return to your proper state. Dottore, on the other hand had a far easier task for he merely fixed his azure strands and put on his discarded accessories—pointed mask and leather gloves—he didn’t have to worry about unsolicited stares on his face as he hid it behind a mask.

Once ready, you stepped out of the library first, legs trembling with every heavy step taken; the soles of your heels clicked unnecessary loud against the marble floors of the corridor. With the banquet confined to the Grand Hall, the Palace corridors were devoid of any people wandering about which lessened your worries about curious ears that happened to listen in on what happened a moment ago.

As you hurriedly walked down—with Dottore who followed closely behind—a familiar figure came into view at the end of the hallway. His striking auburn hair was enough to tell you who it belonged to.

“Prevaricator? Dottore? What are you two doing out here? I saw how Pierro approached you two earlier in the Grand Hall, is something the ma—” Childe paused mid-sentence as realisation hit. 

You. Dottore. Away from everyone else. Alone together. It could only mean one thing based on his previous encounter.

A horrified expression slowly crept its way to his face, the Eleventh tried not to imagine what had transpired between the two of you moments ago but the vivid past stared right at him, begging to be addressed. It was a little over two months ago during the time you and Dottore worked on Cryo experiments tasked by Her Majesty—Childe didn’t mean to pry but the day he paid a visit to your Palace quarters seeking a friendly spar, he was met with . . . unpleasant sounds. 

It wasn’t foreign for the Eleventh to ask of his comrades to spar, and with you being a whole rank higher than him, he normally sought you out more than anyone else. There were days you’d accept but most of the time you’d turn him down due to your unending projects; though, constant rejection didn’t seem to discourage him from asking you in the future.

From what Childe could make out, the lewd sounds mostly came from you. Frankly, he couldn’t care less that you were getting laid—it was a normal part of human nature—and like a sane individual, he planned on leaving to give way for privacy but that was until he heard you moan Dottore’s name. 

Anyone in their right mind would be confused. Dottore? Really? Was he even capable of sex?

Childe stood there for a good minute or so before ultimately deciding to leave, the idea of sparring with you thrown out the window. He honestly couldn’t believe you’d let Dottore near you—or was the correct term ‘inside you?’ Ah, that didn’t matter right now, he needed to tell someone.

“You know what,” Childe started. “I . . . don’t even want to know.” He raised his gloved hands in defeat and swiftly turned around to escape the growing awkwardness. 

“Ajax.” You called out, tone full of ice.

As if on command, he halted mid-step, every muscle in his body froze. You only ever used his real name whenever you confronted him with a matter—which was a rare occurrence. Was Childe afraid? Maybe. It wasn’t like you were one to unleash your wrath over something trivial, right? Ah, maybe he shouldn’t have told Arlecchino! Last he heard, you were in Fontaine with Pantalone which also happened to be where the Fourth was. He was certain she most likely told you about what he’d found out.

“I’d like to speak with you. In private.” A subtle glance back at Dottore was all he needed from you before he continued walking down the corridor, leaving you and Childe behind. The former didn’t pry—not that he wanted to—any matter that involved the Eleventh was out of interest for him, it was probably something trivial, anyway.

Childe wordlessly watched as Dottore left, out of nervousness, his cerulean gaze darted between you and the Second. Maybe if he reasoned that Capitano was looking for him, he’d be able to get out of this—Oh, that’s right . . . Capitano was currently in Natlan. Maybe Pierro, then?

Once Dottore was out of sight, you spoke up, “Arlecchino told me.” Unfortunately for Childe, your words pulled him out of his thoughts which meant no options to run away anymore. He swallowed thickly, eyes fixated on the wall to his left to try and avoid your icy stare; the Eleventh never did enjoy your soulless gaze, looking into it felt like he was inviting something dangerous. So most of the time, he did his best to avoid it. It was nothing against you—in fact, he even looked up to you but he’d just rather . . . not stare into your eyes.

Especially not when it hid anger.

“I-I can explain!” 

You sighed, “There is no need to explain. While I understand the reasoning behind your actions, I’m disappointed you didn’t confront me first—you know, the primary person involved in what you witnessed.”

Gossiping wasn’t your habit yet if you heard something as scandalous as Childe had, you might just speak on the topic as well. Maybe even with Arlecchino, too.

The Eleventh briefly met your gaze before he looked away in shame, guilt gnawed at his bones as he realised that he should have confronted you first about it, not Arlecchino, not anyone else. It’s just that he was overcome with shock that he completely forgot his actions might not be the most sensible. Indeed, Childe had a lot to learn when it came to composure.

“Sorry . . .” He scratched the back of his head in shame, a blanket of rose covered his cheeks. Your gaze softened, “Well, what’s done is done. I’m not mad at you, Childe.”

The latter had a sheepish expression painted on his flushed face, “ . . But Dottore? Really, Prevaricator? I’m gonna have to say I’m a little disappointed, Comrade.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. Even if it seemed like he was a little afraid of you, he considered you a friend; you weren’t one for conversations but he appreciated how intently listened to his ramblings as trivial as they were.

A tired sigh escaped your lips, you shook your head absentmindedly, “Don’t start.”

“All jokes aside though, be careful, okay? I know us Harbingers are colleagues and all . . . but you just can’t trust that guy and I’m sure you’re aware of that too.”

It wasn’t like you trusted Dottore, right? Aside from physical attraction, you felt nothing for him. Yes. Nothing. The arrangement was merely a shallow bond created from lust and nothing else. Everything was going to be fine—in fact, if he were to sever ties with the Fatui, you’d feel indifferent.

Besides, there was nothing Dottore could possibly use you for.

As the banquet came to a formal close, the next event was the opening of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau where most Harbingers—yourself included—and other high ranking Fatui were present in Nod-Krai to celebrate its launch of operation. The Bureau had been a long-standing project and seeing the grand building in its expansive glory showed how much time had passed since the project was established.

Though, after the brief celebration, you headed back to Snezhnaya along with the rest of the Harbingers excluding Columbina, Sandrone, and Dottore who remained in Nod-Krai for an assigned mission.

That was the last you heard of The Doctor.

It had been two months since you last saw him—which was back in the Bureau opening—and it was safe to say that things had been a little . . . mundane. Meetings and experiments were what made up most of your daily routine; though you didn’t quite mind, Dottore’s absence was a force itself and without his physical help to de-stress you, everything felt rather bland.

But of course, first and foremost, you were a loyal Harbinger of Snezhnaya which meant swallowing your own lewd desires to focus on meetings and assigned projects and with Project Stuzha slowly coming together, there was no room to fall behind. If anything, focusing was your only friend. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise to have Dottore away from you, any more time spent with him in close proximity might have yielded unwanted results.

During the period between the banquet and the preparation for the Bureau opening in Nod-Krai, Dottore frequented your laboratory by occasionally paying brief visits. It was an inconvenience at first since you were certain he had much more important matters to tend to yet he had the time to dilly-dally in your research space—every time, he asked a bunch of trivial questions which were left unanswered. At that point, you knew your subordinates were talking behind your back with how much they encountered him in the laboratory.

The most bizarre one, however, was when you found Dottore inside your office—he lounged comfortably in your chair as if he owned the space. Naturally, you asked him to leave which he—strangely enough—obliged without putting up a petty fight. If it weren’t for exhaustion in your system, you would have asked him a million questions as to why he had invited himself.

Shortly after Dottore left your office, you remembered Arlecchino and Childe’s joint concern: Nothing good ever came from associating oneself with Dottore.

And somehow their words proved to be the truth because right now, you were back in Nod-Krai for an entirely different reason: Dottore was wreaking havoc in the borderlands. The sky burned a pale, unnatural blue, almost as if to say it was sick; citizens hurried along broken streets to safety while Fatui soldiers did their best to aid them.

It doesn’t take an intelligent individual to conclude that the situation was a mess—Dottore’s energy fields quite literally swallowed almost all of Nod-Krai with every passing second. It looked daunting but you weren’t surprised that he was capable of committing such an act.

“. . . He has the tri-lunar authority in his hands! Is he insane?!” You were pulled out from your thoughts at the sound of Childe’s ramblings; the two of you were dispatched to aid all affected individuals caused by Dottore’s actions, and as much as you desired to confront him, you were assigned a task by Her Majesty. Wait. Tri-lunar authority? The three moons? You’ve always known he was interested in kuuvahki but never the three moons. Most importantly, how did he manage to concentrate the tri-lunar authority in his hands?

Was he out of his mind?

Before you could reply, an operative called out to you, “Lady Prevaricator! We need your help! We’ve found some of our people who had recently escaped from The Doctor’s private research institute and one of them is gravely injured!” You nodded and moved with precision, you’ve done this a million times yet the feeling of dread never really left.

“Lay him here.” You instructed. 

They quickly obliged and gently set the soldier’s wounded body on the ground but before you could assess his state, the air around you shifted, causing you to pause momentarily. At first, it was subtle—a faint distortion akin to one’s reflection on rippled water. Then, the world bent, sound vanished, and everything blurred.

Instinctively, your hand reached out to summon your blade but the ground beneath your soles folded inward as if space itself had collapsed, and in the blink of an eye, Nod-Krai vanished. No Fatui soldiers, no chaos from citizens trying to flee, nothing.

Silence. Pitch black.

Then, a sea of blinding lights greeted you. No, not lights, a sea of bright ivory clouds underneath your feet which reflected the bright sun above. Where were you? How were you suspended mid-air? You straightened instantaneously, eyes narrowed as you assessed the vast space ahead.

“Prevaricator.” That familiar voice. Dottore.

You quickly turned around and summoned your blade as your gaze landed on him, specifically on the crescent-shaped device that floated behind his head like a false halo, it hummed a soft melody and shone a strange hue of blue. “Drawing your sword already? How hostile of you, I just want to talk.” He stepped closer, completely unfazed at the sharp edge of your blade pointed at him.

Was your sword summoned because you wanted to eliminate him? No. It was summoned to defend yourself. But . . . were you even capable of killing Dottore? The thought alone placed you in a strange predicament—one you did not like.

“Tri-lunar authority? Are you a fool? How did you . . .” You trailed off, a million questions surged through your mind. How was he able to obtain the power of all three moons? As far as you were concerned, only the Eternal Moon Marrow’s location was disclosed and as for the Iridescent Moon Marrow, Arlecchino had explained to you how it came into her possession.

As for the third marrow, you knew it did not exist at all. So, how did he . . .

“How did I synthesise a false moon marrow you ask?” Dottore—who was now only a few metres away—stepped closer. In response, you stepped back, the sword tucked tightly in your right hand still pointed at him. If it were any other day, he would have enjoyed the conflicted look on your face but you gazed at him with such disdain as though he were a monster.

He tilted his head, “My, has the process of teleportation messed with your mind? I assumed you would have pieced everything together.” His cryptic response sent an icy shiver down your spine, somehow, you felt you wouldn’t like the truth. Nonetheless, you wracked your brain for answers—anything, everything. What did Dottore mean by that?

False. Moon Marrow.

“You act as if false creations aren’t your expertise, Prevaricator.” His words landed heavy and you were hit with an intense realisation of what he implied.

No. He couldn’t have . . . but this was Dottore, he would and he most certainly could.

“You . . You stole my research?”

To create a third false marrow, he had stolen your research notes about Moon Marrows which dove into the topics of synthesising a third one using the existence of the original marrows. At best, you were interested in the relics because you deemed it useful for the Fatui, not to concentrate the tri-lunar authority into your own hands as he had done. The thought of your own theoretical calculations contributing to such atrocities caused by Dottore made you sick.

This was never what you intended.

“Stole is a bold accusation. I like to think of it as borrowed. You truly are a genius—using a harmonic field to equilibrate the extracts of kuuvahki so that one would be able to wield it without destabilisation? Only a mind like yours would come up with such a concept. For that, you have my thanks.”

Suddenly the air felt thinner and you couldn’t breathe properly, it was as if the atmosphere had its hand around your neck, slowly choking you with each passing second. Hesitantly, you shook your head, denying every praise that Dottore handed. Panic inside you gradually arose causing your breath to quicken—you had partial responsibility for this and it weighed heavy on your shoulders. How could Dottore use you like this?

A turmoil of emotions was one way to put it, you weren’t sure whether to be angry at his betrayal or feel hurt at the fact that he used you as a mere pawn. Was this the primary reason he had been lingering around you from the start? To use your mind for his atrocities?

 “Nod-Krai is in destruction because of you.”

He humourlessly laughed, “Oh, Prevaricator. You speak as if you don’t have blood on your hands. Let me ask you this, exactly how many Inazuman war soldiers perished from your Delusion? Hundreds? Thousands? Condemnation does not make you any more better than I and it certainly does not purify your crimson-stained hands.”

You hated it. You hated how Dottore was completely right—at the end of the day, you were a Harbinger of Snezhnaya who has caused devastation without an ounce of remorse. If anything, you and Dottore were two sides of the same coin.

“I’m not here to purify my hands. I’m here under the Tsaritsa’s orders to—” “To what? To kill me? That would be an interesting performance but it isn’t my task to harm you.”

It was rather vain of you to draw your sword against Dottore, both of you knew doing so would only result in your demise—even without the tri-lunar authority, he greatly overpowered your combat capabilities even with a Delusion. But if doing so asked for your demise then so be it, you were partially responsible for all this and that was the only price worth paying for your foolishness. Even if your entire soul begged not to.

Despite your better judgement, you moved first; your boots cut through the sea of clouds as you lunged forward, blade flashing precisely meant to force Dottore backwards. The strike was fast—perfectly calculated but the latter did not dodge, instead, he raised a gloved hand.

The moment your blade entered striking distance, gravity twisted, air around your sword warped violently, the space in between folded like glass under pressure. Your calculated strike veered sideways as if pulled by an invisible force, it scraped against nothing yet sparks formed.

Swiftly, you pivoted, turning the failed strike into a spinning slash aimed at his ribs. Dottore effortlessly stepped aside, this time it was his turn to strike. The crescent halo behind him hummed as he summoned a weapon out of thin air—a blade much larger than your own. He didn’t hold it with his own hand, no, instead, he manipulated gravity to wield it.

 “Is that all you’ve got? Face me with ferocity, Prevaricator.”

You leapt back in defense, the edge of his blade just narrowly missing your stomach. Once again, your sword flashed before the distance between you and Dottore greatly lessened in a split second. Steel met steel as you drove the pointed edge toward his throat, he had swiftly caught it with his own blade.

The impact rang across the expansive space.

For a brief moment, the two of you stood inches apart, two completely contrasting expressions painted on your faces. Then, the air intensified instantly as if the weight of the entire sky slowly suffocated you. Your posture stuttered slightly and Dottore leaned closer, “My, look at you.”

A grunt slipped past your lips as you thrusted your blade forward with heavy force, it slid dangerously close to the edge of his shoulder. For a brief moment, it broke his guard. The space beneath you shattered as it folded violently, a wave of lunar energy exploded outwards causing it to launch you backwards. Your body unceremoniously rolled through the sea of clouds, searing pain shot everywhere.

But you didn’t dare back down, you rose from your spot, sword at your side once again as you dashed forward—this time, much faster. Metal flashed in a storm of precise strikes, each one aimed at a lethal point: throat, ribs, spine; your blade moved like liquid in your hand, forcing Dottore to take several steps back.

For the first time, he had to actually defend. Metal repeatedly rang as he deflected your deadly attacks.

“That’s it! Wield your blade like you mean it! You’ve been holding back, haven’t you? I wonder why . .”

Have you been holding back? You didn’t notice but you were certainly aware how stiff your attacks were, as if your body protested against your mind.

Suddenly, you swiftly twisted, reversing the angle of your sword and driving its edge towards the seam of his mask, the blade stopped a hair’s breadth from his face. Dottore had caught your wrist,

“I think it's time we put an end to this.”

Panicked, you attempted to break free of his firm grip but it proved to be useless. The azure halo behind him hummed as he drew his free hand back, his weapon moved in unison.

A surge of bright light instantly invaded your senses to the point where you couldn’t make out what was ahead of you anymore. Then, darkness grew.

“██  █████!?”

“█ ██ ██!”

“L█  █va██tor!”

“Lady Prevaricator!”

Your eyes shot open, body that was previously thrashing around stilled instantly as you took in your familiar surroundings—judging from the blue fabric above, you were inside a Fatui tent. Your chest heaved as inhaled and exhaled deep breaths, “What . .”

“Lady Prevaricator! You’re finally awake. You’ve been out for almost two weeks.” What? You thought. Two weeks? But mere moments ago you were just fighting Dottore. “Explain.” You rasped.

The soldier before you nodded, “Well, we were back in Nasha Town and when I had called you over to treat a wounded soldier, you suddenly collapsed. We had to quickly rush you into one of the tents and ever since then, you’ve been out cold. We were all worried about you. We had one medic assigned to look after you while the rest helped civilians.”

“I was assigned to clean up the space since troops are slowly returning back to Snezhnaya. You were thrashing around in your sleep and thankfully, you woke up!”

Two weeks. You’ve been sleeping for two weeks. How did that happen? You were certain Dottore was about to land his last strike. Your head couldn’t seem to wrap around it. Unless, he wasn’t meant to kill you and simply teleported you back the same way he teleported you to him. He did confess he wasn’t interested in killing you.

“What . . What of The Doctor?” Slowly, you used every ounce of strength in your body to sit up. At your question, the soldier held a shocked expression beneath his mask but immediately got rid of it.

“The threat has been neutralised but Lady Marionette perished in battle.”

Threat—Dottore, neutralised. Sandrone, perished.

Two Harbingers, dead.

“I’d like to be alone.” “As you wish, Lady Prevaricator.” Silence shortly followed as the soldier stepped out of the tent. Your breathing quickened, they were gone—dead, Sandrone and Dottore were dead and you didn’t know what to make of it. First, it was Rosalyne and now Sandrone . . . Just how many more of your friends would perish?

As for Dottore, you never once considered him as a friend yet your chest hurt at the thought of his demise; you didn’t know how to grieve.

A slow exhale left your chapped lips as realisation settled, it came out uneven and shallow. Your hands began to tremble and that alone was enough to unsettle you. Years and years had been spent mastering control, whether it be over assigned missions, over subordinates or over yourself; sadness was something you watched in other individuals, not something you experienced.

Yet now, the tremor refused to stop. You stared at the wall of azure before you, unfocused. Then, you lowered your face into the heart of your palms—at first, it was skin against skin, just the pressure of your hands pressing against your eyes as though you could physically force the thoughts out of your mind. But pressure didn’t help because every time you closed your eyes, you saw Sandrone and Dottore.

Your breath hitched and almost instantly, you tried to swallow it down, tried to steady yourself the way you always did—indifferent and unfeeling. But what did it mean if you were simply brimming with . . . feelings. A small sound escaped your throat, broken and almost sounded like it didn’t belong to you. From there, everything poured, your tears, emotions and every single feeling you’ve ignored. You hadn’t cried in years.

Was it justifiable to cry over Dottore as well? Closeness was the last thing the two of you had and you weren’t quite aware of what you harboured for him to feel such immense grief.

In the next few days, you were back in Snezhnaya, heavy snowfall poured nonstop and the Palace was emptier than usual when you requested an audience with Her Majesty. You had told her of your indirect involvement with Dottote’s plan and even asked for punishment to atone for the grave destruction caused upon Nod-Krai.

But Her Majesty—the ever benevolent archon she was—pardoned you and deemed your involvement unrelated. Were you thankful you didn’t have to face punishment? Yes. But maybe you desired to be punished because now Sandrone and Dottore were gone. If the latter hadn’t learned of your research notes regarding Moon Marrow then maybe both of them would still be here but then again, Dottore was more than capable of constructing one with or without your research.

After the meeting with Her Majesty, you shortly went on leave to process everything.

Now, you resided in a small cabin near the mountains a long ways away from Snezhnograd—Zapolyarny Palace, the Experimental Bureau, your home. All those places reminded you of him. Albeit only your accommodation for the next few days, being away from everything and everyone greatly helped.

Days were spent cooped up inside the cosy space tending the fireplace and occasionally wild animals that crossed your path, other than that, you were content with watching the snow capped mountains in the far north.

This particular night, nothingness accompanied you once more. The snow had stopped hours ago, leaving the town buried beneath a smooth, ivory silence; even the song of wind had withdrawn, leaving you completely alone. Inside the cabin, you sat at a small wooden desk by the window, a lamp casting a muted circle of light across scattered papers—they weren’t reports nor important documents, instead, the pages contained your thoughts and feelings. Sandrone once told you that she recorded a handful of matters on a notebook, kind of like a diary, so you decided to try for yourself.

Halfway through a sentence, your pen paused against the paper. Something shifted outside. Even though it was dark out and only illuminated by a singular lamp on the porch, you noticed instantly. It was subtle—a movement in the corner of your vision, just beyond where light from the lamp thinned.

You lifted your gaze. At first, there was nothing, only the quietness of the mountains ahead and bare trees which stood rigid beneath Snezhnayan frost. But as your eyes settled, you could make out a figure standing beneath the black branches. The distance and darkness hid every detail but there was no mistaking the silhouette. Tall. Composed. And most importantly, the faint outline of a mask caught beneath the pale moonlight.

Your chest tightened. Dottore . . ?

No, this must be a mere hallucination, after all, sleep barely visited you at night. Unless . . he wasn’t a hallucination but a phantom. Unlikely. Were you finally going mad?

The figure didn’t approach the door nor did it move—it just stood there amidst the trees as if to merely observe. Curious, you rose slowly from the desk, crossing the room without haste in your steps. As you reached the door, you opened it with caution—one hand on the knob while the other summoned your blade. Wood creaked beneath your feet as you stepped onto the porch, you felt like a fool for going outside, Dottore was dead, there was no logical reason for him to be outside the cabin at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Despite your better judgement, you called out to him, tone full of hesitation, “. . . Dottore . .?” Even uttering his name sounded idiotic, it was like praying to a god who wouldn’t answer.

The blackened figure moved and your fingers instinctively wrapped tighter around the hilt of your sword. You watched carefully as it moved closer with the same familiar gait The Doctor had. As the figure moved closer to the light, it slowly revealed Dottore; your breath quickened, heart rate spiking at the sight of the all-too-familiar man before you. 

A million questions surged through your mind. What? He was proclaimed dead.

You raised your blade, the sharp edge pointed at him, it trembled a little, “I do not know if this is some kind of sick caper but I am not amused.” Yes, this had to be an elaborate cruel joke—that was the only way to explain it, right?

“Prevaricator.” He sang your name the same way he did back in Nod-Krai yet only this time, it was softer around the edges. No. No. No. It couldn’t be. A big part of you didn’t want the figure to be Dottore, not after what he did in the borderlands and how he used your research. But a small, twisted part of you—specifically inside your chest—hoped it was him, even if it did not make sense at all.

As much as the truth hurt, you spoke up, “You’re . . supposed to be dead.”

“Indeed.” Your eyes narrowed at his brief reply, “Explain or you will meet the end of my blade once more.”

“The ‘me’ you encountered and ultimately fought in Nod-Krai was my last remaining segment.”

“Segment? I do not seem to follow?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my crowning achievement, Prevaricator? I synthesised eight segments of myself. Unfortunately, seven of them had to be destroyed.”

Crowning achievement? Your eyes narrowed. Eight segments? Oh, it sounded like Dottore alright—only he would create segments of himself. After a while of trying to fit pieces together, broken memories started coming back to you.

Indeed, someone—you couldn’t remember who but you were certain it was from a long time ago—had told you of Dottore’s eight different segments, he built them after years and years of research into puppet-making techniques.

As for what the foundational blueprint was, you couldn’t recall at all.

How could you have forgotten about his segments? Well, it wasn’t like you ran into The Doctor frequently back then nor did you bat an eye at his successful projects. If anything, you mainly kept to yourself. But now that segments were part of the equation, it raised a question,

“Then . . which of you was it?” Despite your vague question, Dottore knew exactly what you meant: Between the real him and the segment, which one shared intimate moments with you.

He answered almost instantly, “Every single encounter was with me only, I never allowed him near you. The Omega build may be the most selfish out of all segments but he cannot—and will not—surpass my own selfishness when it comes to you. After all, I am the original.”

Something inside your chest stuttered. 

You swallowed thickly, “Why are you here? Why show yourself before me? I can easily alert Her Majesty of your whereabouts—” 

“Would you, Prevaricator? Would you really? Your words seem to differ from what you truly feel . . . I sense a hint of hope in them.”

The blade in your hand lowered and your grip loosened a little, “I mourned a colleague. Despite it all we . . I lost a colleague.” You couldn’t quite speak for everyone on your behalf since you were more than certain Dottore’s death did not sadden them at all. As for you, foreign feelings arose—violent ones that could not be ignored.

“Oh but you seemed rather eager fighting my segment did you not?” 

“Because I knew I had no chances of surviving against you—your segment. Killing . . you was something I was aware I could not accomplish alone.”

“A death wish, then?” 

“Could you blame my actions? On top of causing chaos in Nod-Krai, you stole my research for your own selfishness. I am well aware our physical relationship was transactional but it does not invite you to use me as a pawn.” You took several steps closer, the tip of your sword dragging against the wooden boards beneath.

Dottore mirrored your actions, he stood at the opening of the porch, right before the wooden steps, “Are your feelings hurt, Prevaricator? Did our physical relationship mean something to you?”

Using your own words against you. That was the same question you asked him months ago in the Palace.

“You’re changing the topic.”

“And you haven’t answered my question.”

“I am of no obligation to do so.”

“Then, I will take that as a ‘Yes’.”

Oh, he was infuriating as ever. “Why are you here? To rub in everyone’s faces that you’re still alive and everything that happened in Nod-Krai was all a lie?”

“I’m here with a proposal. Our recent collaboration—well, albeit out of your own will—made me realise how two minds alike can achieve great power rivalling those with divinity.”

“What makes you think I’ll work with you?”

“Why not? Limiting your intellect under the authority of the Cryo Archon is a waste. Tell me Prevaricator, are you content with slaving away despite being aware your mind can do much more than what she asks of you?” Dottore slowly climbed the steps, wood creaking beneath his weight.

The thought of doing much more beyond the Fatui has never once crossed your mind. From what you can recall of the past, it has only ever been the Fatui for you; countless experiments, projects and meetings—all for the betterment of Snezhnaya and never for yourself. There wasn’t anything personal going on in your life apart from your role as a Harbinger.

You could never admit to it but you envied Childe and how he was able to live a normal life outside of being in the Fatui—from Sandrone’s tea parties, you heard countless stories from him about his younger siblings and family. It was foreign to say the least, he was the only Harbinger who had family and engaged in mundane human tasks.

“Take your place by my side, Prevaricator and we shall accomplish great feats with our intellect.” You watched him outstretched a gloved hand.

If Dottore had been talking to your past self, the answer would have been quick and sharp—no—yet after your entanglement with him, the decision didn’t come easy. An invisible force beckoned you towards him and the mere thought of being apart from him gnawed at your very bones.

They never mentioned it to your face but you could tell Arlecchino and Childe had become wary of you ever since they learned of your involvement with Dottore, Rosalyne and Sandrone were gone for good, and Columbina had retired which meant there was nothing else that tied you to the Fatui except your loyalty to Her Majesty.

You didn’t notice snow had begun falling once again ‘til you saw Dottore’s palm decorated in ivory, you watched as they fell from the skies and found home in his hand.

“You could easily refuse and walk away right this moment yet you have made no effort to do so, it seems inefficient to pretend you do not see me by your side, and if someone intends to claim your time and attention, it may as well be me. Don’t you see? I’m sure everyone around you has already kept their distance . . Childe, Arlecchino, and maybe even Her Majesty hold a hint of disdain towards you for aiding my plan in Nod-Krai.”

“If you were a truly valuable asset for the Tsaritsa, she wouldn’t have granted you leave—aren’t you supposed to be involved in Project Stuzha? From what I recall, its launch draws near yet they don’t need your help? It’s only a matter of time the Fatui kicks you off to the side.”

Dottore was correct. Project Stuzha was set to launch soon and Harbingers involved in such projects are prohibited from taking personal leave unless absolutely necessary. With Her Majesty approving your leave amidst the start of Project Stuzha, it almost seemed like an indirect message that she, in fact, did not need you anymore. 

Yes, that was what it all meant.

Silence stretched briefly before you took his hand in yours.

With quiet certainty, you understood that whatever existed between you and Dottore was not loyalty, not trust and certainly not romance—it was something far less stable. Two minds too sharp to deceive themselves. Yet somewhere within the cold silence of the outside, you realised the most unsettling truth of all.

That you and Dottore would ruin each other eventually, and neither of you intended to stop it. 

—

The Zapolyarny Palace was unusually quiet, stillness lingered in the air as the Harbingers patiently sat along the long table. Candles burned low which illuminated everyone’s stoic faces, an expression each Harbinger wore whenever around one another, careful not to lay out all their cards.

Frost blanketed the stained glass windows, obstructing sunlight from seeping through. All Harbingers in Snezhnaya had been summoned by Her Majesty to discuss current reports and future missions to be assigned. Right now, everyone—even Pierro—except one Harbinger sat on their chair—one that seemed to not care about his colleagues’ precious time.

Annoyance bubbled in your stomach. The Doctor was always like this even if he was summoned by the Tsaritsa herself, he always took his sweet, sweet time. What could possibly be more important than Her Majesty’s orders? You were irritated at his slight tardiness, yes but you complained no further as it meant not having to face him for a longer amount of time.

After the . . . exchange in Dottore’s laboratory yesterday, you were not looking forward to facing him at all which was why you weren’t thrilled when a subordinate had let you know about the Harbinger meeting. Nonetheless, you sat in your chair, composed with your hands folded, and an unreadable expression.

Two minutes had passed before the doors opened to reveal the person you dreaded to see the most.

Dottore strode in, unhurried and calm as though he controlled time itself. Slung over his left arm was a fabric with an all too familiar shade of ivory, it bore the Fatui insignia. Your eyebrow twitched imperceptibly, tension heightened and engulfed the whole room—or maybe that was just on your end? Whatever it was, you did not like it one bit.

It felt like the occurrence at Sandrone’s tea party all over again.

“Ugh, Dottore! Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for you?!” Sandrone broke the thick silence that lingered in the air, voice full of annoyance.

“Ah. Just in time, I see,” The Doctor mused pleasantly, flat out ignoring the Seventh Harbinger. The tone made your gut churn but you didn’t let on whenever he speaks with such delight, whatever followed was usually the opposite. Just in time? Inconsiderate as always. You thought. 

“Prevaricator, you seem to have left your coat in my laboratory.” He stopped just before your chair, his tall stature loomed over your sitting figure as he stood behind. You didn’t turn to face him just yet but his invasive aura was enough to alert you of his presence. Your heart stammered. Dottore could not be serious right now, out of the endless opportunities to return your coat, he chose today? In a Harbinger meeting? Really?

Though, that concern was immediately overridden by the unsolicited stares from not only Sandrone’s piercing gaze but from everyone else who sat on the table—from Pierro all the way to The Balladeer who rarely cared about such trivial matters. All their attention suddenly shifted over to you and Dottore. You hated to admit it but it almost felt like you were cornered by a pack of wolves who had found their dinner for tonight; interest and curiosity lingered in their eyes.

Uncomfortable, you shifted in your chair just a bit. What were you supposed to say? Thank you? Over your dead body, that was the last thing you’d ever utter to Dottore. To make matters even worse and the others’ curiosity to grow, he spoke up once again,

“We had a rather . . . heated exchange.”

You wanted to kill him. Rip his body into shreds until nothing remained.

Dottore was smart, academically smart but in all the years you’ve been with him in the Fatui, this was the most idiotic thing you’ve seen him do. Utterly foolish. What was the relevance of this explanation? Nothing! There was no other implication that could have meant anything else besides what you and him had done yesterday.

The word heated settled into the silence that followed, like a dropped blade.

Sandrone—who sat on your left—slowly turned to face you, azure eyes wide with confusion and laced with something dangerously close to horror. You didn’t dare meet her gaze. Her eyes flickered to your shoulders—no coat—then back to the fabric on Dottore’s arm. Ugh, she didn’t even want to think about what he meant by that, whatever it was, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Why is Dottore even causing a scene?! Sandrone rolled her eyes.

Clearly, there was no denying that the article of clothing The Doctor had was yours, the biggest hint being your coat missing around your shoulders. Naturally, everyone donned theirs whenever they were back in Snezhnaya—apart from the coat being an unwritten uniform within the Harbingers, it helped immensely with braving the harsh icy winds, and heavy snowfall. Today, you managed to layer enough clothing to face the low temperatures.

Heat crept up to your cheeks, you were embarrassed; to think that Dottore heavily implied you and him had sex in his laboratory in front of all the Harbingers was beyond shameful. Oh, how you wanted the marbled floors to open a rift and swallow your body whole only to never return again. Surely, none would have caught on, right? The more you thought about it, the more your mind calculated the possibility that it was impossible for any Harbinger to not understand the implication. Everyone in this room was smart in their own way.

You cleared your throat, attempting to slice through the growing awkwardness inside the hall, “An experiment,” 

“We had an escalated disagreement regarding an experiment of mine. I had simply asked for his perspective which I soon realised was a mistake considering our opposing opinions.” You lied, though it was believable enough how natural it sounded—no uncertainty, no hesitation, after all, lying came to you as easy as breathing fresh air. But, the spiteful tone at the end of your sentence was nothing but the truth.

A beat followed then a handful of nods around the long table. Either no one was foolish enough to entertain the matters or they simply could not care less. Sandrone, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes briefly before shifting her gaze elsewhere.

The Seventh Harbinger tried not to think about the fact that you always sought her perspective when it came to obtaining a second opinion for your experiments, not Dottore, not anyone else, her. Nonetheless, Sandrone ignored the pressing thought; as long as it didn’t affect her nor her projects, she didn’t see any reasoning to further investigate the matter.

The only thing that bothered her was your terrible taste. Dottore? Really? Hm, maybe all those chemical fumes you’ve inhaled these past years have finally affected your cognitive ability.

You twisted your torso, finally facing Dottore—who wore a sly smirk—to grab your coat off his arm, “Apologies for my forgetfulness.” You coldly muttered before once again turning to face the table.

Without another word, Dottore strutted to his seat between Regrator and The Balladeer which was situated right across from your own. Now that every Harbinger was here, the only figure to wait for was Her Majesty. You took a quiet deep breath as The Doctor finally sat in his seat, you didn’t lift your gaze to look at him but you already knew his crimson eyes were on you. You shifted in your seat uncomfortably, heat that settled into your skin now burning deeper despite the subzero temperature.

Dottore noticed the slight shift in your mood, like a faint crack in a panel of glass, subtle yet enough to shatter the whole thing once pushed to its breaking point, “Is the hall overheated again, Prevaricator?” He asked, referring to the events of Sandrone’s tea party. You had said the same thing back then after the effects of the aphrodisiac had started to settle in, looking back at it now, Dottore most likely knew you were lying then.

Of course, this was his way of further provoking you under the guise of concern.

You stared at him. Hard. Which only pulled an amused smile.

Too focused on trying to split apart the Second Harbinger with your stare, you didn’t notice the way Regrator’s gaze shifted between you and his friend, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in pure amusement. Oh, he absolutely knew the deal between you and Dottore, and the best part? He found out all by himself.

Regrator had been meaning to pay Dottore a visit sometime to tell the latter that funding for his research project had been approved, which he found himself doing yesterday. As usual, he made the effort of paying a visit to the Experimental Bureau, specifically to Dottore’s laboratory.

Everything was normal until Regrator had made it to the hallway outside his friend’s lab; at first, he thought his ears simply betrayed him or that the metal walls creaked unusually loud but the more time he spent at the deserted hallway, the clearer those sounds became.

Sounds that screamed anything but appropriate.

For a moment, Regrator listened, brows furrowed with curiosity—either a pair was idiotic enough to fool around inside Dottore’s laboratory or it was Dottore himself who fooled around with someone.

His question was soon answered as lewd moans turned into coherent words, “Ngh! Dottore! Right there!” He froze upon hearing his friend’s name uttered by an extremely familiar voice. Was it one of Dottore’s subordinates? No, there was a certain tone laced in those words; despite this mystery woman’s strained voice, it held some sort of iciness to it.

A face flashed into Regrator’s mind. 

Prevaricator?

No, it couldn’t be. Seeing as how you treated Dottore like he was a mere fly on the wall made this assumption impossible; you ignored the latter with every chance you got so it did not make sense at all. But the woman sounded just like you.

Before Regrator could delve deeper into his thoughts, the sound of Dottore’s voice breathlessly moaned out not your title but your name. That alone answered every question in his mind—so, it was you. Regrator could only chuckle in pure amusement. Dottore had opened up to him about your rather annoying characteristics, and how the former wanted to break that façade of yours.

He didn’t ask for a reason and simply nodded along at his words; in all honesty, Regrator did not deem you worthy of his time, you had nothing interesting going on except for your projects—which he also deemed unworthy of funding—so he didn’t understand why you had suddenly piqued his friend’s interest.

To each their own, I guess. He thought to himself before deciding to finally walk away and give the two of you some much needed privacy.

Regrator watched as the scene unfolded before him, amusement gleamed in his eyes as he observed your rigid posture and Dottore’s mischievous demeanour, a second any longer and you might’ve just wielded your Delusion right then and there but alas, tension between you and the Second Harbinger faded as quickly as it rose upon Her Majesty’s arrival.

All Harbingers shifted their attention to the Cryo Archon, each stood from their chairs with appropriate haste and bowed their heads as she walked in, icy heels clicking with each calculated step; a slight shiver ran down your spine, you never really got used to Her Majesty’s presence despite all the years you have served her.

The Tsaritsa took her seat at the head of the table and the Harbingers followed suit, sitting back down to finally commence.

“Let us proceed.” She announced.

As if on cue, Pierro slid over a couple of stacked files to Her Majesty. This was going to be a long meeting. Reports were delivered, assignments were confirmed, and future campaigns were outlined in heavy detail. Each Harbinger listened keenly and answered when addressed, yourself included. Though, most of the files concerned either Regrator or The Rooster, and even The Balladeer and Rosalyne who were once more briefed of their upcoming assignment in Inazuma.

Though, surprisingly enough, she had called out your name along with Dottore’s. The two of you looked up in unison, awaiting for Her Majesty’s next words as she flipped through the documents,

“Reports indicate certain Cryo-saturated environments have produced a consistent effect: emotional dampening without loss of cognition. This certain phenomenon is able to dull fear, recede pain, and dampen any emotional hindrance which ultimately improves efficiency—assets we need for our operatives, however, the side effect is deemed unstable.”

Your brows furrowed. Cryo-saturated environments? You assumed it was influenced by Cryo energy instead of its physical form such as ice and snow—a simple example of this would be a poisonous chemical gas emitted from a volatile experiment. When a person is exposed to poisonous gas for an extended amount of time, it would be fatal, you guessed it was the same for this phenomenon.

“Once Cryo exposure ends, suppressed emotions rebound, it is volatile and unpredictable, a Fatui weakness. Sudden emotional changes, heightened physical sensitivity and loss of emotional regulation are the most common rebounds as reported by operatives.”

The Tsaritsa continued to explain how a certain Fatui operative violently lashed out at his comrades which ultimately led to a physical confrontation. Thankfully, the operative had been subdued, and under intense monitoring for further behavioural tests; though, this wasn’t the only occurrence.

“This can cause catastrophic failures on our end. I want this understood, refined, and controlled. If emotional suppression can be enforced without such rebounds, it would be an outstanding weapon for the Fatui.”

The Tsaritsa’s icy gaze settled on The Doctor, “You will lead this research,” Then, it shifted on to you, “You will assist as a regulator; your natural restraint deems you an ideal threshold for this experiment.”

Her Majesty was correct, you prided yourself on restraint and emotional distance—a defense mechanism you learned and bore upon being bestowed your title. Your natural emotional restraint paired with Cryo-induced restraint made you the ideal threshold; it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the Tsaritsa to assign you on this project, and you particularly had no qualms with it but the mere thought of Dottore overseeing the entire experiment did not sound pleasant at all.

“Prevaricator is not to be treated as a subject but as a threshold at which immense emotional suppression becomes dangerous instability. Am I clear, Doctor?” 

Dottore smiled behind his pointed mask, “As you command, your Majesty.” Somehow, you didn’t believe a single word of it. The Tsaritsa nodded before closing the file, “Immediate results are to be discussed with me. I expect no less from the two of you.” 

With that, the meeting finally came to an end, tension in the room lifted as Her Majesty left without another word—as if the hall itself let out a breath of relief. As everyone piled out of the room, your mind began to ponder over certain protocols and boundaries for the upcoming experiment, something needed written on the experimental contract.

A week had passed before the initial trial of the experiment, this was primarily due to the lack of apparatus needed to simulate a Cryo-saturated environment. Meanwhile, you had used that time to gather further information by observing and running common tests on affected Fatui operatives which gave rather fruitful results. Fortunately, Dottore was too busy designing a suitable apparatus for the experiment to accompany your rounds.

A handful of findings seemed to all state the same rebound effect—violence, which were primarily from Fatui operatives. Thus, you hypothesized that one’s rebound effect was heavily influenced by their environment. Fatui operatives were trained soldiers, experienced combatants capable of committing heinous crimes; in short, when an individual was used to a ‘violent’ environment, they would commit the same act of violence under the influence of a rebound effect. 

This would also be true for an individual with a ‘depressing’ environment which would result in unpredictable sorrowful behaviour as a rebound effect. 

Another thing you hypothesized was that the degree of Cryo exposure was proportional to the degree of rebound effect. Thus, a high concentration of Cryo exposure led to a stronger rebound effect.

You were fully convinced of this hypothesis, even Dottore himself seemed to be on the same page as well. But of course, whether this was true or not solely depended on the trials.

The laboratory was cold—deliberately so.

Cryo conduits lined the walls of a vertical glass chamber—a space large enough to house a human. A faint layer of frost lined its seams as the engine whirred to life, it glowed faintly as energy surged through it. You watched from inside the chamber as Dottore adjusted the control panel just a few feet away. Composed and quiet, your hands remained behind your back, coat long discarded due to potential false readings.

“Baseline readings first. This is simply to establish what ‘normal’ looks like for you.”  Dottore calmly stated before pressing a button.

With that, a thin metal band slid into place around your wrist, it was icy against your skin. Another rested lightly at your throat. “Do not be alarmed, these aren’t restraints. They monitor pulse, skin temperature, muscle tension and any changes in breath rhythm.”

“In other words,” You started. “You’ll be notified of any slight changes, even as miniscule as a flinch.”

He smiled, “Precisely.”

The monitors against your skin flickered to life, a faint glow of red tainted your vision as it measured your baseline readings. “Heart rate is steady. Respiration controlled. Emotional markers?” Dottore monotonously asked as he read the panel screen before him. 

“Neutral.” You replied.

“As expected, you are an excellent control subject.” 

Your eyes narrowed at his words, annoyance bubbled in your chest, “I am not a subject.” He paused his ministrations, “Ah, right. My apologies. Force of habit.” A low chuckle escaped his lips which further fuelled the negative emotion inside you.

“Relax, Prevaricator. False readings on the first trial are not acceptable.” You took a deep breath and calmed yourself. As much as you hated to admit it, Dottore was right; Her Majesty had entrusted you to an important task and it was your duty to fulfill it even if it meant having to push your disdain for Dottore aside.

Though, there was a much, much bigger matter to be addressed concerning the two of you but neither you nor Dottore dared to even speak a word of it. The last it was addressed was during the Harbinger meeting, you absolutely have not forgotten about the humiliation you felt. You reminded yourself to confront him about his idiocy in the future.

Silence followed before the Cryo field activated.

The temperature didn’t drop instantaneously, it slid downwards, akin to the feeling of sinking into cold water inch by inch. You felt it first in your lungs, the air grew sharper, it mimicked the feeling of thin oxygen in higher altitudes. Faint clouds of steam formed as you breathed.

“This exposure mimics the amount of Cryo energy our operatives were exposed to. It isn’t capable of freezing tissue but it is capable of influencing one’s nervous system. Cold slows things down, including cognitive signals sent to one’s body; pain, fear—emotional spikes, they all rely on speed.”

Dottore made another adjustment as your readings remained neutral, this time, the cold deepened, you assumed the exposure was about one and a half times more than the previous amount by how much your skin began to react.

“Report.” Dottore said.

“I feel . . . Slightly detached. As if reactions are optional.” Dottore nodded at your words, he jotted down a handful of observations, “Good. That means suppression is finally working for you.” As per your findings, this result was expected—soldiers had reported that they felt detached from reality, as though they watched themselves from outside their body.

On the monitors, your vitals remained stable, no signs of fluctuation nor distress, everything seemed to be in place. Dottore was pleased, very much so, that meant he could probably push this a little further.

The Cryo field intensified slightly.

The laboratory grew quieter not due to the lack of sound but because it felt simply unimportant to you, your cognition no longer registered the hum of the machines nor the words that Dottore absentmindedly uttered to himself. Your consciousness remained intact but the emotional weight of thought simply vanished as if it weren’t there in the first place; even Dottore’s presence felt like an afterthought.

“Pain test.” He stated, pressing another control. Immediately, a brief, controlled electrified pulse shot through your wrist and neck. You felt it vibrate against your skin but pain was absent.

“Response?” Dottore asked. “Registered. Sensation absent.”

His pen paused mid-sentence, brows lifting imperceptibly as he looked up at your figure, “How remarkable.” Dottore pondered to himself, this was still only the first phase of the project, and he had yet to be presented with much results but he wanted to see where your painless state took you. He amped the pulse a little higher than before, now, its current level was enough to at least knock out a human. Dottore wasn’t worried at all, you were a Harbinger after all, what harm could a mere shock do?

He pressed the same control button as before, “Another one. Response?” “Registered. Sensation still absent.”

He nodded at your words once again, jotting down every response in his notebook. A few more minutes passed before Dottore ultimately lowered the Cryo field in a manner where your body could appropriately adjust to the temperature changes until the chamber itself powered off. Heat slowly embraced your icy skin once again, it felt akin to standing next to a fireplace on a snowy night. You staggered a little, hands immediately coming up to stabilise your body.

“You did exceptionally well. That’s all for today. We shall resume again tomorrow once your rebound effect has calmed.” Pure delight laced his words as he watched you step out from the chamber. Your mind felt hazy and the last couple of minutes felt distant but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. At least not yet.

Dottore walked around the console, moving closer to where you stood just outside the chamber, “Per Her Majesty’s order, you are to be monitored closely until this project has officially concluded. In other words, you will be staying in the palace quarters.” You had no qualms with that, it only made sense to be monitored closely especially during the rebound effect period which was now.

A rebound effect for normal humans can be easily controlled and contained but as for a Harbinger like yourself, it would be a completely different topic. You had no doubts in The Doctor’s capabilities of subduing your imminent side effect, he was more than capable of doing so. But if your personal feelings were to come into play, you’d rather have someone else. Anyone but Dottore.

“As head researcher, I will personally monitor your conditions. Should you have any queries, I am only down the corridor from your quarters.” 

“One more thing. Do not, under any circumstances, remove those bands around your neck and wrist. They are there to indicate any behavioural changes.” 

You wordlessly nodded, too tired to ask any questions. Her Majesty may have clearly stated not to treat you as a subject but you sure did feel like one.

Upon returning to your quarters, you felt nothing but pure irritation, you concluded that it was the rebound effect happening. Though, in your case, it wasn’t enough to get violent nor involuntarily lash out at subordinates. You only managed to control it since you were exposed to Cryo energy levels which weren’t potent enough to significantly alter your cognition nor induce the effect.

Despite that, you still tried to calm yourself down by going over your notes, eyes tracing each and every sentence to the point where they would be engraved in your mind.

Hypothesis #1: An individual’s environment directly influences their rebound effect.

Hypothesis #2: The amount of Cryo energy exposure is directly proportional to the degree of an individual’s rebound effect. For example, the stronger the exposure, the stronger the rebound effect.

Rebound effect: An unpredictable effect induced by prolonged Cryo energy exposure in Cryo-saturated environments.

Cryo-saturated environments: Certain areas where Cryo energy is concentrated. (Civilians and Operatives are at risk)

The next day, everything felt normal, the feeling of irritation was long gone and your vital signs were stable—devoid of any significant fluctuations. Just like yesterday, Dottore read your baseline readings out loud before the experiment officially commenced for the day.

Back inside the glass chamber, you shifted your weight from one foot to another as he pressed a set of buttons on the console, “We will continue where we left off yesterday. As per protocol, I will gradually increase the Cryo field to avoid sudden exposure in cold temperatures.” He stated.

The experiment went on for a couple more hours, a repeat process of being exposed to increased levels of Cryo energy then tested for pain. Dottore may be devoted to his experiments but at least he was human enough to incorporate breaks in between which allowed your body to recuperate for the next test. During breaks, you merely sat on one of the metal stools while Dottore wordlessly reviewed data, it was silent but that was what you needed. Though, you couldn’t help but feel the nagging feeling that he was somewhat on edge about something.

Despite only standing inside the chamber, the energy exposure was definitely a weight on your body, you could hold off far better than a human could but even Harbingers had their limits.

And today, Dottore seemed eager to test that limit.

With you back inside the chamber, he increased the Cryo tenfold which was a significant jump from the first exposure yesterday. At first, everything felt fine until several seconds passed where the cold turned into hard pressure. Something inside you resisted, akin to a muscle tightening inside a cast. Your frozen fingers curled involuntarily, nails marked your palms, and your jaw tightened.

“Dottore, something’s pushing back.” You let out a heavy exhale. He looked up instantaneously, “That must be the instability. What you’re feeling is your suppressed emotional response attempting to reassert itself—think of it like holding a spring down,” 

“The longer it’s held down, the more force it stores. Consequently, the more force it stores, the harder the rebound.” Dottore continued, his crimson gaze shifted between the monitor that displayed your vital signs and your figure inside the chamber.

You inhaled sharply. Your pulse spiked not out of fear but something dangerously close to frustration. Irritation. A need to move. He took a mental note of your increased pulse but didn’t dare to stop the experiment.

“Disengage it. Now.” You gritted your teeth. Weight pressed further into your body; it came from a million different directions and felt like it had trapped you in place.

“One moment longer. This is the critical threshold.” Dottore replied, eyes fixed on the readings. 

Ten seconds had passed, you were at your absolute limit. Pressure from the Cryo energy felt too heavy to bear and your mind constantly slipped in and out a haze, “Dottore!” You yelled, sharp and icy. A split second. Then, the Cryo field cut, the pressure against your skin instantly shattered which allowed sensation to rush in. Your skin prickled, heart pounding harder than it should have.

You staggered half a step, catching yourself before your weakened body could kiss the metal floor. Exiting the chamber, your blood boiled, it didn’t matter if the cold lingered on your skin, you were absolutely seething. Anger engulfed every crevice of your body, it encased you in a dangerous slurry of negative emotions—ones you could not simply ignore.

Really, there was only one person to receive the sharp end of your rare temper—Il Dottore.

The latter immediately noticed the look on your face, it was pure anger, something he had never seen from you before. Despite your clearly irritated mood, he hastily wrote down this observation: ‘Tenfold Cryo exposure resulted in an on-set rebound effect for Prevaricator.’ There was no doubt the surge of your emotions was under the influence of a rebound effect. 

“You pushed it further than you said you would.” Sharp fury laced your accusatory words, gaze solely focused on the man before you. Technically, Dottore did push the experiment beyond what was agreed for today’s trial but could you really blame him? Previous tests yielded insignificant results, how could he present little to no experimental outcomes to Her Majesty? How could he synthesize something to combat the phenomenon if results showed a plateau?

In crucial experiments like these, unpredictable adjustments have to be made or one will end up repeating an experiment a million times with the same set of results.

Dottore inhaled, “Indeed. Because I needed to know where you would break.”

Your eyes narrowed at his words, the blazing fire in your chest burning a deep blue, “I didn’t break.”

“No,” He started, watching you very carefully. “But you bent.”

“You deviated from the protocol. You don’t get to do that.” “As a matter of fact, I do—if the subject continues to function, there is no need to halt the experiment.”

The words landed wrong. Subject.

You forced a breath, a chance at trying to calm yourself but irritation leaked through anyway, stubborn and unwelcome. “You are tasked to find the threshold, not to test its limit. Was that order not simplified enough for you? Or do you lack the cognitive capacity to understand?” Your heart pounded hard against your chest, as if you were in fight or flight mode.

Normally, you didn’t dare speak this way to any Harbinger even if all you had for them was disdain but today, your tongue did not seem to hold back its serrated insults.

Dottore’s jaw tightened, how dare you question his intellect over such trivial matters? Still, he was well aware that you were experiencing a rebound effect and thus decided not to entertain the argument any further, “Is this your attempt at getting me mad? I understand your complaint but I am not running these experiments to simply waste time with plateaued results.” Without another word, he returned to his notes like nothing.

That did it for you. If Dottore was going to give you the cold shoulder then fine, you’d cut today’s experiment short. He noticed as you grabbed your belongings with haste and anger before heading to the door.

“And where do you think you’re going, Prevaricator?” You didn’t bother replying.

Yes, you were fully aware that your current behaviour was a side effect of concentrated Cryo exposure—every negative expression and petty insult—but your body seemed to have a mind of its own because no matter how much you tried to hold back, it seemed to push further and it was only getting worse.

Dottore wasn’t the type to concern himself with such petty behaviour, nor was he an individual who goes after someone but you were a liability, and the Tsaritsa had specifically ordered him to monitor you. So, with a deep exhale, Dottore carefully piled his notes on the table before tailing after you. He’d be responsible for any damages caused by his subject, simply thinking about it gave him a headache.

Luckily, the afternoon skies were clear and devoid of any snowfall, it made your walk back to the Zapolyarny Palace much, much easier. The Experimental Bureau wasn’t far from the Palace but it did require a bit of walking which you didn’t really mind, maybe by the time you’ve reached its grand doors, at least half of the anger inside you would’ve dissipated into the air. Maybe.

With the thick layers of snow swallowing all sound from your surroundings, all you could hear was your own laboured breathing and the crunch of your heavy steps against the icy pavement. Puffs of thick, ivory smoke formed with every exhale. Who the hell did Dottore think he was?! Sure, he was assigned as head researcher but that did not give him the right to deviate experimental protocols! And he dared call himself a scholar?

After a few minutes of grumbling to yourself about a certain Harbinger, you finally reached the Palace doors. On either side of the doors, two guards who were stationed dipped their heads in respect upon your presence. Though, you didn’t catch the way their gaze met as if they were having a telepathic conversation about something interesting.

“Lady Prevaricator. Lord Dottore.”

You stopped in your tracks, just before you could step foot inside the Palace. Were your ears deceiving you? Dottore? Out of pure instinct, you looked over your coat only to find the last person you wanted to see.

Unbelievable. He was like a pest.

You kept on walking until your feet led you all the way to the upper corridors where your quarters resided. “Are you finally done behaving like a child?” Dottore called out from behind, clearly annoyed. “I did not order you to follow me, Doctor.” Before you could close the door, he crossed the corridor in large strides and held it open with a gloved hand.

“Leave.” “No.” Dottore countered, instead, he took the initiative to step inside the room causing you to take three steps back. You watched carefully as he closed the door behind him.

“What, then? Are you here to witness me come undone so you can finally see what’s underneath all these ‘false layers’?” You spat, every accusatory word laced with nothing but venom. Oh, you absolutely have not forgotten about his words—how he wanted to strip you of your façade. “Or are you here to simply humiliate me the same way you did in the Harbinger meeting?”

Dottore tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence, you noticed how his lips curled into a half smile, “Humiliate you? My, that is an accusation I cannot seem to follow.” The fucker knew exactly what you were speaking of and apparently, he had the audacity to find it all too amusing.

You, on the other hand, were absolutely seething to the point where you thought of a million ways to rip him apart bit by bit. You bit the inside of your cheeks, jaw tight and face hardened, “It was novel of you to return one’s belongings to its owner. Why did you do it, huh? To humiliate me in front of all our colleagues and imply we had sex in your laboratory?” You scoffed, the scowl on your face deepened; you’ve held off confronting him about this for the sake of professionalism but now seemed like the perfect time.

He wasn’t willing to admit it but Dottore was rather caught off guard by your boldness, it was interesting to say the least. He did not expect you to bring up the not-so-distant past with him as these last few days, you’ve acted like what happened between the two of you was a mere hallucination.

“Is that the type of person you are, Doctor? Do you get off on humiliating others?” You took a step closer, a hint of dangerous confidence in your gaze. Of course, the Second Harbinger wasn’t one to back down, “You’re rather crude aren’t you, Prevaricator?”

“Call me names all you want, Doctor but let me remind you one thing, I’ve never laced anyone’s drink with an aphrodisiac. And for what reason?” Dottore stood there, the soles of his feet rooted to the ground. He couldn’t quite decipher it but there was a strange sensation in him—amusement? Anger? He didn’t know. A beat of silence stretched after your words so you took the opportunity to press even further.

“Sexual gratification?” You took a step forward.

“Or to simply feel the touch of a woman?” Another step.

Dottore’s jaw tightened. His gaze landed on your lips—how they curled into a sly smile as if you had the upper hand. Oh, how much the look on your face infuriated him.

“You spoke to me of release while I was under the aphrodisiac’s effects yet maybe you were the one who needed release.”

He closed the remaining distance between your bodies with a singular step, “From what I recall, you were the one begging for it. Have you forgotten, Prevaricator or did you need me to remind you?” Before you could reply, Dottore spoke up once again, “Tch. Though, I won’t be surprised if you had forgotten. You always act like nothing matters to you, do you not?’ His voice was low, and was that . . . a hint of disappointment in his tone?

Confusion flickered in your chest. Wait. Was The Doctor upset at the fact that you had been acting as though nothing happened between the two of you? Bitterness was more than evident in his words—so evident you could almost taste it on your tongue. It sat heavy and uncomfortable.

“Are your feelings hurt, Doctor? Why? Did it mean something to you?”

It was a genuine question but somehow your delivery made it seem like you were mocking him—maybe you were but your curiosity remained. Dottore’s attitude shifted instantaneously, your words must have struck a nerve; his lips curled into a nasty snarl, gaze hardened beneath his pointed mask, “You know, Prevaricator, I was quite delighted mere moments ago to have your façade stripped clean but now you’re just being a brat.”

Before you could fully process his words, a gloved hand cupped either side of your jaw. The cool fabric dug into your soft skin as his grip tightened firmly, holding your head in place. Your breath quickened but your face remained unchanged, brows tightly knitted together. From underneath his pointed mask, Dottore’s crimson gaze studied the interesting expression painted on your face.

How amusing, excitement sparked within his chest—it burned his ribcage into a thousand flames. Silence stretched for what felt like eons, only your bated breath could be heard in the room. Your body felt completely numb, the only sensation felt was his gloved hand pressed on your face as though it belonged there. Despite your body practically screaming at you to push him away, you didn’t, instead, you waited for his next move.

“You infuriate me.” Dottore’s words were sharp but his tone completely betrayed him—it was low, soft around the edges and held something much more.

The air shifted as his words lingered like an undying smoke. Then, Dottore pulled your face into his, closing the remaining distance between as he completely devoured your lips, a garbled sound was all you could let out. Your body did not deny him, instead, it mirrored his ferocity which further invited Dottore to firmly cup your face with both hands and deepen the kiss. It was sloppy and heated, the same way he had kissed you back then in his laboratory—with fervour, as if to release all pent up anger.

Dottore briefly pulled away eliciting a pained whimper from you—embarrassingly enough but your whole body was in a state of pure haze that you simply didn’t care. With a swift move, he took off his pointed mask and merely discarded it on the ground with a soft thud.

Tsk, what a hindrance. He thought.

Swollen lips parted, you watched in slight awe as Dottore revealed the mystery beneath the mask.

This was the first time you’ve seen him without his mask despite all the years you’ve been in the Fatui together. Without the mask, you could see how crimson blanketed his cheeks, and how his carmine coloured eyes were lust-filled—full of hunger, the need to devour. You hated to admit it but he was simply exquisite.

Once again, Dottore pulled you in with urgency but this time, he shoved his tongue deep into your mouth until your tastebuds remembered only him. Wet sounds and occasional grunts from Dottore filled the entire space, it made you dizzy. Everything. Everything was him—from the tongue inside your mouth all the way to the intoxicating scent that filled your senses.

You found your idle hands undoing the azure scarf secured around his neck, revealing his collarbones. After the fabric was mindlessly discarded, your hands wandered down the expanse of his chest, attempting to loosen and remove the harness that wrapped around his torso to no avail due to your clouded state. It also didn’t help how Dottore roughly handled you while kissing which allowed little space to work around.

Annoyed, you pulled away with a click of your tongue, eyes set on the leather material that encased his torso. Dottore watched, panting heavily, as you wrapped your hands around the fabric and tore it apart one by one until it slid off his body like a limp snake.

It fell with a loud clink as it hit the floor. It wasn’t really novel for a Harbinger to rip apart a mere fabric but witnessing you use your strength on something other than combat absolutely had Dottore’s pants tightening to the point where he had to physically suppress a pained groan. Though, his heavy breathing and lust-filled gaze gave it all away.

With the restraints long gone, Dottore took the initiative to remove the remaining pieces of clothing from his torso—from his gloves all the way to his cerulean button up beneath which revealed his bare physique. He wasn’t too bulky nor was he too thin, subtle muscle definition was visible from underneath his skin.

As if he were a magnet, you hastily marked his exposed neck, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses down, down, down ‘til your lips reached his chest. You sucked on a spot just above his sensitive nipple which drew a sharp hiss from him, bare hands flying to your ivory coat to remove it.

Then, you moved a few centimetres downwards, giving attention to his pebbled nipple by swirling your tongue around it a few times before giving it a gentle bite. Caught off guard, Dottore let out a low groan, his hands rested on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

The two of you continued this game of undressing and marking one another until there was no article of clothing left to remove, and no skin untouched by one’s lips. Lovebites were scattered across Dottore’s chest and abdomen while your marks were mostly down the column of your neck and the top of your breasts.

Somehow, you both ended up on the foot of the bed—Dottore with his back against the ivory sheets, feet planted on the floor, and your knees on either side of his hips, bare cunt hovering just a few inches above his hard cock.

“Tell me, Doctor, is this all part of your plan, too? To rile me up with help of the rebound effect so you can manipulate the situation into bedding me?”

“Tsk. You speak as if you’re not willingly lowering yourself on my cock—Haah! You have the freedom to walk out this room, Prevaricator, so why haven’t you? I’m guessing we both want the same thing, no?” Dottore hissed as your wet cunt greedily swallowed every inch of him. Hands that rested on the flesh of your hips squeezed the spot to ground himself from the overwhelming warmth of your cunt. Oh, how shamelessly you took him in, so eager, so wet. You attempted to scoff at his words but miserably failed due to the feeling of Dottore’s cock nestled deep inside your hot cunt.

Fuck, he was long. Obviously, this wasn’t the first time he had been inside but you still needed time to get used to his length, especially with the blunt tip flush against your sweet spot. Your hands found comfort atop his bare chest, palms flat against his feverish skin while your nails shamelessly dug into it, leaving crescent-shaped indentations. 

“Quit acting like you know me.” You grunted as he adjusted his hips, causing his tip to briefly rub against your g-spot. You keened over as an electrifying shock shot up your spine at the stimulation. Dottore wore a smug expression on his flushed face to which you only replied with a glare and a subtle squeeze around his hard cock, pulling a low groan from him.

For a moment, you took the opportunity to really drink in the sight before you—Dottore’s pale blue locks scattered around his head like a faux halo, his glassy crimson eyes locked onto yours, his swollen lips parted to let out heavy breaths. You were one hundred percent sure no one had ever seen him in such a scandalous state.

Without a warning, you began to move, a slow yet steady ascend with the push of your knees against the soft mattress. The languid drag of your tight walls had Dottore gripping your hips even tighter, the knot between his brows deepening with increased pleasure. You sat up with the blunt tip remaining inside your cunt before steadily dragging yourself down his entire shaft ‘til your ass met his heavy balls.

You repeated the slow process a few more times to get used to his length, pulling low moans and groans from both you and Dottore, “Haah—Ngh! Is this all you’ve got? Considering how wet you are, I would’ve assumed you to be a bit more . . . desperate.” Dottore grunted, expertly thrusting upwards to meet your hips as they came down. A moan of his name was all you could respond with, toes curling from the sudden sensation.

Red ribbons decorated his skin as you dragged your nails across his bare chest, “Dottore! Mhm!” You doubled over, your naked skin met his own as you nestled your face between his neck and shoulder. Despite your limp torso, your lower half desperately worked itself to ride Dottore’s cock at a faster pace; up and down, up and down, up and down until all one could hear was the lewd squelching sounds of your wet cunt repeatedly swallowing him.

Along with the smell of sex, shameless moans filled the air and names were chanted like sacred prayers. Impatient, Dottore began to meet your movements by thrusting his hips upward once again, intensifying the pleasure for both of you.

In the back of your lust-filled mind, you felt relieved you didn’t have to do all the work as your quads were starting to burn from the repetitive movement. Loud sounds of skin slapping echoed within your quarters as you and Dottore moved in unison.

“Ngh—Where’d all that ferocity from earlier go—Haah—Prevaricator?” He angled his head to slot his mouth just above your ear to nibble the top of it, hot breath fanning across the side of your face leaving a trail of goosebumps. You shuddered at his ministrations and cursed him in your mind, how could Dottore be this smug while being able to handle the burden of pleasure? Truth be told, it pressed into your feverish skin like a stubborn force.

Beads of sweat lined your forehead as you rode him, the painful burn in your legs slowly disappeared as ecstasy took hold of your body. Your body shook, colourful moans and dainty whimpers left your parted lips which further fuelled Dottore’s merciless thrusts. Oh, how he missed hearing your beautiful song. Knowing it was his sole doing, pride bloomed across his chest for such a rare feat.

The heavy slap of his balls stung like a hundred needles but god did it heighten the pleasure you felt in your wet cunt. It made your head spin.

“R-Right there—Ngh! More, please!” At your desperate pleas, Dottore’s cock twitched and whether you had noticed or not, you didn’t let on simply because you only sought out one thing—an orgasm. 

He picked up his pace, every hard thrust pulled out oxygen from your lungs and it absolutely had you gasping, and panting for air like a shameless dog devoid of any decorum. Though, you did not care for how you looked, not when Dottore’s cock pistoned in and out of you as if it was its only purpose. You stiffened with pure pleasure, a familiar knot deep in your stomach slowly unraveling as ecstasy engulfed both your bodies.

The sharp sting of your nails fuelled each drive of Dottore’s hips which caused your limp body to jolt with every upward thrust he gave. At this point, your hips no longer moved as he held them in place with a firm grip, they remained elevated in the air as Dottore fucked himself into you. With the soles of his feet fully planted on the floor, he used every bit of strength left in his body to bring the both of you into an orgasm. He found it a little hard to thrust inside your sopping cunt with how tightly you clenched around his cock; though, he was not complaining.

“Please don’t stop, Dottore! Mhm!” You sounded so vulnerable it almost made Dottore cum right then and there.

He clicked his tongue, “Only a fool would do such a thing.”

By the sound of his breathless response and the slight stutter of his hips, you could tell he, too, was close. After a few more deep thrusts, Dottore stilled inside you, cock buried to the hilt as you both came together. White, hot pleasure surged within your body as the knot inside your stomach harshly unravelled, you clenched around his hard cock and bit into the bare skin of his shoulder, muffling your moans.

You rode out your orgasm by desperately fucking yourself onto him which earned a low grown from Dottore, followed by a harsh slap of your ass that had you biting harder into his shoulder. The two of you remained entangled with one another for a minute or two, unspeaking and unmoving, only letting out heavy pants as you both came down from your highs.

You slumped against his sweat-covered body, full weight resting on top of Dottore, every fibre of your being had practically given up on you not only from sex but from the experiment earlier as well.

Heavy exhaustion gnawed its way through your skin and into your very bones, you would have let it carry you into slumber if it weren’t for the Harbinger beneath you manhandling your limp body. With his cock still buried deep inside and arms around your naked body, he expertly manoeuvred both of you so that you were positioned higher up into the mattress.

You found yourself facing the ivory sheets beneath, hands and knees firmly planted atop them while Dottore slotted himself just behind your ass. The entire process had his blunt tip teasing into your sweet spot and you swore you saw stars from overstimulation.

“Dottore—! Fuck, stop moving, will you?” You hissed, reaching a hand behind your back to push his hips away only for him to take hold of your wrist and pin it against your skin. He let out a low chuckle, “Only a few minutes ago you were begging me not to stop. I am merely fulfilling your wish, am I not?”

With one hand on your hip and the other secured around your wrist, Dottore pulled all the way back before slamming his hips against your ass causing your whole body to jolt forward, your arms wobbling as they fully gave up on you which left your torso flush against the mattress. You moaned the shape of his name, pleasure once again bloomed inside your stomach as he slammed in and out repeatedly.

Having not given enough time to come down from your orgasm earlier, you were far too sensitive for the merciless thrusts Dottore gave you—it had your body uncontrollably shaking like a branch braving the city’s harsh winds. Hot tears lined your eyes and rolled down your heated cheeks.

You fisted the mattress beneath you, pounding the soft material the same way Dottore did to your cunt, the pleasure you felt was simply too much to handle and you knew he wasn’t about to make it any easier for you.

The bed creaked under the weight of his harsh thrusts, the headboard repeatedly slamming against the wall behind it. None of you cared, these halls were empty anyway and any cleaning personnel were prohibited from stepping into these corridors unless they were scheduled to clean.

In short, you could make as much sinful noise as you wanted. The palace was vast and its walls were thick enough to swallow any sounds within it.

Dottore briefly bent down, his arms wrapping around your torso to swiftly haul up the entirety of your body so that only your knees remained planted in the sheets. With your back secured against his chest, he snaked one arm around your waist while the other lightly gripped your neck to hold your head in place.

The new angle had his cock reaching a little deeper than before, causing you to arch your back and pathetically whimper his name into the damp air, “D-Dottore! Mhm—haah! Please!” He continued fucking into you with the same pace he set earlier, his lips finding its way on the spot just below your ear to nip and suck.

Your eyes rolled back at the feel of teeth and tongue, hands coming up to claw at the hand around your neck, there really wasn’t anything else you could do but scratch and scream his name like your life depended on it but Dottore didn’t mind at all. If anything, he was more than pleased you were taking him so, so well and oh, the sounds you made.

They were heavenly.

“Well, aren’t you obedient—haah! You act as if you’re tough and defiant when all along, you’re just someone who wants to be fucked and pounded, no?” You clenched at his filthy words, god, you were so close. No thoughts apart from pleasure ran through your mind, all you could think of was your impending orgasm and Dottore who oh, so deliciously fucked your cunt with such fervour.

“Close! ‘M close—ngh!” It didn’t take long for you to reach a second orgasm but this time, it hit harder. Your body convulsed from raw pleasure as you wantonly moaned out Dottore’s name loud enough for it to echo down the corridors outside. He followed suit, letting out a drawled grunt as your walls clenched around his hard cock. Another round of his hot load painted your walls ivory and stuffed you to the brim, you whimpered as it dripped out of your cunt and down your inner thighs.

Dottore gave a few shallow thrusts to fuck his cum deep inside before letting both your bodies fall flat atop the mattress, “Surely, you can give me another one?” His tone was laced with mockery, you didn’t have to see his face to confirm he wore a smug expression.

He didn’t wait for an answer before moving his hips once again, you screamed from oversensitivity, a new wave of hot tears ran down your tear-stained cheeks as Dottore moved without an ounce of mercy in his bones. With his full weight on top of your own, there was no option but to take every powerful thrust he gave and each time his blunt cockhead bullied your sweet spot, your eyes rolled back further and further, swollen lips locked in a permanent part—saliva unceremoniously dripping down the corner of your mouth.

You looked a mess. Utterly inappropriate. The ever composed Lady Harbinger reduced to nothing but a lust-driven fool, oh, how Snezhnaya would deem you a laughing stock with the state you were in.

Dottore moaned and grunted dangerously close to your ear, incoherent sentences spilled from his mouth as raw bliss took control over his body. The skin of your ass burned from the repeated slap of his heavy balls, you were absolutely sure it would be inflamed by tomorrow. Your fingers curled around the sheets, knuckles turning white as you gripped them hard to keep yourself grounded from pleasure, there was nothing else you could feel but Dottore’s cock pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt.

“Are you—ngh!—close? Come on, cum for me. Let it all go.” He purred into your ear. You nodded vigorously at his words, too fucked and cockdrunk to even form a coherent response.

With that, Dottore changed the pace of his hips to deep, languid thrusts, and with every inward thrust, he made sure to press into your sweet spot for a few seconds before pulling out. Each time, you let out a gasp, voice long gone from all the screaming earlier. You could feel every dip and curve of his cock, and it drove you absolutely mad.

Without warning, you came with a silent moan. Hard. Your body shook with raw pleasure, back arching as you creamed around Dottore’s cock for the third time. 

“That’s it. Mhm—ngh! Good girl.” The latter stilled deep inside you and released yet another heavy load with a broken moan of your name—something more intimate this time. His cock twitched as you clenched around him in response; his sweaty forehead rested against the back of your head, trying to catch his breath.

Pleasure and exhaustion weighed heavily on Dottore’s naked body, with the little strength he had in him, he pulled out—earning a painful hiss from both of you—and rolled over to your side, chest heaving up and down. A muffled whimper escaped your lips as his cum spilled out of your hole and onto the sheets beneath.

Nothing but silence and heavy breathing filled the room, and once again, realisation dawned upon you. Akin to morning fog clearing as the afternoon rolled around, your lust-driven mind slowly faded and was replaced by rational thoughts. Thoughts that made you want to sink into the ground, only to be never found again.

“You still haven’t answered my question from earlier.” You whispered, your throat burned with every word spoken, as though it were a clear sign you weren’t supposed to pry.

‘Are your feelings hurt, Doctor? Why? Did it mean something to you?’

For some reason, Dottore couldn’t come up with an answer. For the first time, his mind blanked. It was a mere yes or no but somehow, either of the two options did not seem like an appropriate answer.

“I may be full of knowledge, Prevaricator but there are matters I do not hold the answers to.”

That was that.

The next few weeks weren’t any different from before except for the passing of your dear friend Rosalyne—which definitely took a toll on you—and the fact that The Balladeer had gone rogue after his mission in Inazuma. Tensions within the Palace walls were high especially with the latter’s disappearance and despite Her Majesty’s cold composure, you could feel the edge in her tone during your meetings with her.

Furthermore, you and Dottore remained working with one another to construct a device to counter the Cryo-induced phenomenon. It was awkward at first, being back in the laboratory together after having sex but he had acted as if nothing ever happened between the two of you, so you did the same—professional and indifferent, just how you always were. 

Though, you noticed he was snappier than usual. Yes, Dottore never shied away from giving his subordinates a lecture when needed but he didn’t waste his time and breath giving them an earful over something trivial. You weren’t sure if he had always been this way and you’ve just noticed now or there was a significant shift in his behaviour.

“The Cryo Resonance Regulator is a compact, wearable device designed to interfere with Cryo energy in concentrated areas to prevent rebound effects in operatives. This device doesn’t necessarily cancel the effects of Cryo energy, instead, it only nullifies the after effect. In other words, fear, pain, and other unwanted matters are dampened without the Cryo-induced side effects.”

Dottore slid the small device across the table to Her Majesty and you watched as her icy gaze inspected it with mere curiosity, “This seems rather promising. I will set up a meeting with Regrator for the device’s funding for mass production. This would be of great help to the Fatui.”

“Indeed, your Majesty. The device has been tested and undergone through countless changes and trials.” He smiled at her approval. After a few more minutes of formalities, the meeting was officially dismissed and the Tsaritsa was the first to excuse herself, leaving you and Dottore all alone in the room.

“You should give yourself a pat on the back, Prevaricator. You did well. We’ve only collaborated twice yet the results we’ve gotten were beyond astounding, don’t you think? If we set our differences aside, we could collaborate more often. With two great minds alike, we could do much, much more.”

Dottore didn’t wait for your response before heading out which left you alone in the room with your thoughts.

Somehow, you got the gist that he wasn’t particularly talking about experiments.

You didn’t hear much from Dottore beyond the words he left with you, after all, the joint collaboration had formally ended which meant there were no further reasons for you and Dottore to be seeing one another—not that it bothered you but you felt a little . . . foreign.

Last you heard of The Doctor was from a conversation you happened to overhear from your subordinates, he was apparently in Sumeru and Her Majesty had ordered him for his immediate return in Snezhnaya. The reasoning behind his visit to Sumeru was a mystery to you and frankly, you weren’t much interested.

The next time you saw Dottore was during a Harbinger banquet. During these types of gatherings, you usually found yourself downing Fire-Water diluted with some kind of Spirit and picking at your plate here and there. It was nothing special, really, just an overglorified Harbinger event for everyone to act civilized as if they aren’t plotting something behind their backs.

Back then, Rosalyne would always try to include you in conversation but now that she was gone, you sat there and watched as the others conversed with unsettling smiles on their faces.

Though, one you liked watching interact was The Rooster and Regrator—everyone knew of their nasty rivalry behind one another’s back yet they had the audacity to act like good friends in front of each other. It was simply laughable.

“You’re looking rather well, Prevaricator.” Ah. You had almost forgotten about the Harbinger seated to your right, he was the reason you kept yourself busy with alcohol and food—so that you didn’t have the time to engage in idle conversations. 

“Dottore,” You greeted. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Taking a sip of your Fire-Water, all you gave Dottore was a side eye before returning your gaze to your colleagues. He shifted  in his seat a little—an unusual behaviour but you didn’t dwell on it—as though he wanted to address something more. He wasn’t one to initiate small conversations unless he wanted something out of it. No, scratch that, unless he was sure he was going to get something out of it. Your instincts told you to move, to get out of there.

So, you did. You excused yourself from the table and headed for the doors that led to the balcony. Cool air met your body in an icy embrace as you stepped out, Snezhnograd’s late afternoon winds greeted you like an old friend, it was cold yet oddly felt warm at the same time. Maybe it was the countless rounds of Fire-Water in your system. Or maybe it was the fact that Dottore had been tailing you like some kind of dog.

Earlier, you were met with a rather foreign view just outside your laboratory—Dottore stood outside the metal door as you retired for the day, headed to the banquet. It was strange, he had invited himself to walk with you to the gathering—something he didn’t naturally do. It should have deeply bothered you but instead, you sighed and wordlessly nodded. You chalked it up to a long day at the laboratory, too exhausted to complain.

“Interestingly enough, you’ve been on my mind as of late.” 

Speaking of the devil.

You didn’t turn around at the familiar voice behind you, instead, your gaze locked onto the snowy mountains far north, as if doing so would make Dottore disappear. You’ve been on his mind? What was that supposed to mean? A threat?

“I don’t see how it’s of any relevance.” Dottore laughed at your icy words, “Ah. Feisty as ever. I’ve always liked that about you.”

You turned around only to be met with his looming stature, just mere inches away from you. Dottore effectively trapped you between his body and the balustrade, a gloved hand coming up to rest atop the cemented railing.

“What are you playing at?” You whispered, eyes narrowed but didn’t dare back down. He wordlessly brought his free hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before resting it on your jaw. “You wound me, Prevaricator. I bear no ill intent.” His voice was hushed, it almost sounded sincere. You couldn’t decipher whether his tone was genuine or pure mockery but despite your better judgement, you didn’t shy away from his touch. You hated to admit it but your body no longer registered 

You waited for his next move.

Everything was silent, the icy winds, the Palace grounds below, the noise coming from other Harbingers inside. It was just you and Dottore. With a bated breath, you stared at his pointed mask, anticipating—if there was even something to anticipate.

A beat passed, Dottore leaned in, head angled, to press his lips against yours. The kiss started off slow—tame—just his lips against your own, unmoving as if to solely feel all of you against him. You didn’t pull back. Then, Dottore started to move, he parted his mouth to invite more of you, naturally, you responded with the same urgency.

His gloved hand that rested on your jaw tightened just a bit, it kept your head in place as he deepened the kiss. Dottore groaned, shoving his tongue past your lips and you let him in without any resistance. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, nails digging at the ivory fabric to ground your body from the dizzied state you were entering. Dottore gave your lips one last hard kiss before moving down the column of your neck, he sucked and nipped at your heated skin, pulling a whimper from you.

“Prevaricator? Are you here? I have something I’d like to discuss—”

Panicked, you pushed away Dottore with much haste, resulting in the latter to stumble backwards in shock. There stood The Captain, just at the doorway of the balcony, you couldn’t see the expression behind his mask yet you could tell awkwardness engulfed him by how his body stiffened. Silence stretched between the three of you, no one dared to address the elephant in the room—at least not with all of you in shock.

“Captain!” You feigned a cough, trying to hide your uneven breaths, as if Dottore wasn’t sucking your soul out just mere moments ago.

“I . . . think I should take my leave.” Without another word, The Captain turned to leave, heavy boots swiftly receding away from you and Dottore. You closed your eyes, panic arose in your chest. Great. Now, The Captain had witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to. Sure, he wasn’t one to gossip but it didn’t make you feel any better. If anything, he sounded rather horrified.

“I should do the same . . .” You muttered, walking back inside which left Dottore all alone.

As awkward as the incident was with The Captain during the Harbinger banquet, you and Dottore found yourselves orbiting around one another—like two dancing celestial bodies in a constant push and pull. Strangely, fate always brought you to where Dottore was and vice versa. Before, you would barely see him in the auxiliary lounges but nowadays your run-ins were frequent.

Too frequent.

You still held some kind of dislike for The Doctor but somehow you didn’t mind getting intimate with him—having sex. It wasn’t making love nor did it have any romance to it, it was just sex. The two of you treated it as a beneficial transaction between two participating parties, simply for the sole purpose of release.

Fulfilling the role of a Harbinger was taxing enough as is and the stress which came with the role piled up. Each Harbinger dealt with stress differently, you and Dottore happened to do so by exploring each other’s bodies.

As shameful and embarrassing as it was, there was really nothing wrong about two adults engaging in consensual sex, as long as it didn’t occur in professional work spaces. Therefore, sex always happened in either your’s or Dottore’s place, far, far away from the ears and eyes of the Fatui.

As long as no feelings were involved, you would be fine. Detachment was your forte, after all.

—

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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.

—

He looked happy. 

“Something” you smiled. 

“Which is?” 

At your chest rested his head, still looking up at you, green lenses reflecting your image in them; fingers of a hand in his hair, the other securing his elbow to your side. It was one of those rare moments when everything was alright with the world; no experiments, no check-ups, and surely better, no missions— even for a little while. 

You mentally worded before saying “How I don’t dream much when I'm asleep”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not really” adjusting your position a little while holding him still, you continued “But it's strange how out of all times in my life, when I didn't see anything in sleep, to recently see… visions” you weren't sure whether the last word was correct in its sense; it was artificial to try and relate to something that wasn't tied to you like it's tied to others.

“Of what?” He asked ever so sweetly— your sweet Sephiroth, the way you remembered him, not as he was told by Shinra. 

“You” 

The word dropped low from your lips and hooked his eyelids up— so slightly another eye can't catch except yours; you thought sometimes that he wasn't in full control of his own face threads. He didn't say anything for moments, slowly seeping the mere word ‘You’ and its possible interpretations. He was a smart boy, given less credit than he deserved and more weight than he could have carried. He moved even closer; muttering too close to your face “What do you see?” 

The smile stitched itself across your face, involuntary and sudden like a good memory. you held a lock from his bangs and twirled it between your fingers and the way it ringed your digit; hair holds memories indeed.

“I've seen you one night extending your wings” you mimicked the gesture of a bird ready to fly with an arm, the other cradling him still “Floating high… so high I only saw you like a satellite, Moon's snow and sky dark” you lowered your arm again to hold his shoulder “I called out to you but you didn't hear me”

He laughed— laughed, really laughed; a short-lived joyful sound you memorized all of its strings. If only the human memory could record you'd hear his laugh for an eternity.

“I have only one wing”  

“I know” you pushed back his bangs behind his ears “In my dream you had two”

He leaned into your palm “Why do you think that is?”

“I don't know” whispering “Dreams are silly most of the time. They don’t mean anything”

The quietness of after hours painted everything in a prismatic peace, nothing mattered now except this feeling of amity. your hand brushing his head, seeking bliss from his very existence. The pause wasn't bothered as he started “Do you think…” a winter night weathered his lilt “I could ever really have two?”

The movement of your hand froze. You blinked at him, he wanted an answer.

“You already have”

His eyebrows knit “I only have one”

“No” your hand moved again, channeling the tenderness eating your nerves into the act of comforting him “You have one others can see, and one you keep to yourself.” 

He went as still as water underground. You don’t remember any words after that, just the way he lifted your hand from his shoulder, held it with both palms; they were warm, a heat you've never felt in any other human being– none of them held a candle to what Sephiroth had. It was for your own senses to feel and internalize, not to be told and shared— Adam would've kept his paradise pure if he was given a second chance, why tarnish what you held so precious to your heart?

You gently tapped the sides of his arms, asking permission. His expression was neutral, staring, just staring, till a slow, small smile curving up his mien, nodding: a yes. Just as that, you took him in your embrace and heavens, you'd be glad to have your ribs tangled with his as far as the time would end. Time stopped, the universe went silent, only the echoes of his pulse atop yours: leisure, shy and full of life. His scent fills your lungs the way the light fills the planet; consuming in love and all air to roses. His arms rose, demurely mirroring the manner of yours on his back, short hair tickling your cheeks.

“Oh sweet boy…” you whispered, spilling it in his ear “...You're more than what they say about you”

“You're more human than all of them combined…”

“Doctor Faremis!” 

The unmistakably nasal voice peeled you off from your reverie— who wouldn't be other than the Jykyllian embodiment of modernism, the great Professor Hojo?! 

You didn't bother to stand, merely putting down a leg from the other and straightening your back across the chair “Yes, Professor?”

His gaze was to be followed, not seen: anyone barely saw his eyes behind the dark glasses— that was in fact a favor he did to everyone around him, not like they were a ray of sunshine to be spared sight “Still spending your nights here?” he asked, tone color of burnt wheat “Old habits die hard, I suppose”

Why not you? You chewed the retort back to your throat, maintaining the calmness “Someone has to make sure the equipment is functioning.”

“Always so responsible” He strided along the small room, judging the white wall as if it wasn't supposed to be there. The pause allowed your imagination to picture things that could take you to the disciplinary committee: him choking, beaten to death or shot with arrows, images of a saint-Sebastian-esque divine punishment. He must have sensed what you were thinking as he cut the cord of silence short “Y'know…Sephiroth used to sleep better when you were around…”

Your heart clenched for a second, beat troubled by the mere memory. However, you can't let that show “I wasn't aware you tracked his sleep pattern so fervently” you replied.

He chuckled “Why wouldn't I?” he gestured his hand around the room, an amused smile drawn up his comportment “After all, he was my greatest achievement. I monitored everything about him. You name it—” He counted on his fingers “Nutrition, stress levels, blood pressure, brain activity, bone and muscle structure… He was such a winning horse”

“Was…” you reflected, looking at the pale floor. 

He tilted his head, mock-confused “Still uncomfortable with that word, Dr.Faremis?” he took a small step towards you, sighing theatrically “Such a shame really, all that potential and power, all that hard work and investment” He turned abruptly, giving the ceiling a sharp eye dagger “Wasted.”

Your legs sprung with a sudden electricity, standing up on their own “People aren't investments.” 

“Oh?” he laughed, turning back to you “Then what was he to you, Dr.Faremis?”

“a human being.” 

“Ah…” he pointed at you, shaking his wrist as if you were a student “That explains it”

You scoffed “explains what?” 

“Why you failed to see what he truly was” the words landed like Ivy drops: softly and so poisonous. 

“I saw exactly who he was” you tilted your head to the side, still staring at him “He was a human, a man, a person—”

“How sentimental.” He leaned closer “Tell me…do you ever wonder if things would've turned out differently… If you'd been more…” he moved his hand in a thinking matter, choosing the word “...Logical?”

“...What are you implying?” a bottle of ink shattered in your ribs. you knew this was heading somewhere you didn't want to go to.

“You've been here for thirteen years, Dr.Faremis. yet you always forget what I tell you” Hojo circled around, checking the room —more like looking for something to analyze— as he dropped so very casually “That attachment clouds judgment.”

Your lips sewed themselves together. 

“You had to learn that the hard way. Your dear uncle had to learn that the hard way. I don't know what's running in your family line so both of you had to be…mushy, if I dare say…” The man took a good look at you: standing, and out of defenses. Knowing how valiant you can be, he added fuel to the fire “Don't get me wrong, I respect Professor Gast, but it was a good ending for him to leave Shinra. He had one job yet he chose to complicate it. same as your mistake.”

“My uncle tried to save him…” You murmured, sharp as a razor “I did as well”

Exasperated, he exhaled “Save what? you only drove him to his end.”

The muscles in your knees withered. Warmth pooled under your eyelids, gathering like rain drops in a pond. The amphora filled itself again and washed your heart with the same feelings haunting you ever since: guilt, sorrow, loss and an ache that settled like a bird with a broken wing. In such times, you sought the punishment you yearned for yet never came; left to be munched and feasted upon as years passed, till you pay nature's debt yourself. you sank back into the chair, face bleak as a blind man's eyes.

a ghost of a smile danced on Hojo's lips. Satisfied, he headed out as he delivered the last whip hit for today “Let yourself sink back in if needed, Miss Faremis. that'll help you in life.” then the heavy emptiness of after a storm.

Only after his steps faded away, you let the tears run free; the luxury of warmth and catharsis with thorns you were unworthy of; it should dwell inside and kill you. sluggishly, you got up and laid on the bed— his bed: his scent of balm and leather lodging in a lobe within your skull; unforgettable. You pulled out the dark feather from your sweater's pocket, your solace for staying the night along memories and shapes of a past you dearly loved but treated you ruthlessly as company. 

You closed your eyes and welcomed it nonetheless. 

You were six years old the first time you saw Sylus Qin.

It had been a beautiful spring afternoon, the kind where the sun hung warm and golden in a cloudless sky and the palace gardens were in full bloom. You’d been playing alone among the peonies—your attendants watching from a respectful distance as always—when you’d heard voices approaching along the gravel path.

Men’s voices. Your father’s, you’d recognized immediately, and another you didn’t know.

Curious, you’d peered around the large ornamental rock you’d been using as a fortress in your imaginary game, and that’s when you’d seen him.

A boy. Older than you—maybe ten, you’d guessed, though you’d learned later he was actually ten—being led through the gardens by your father and the Master of Arms. He’d been dressed in the simple training clothes of a junior squire, his silver hair—even then, that striking silver—pulled back from his face, and his red eyes had been wide as he’d taken in the splendor of the imperial gardens.

Red eyes. You’d never seen eyes that color before.

He must have felt your stare because his gaze had suddenly shifted, landing directly on you where you’d been trying to hide behind your rock.

You’d frozen, caught.

For a moment, you’d just looked at each other—this strange silver-haired boy with crimson eyes and you, the princess who was supposed to be too dignified to spy on people.

Then you’d smiled and waved.

He’d blinked, clearly surprised, and glanced at the adults with him as if asking permission. But they’d been deep in conversation about training schedules or weapons or something equally boring, not paying attention to either of you.

So you’d waved again, more insistently this time, and gestured for him to come over.

He’d hesitated for only a second before slipping away from the group, moving with a quietness that had impressed you even then, and approaching your rock fortress.

“Hi,” you’d whispered, grinning up at him. “I’m—”

“The princess,” he said, and his voice had been soft, a little awed. “I know. Everyone knows.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sylus. Sylus Qin.” He’d bowed, stiff and formal in the way someone had clearly taught him to bow to royalty. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

You’d wrinkled your nose. “That’s too many words. Just call me by my name. And you don’t have to bow like that. It looks uncomfortable.”

His lips had twitched, almost smiling. “I’m supposed to bow to royalty.”

“But we’re going to be friends,” you announced with the absolute confidence of a six-year-old who’d decided she liked someone. “Friends don’t bow to each other. That’s silly.”

“Friends?” He’d sounded uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if princesses were allowed to have friends who were trainee squires.

“Yes! Do you want to play tag?” You hadn’t waited for an answer, just reached out and tagged his arm. “You’re it!”

And then you’d taken off running through the gardens, laughing, and after a moment of shocked hesitation, you’d heard him laugh too and give chase.

That was how it had started. How you’d met the boy who would become the most important person in your world.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The years that followed had been filled with stolen moments.

Sylus had been training to become a palace guard, working under the Master of Arms with single-minded determination that had impressed everyone. But whenever he’d had free time—and sometimes even when he shouldn’t have—he’d found his way to wherever you were.

He’d played with you in the gardens, climbed trees to retrieve kites you’d gotten stuck, helped you catch fireflies in the summer evenings. He’d sat with you during tedious lessons when your tutors had allowed it, and he’d carried you on his shoulders when you’d gotten tired during walks through the palace grounds.

Your attendants had been scandalized at first—a princess shouldn’t be so familiar with a mere trainee—but your father had allowed it. Had even encouraged it, you’d learned later. He’d seen the way Sylus watched over you even then, the way he’d positioned himself between you and anything that might hurt you, and he’d known.

This boy would protect his daughter with his life.

As you’d grown older, the games had changed but the connection had remained. You’d watch him train sometimes, hiding behind pillars or in doorways, mesmerized by the way he moved—the grace and power, the absolute focus. He’d always known you were there. Would sometimes show off a little, executing a particularly impressive combination or disarming his sparring partner with a flourish that made your heart flutter in your chest.

He’d been fourteen when you’d first realized you were in love with him.

You’d been ten, and you’d been crying in your chambers after one of the court ladies had pulled too hard while dressing your hair for some ceremony. It had hurt, and worse, the woman had scolded you for fidgeting, had called you difficult and ungrateful in a tone that had made you feel small and ashamed.

Sylus had found you in the gardens afterward, still sniffling, your elaborate hairstyle already falling apart.

“Hey,” he’d said softly, sitting beside you on the stone bench. “What’s wrong, Princess?”

You’d told him, the words tumbling out between tears, and he’d listened with such patience, such genuine concern, that it had made you cry harder.

“Come here,” he’d said finally, and he’d turned you around so your back was to him. “Let me fix it.”

“You don’t know how to—”

“My mother taught me,” he’d said quietly. “Before she… she worked in a kitchen, but she also helped the estate healer sometimes. She said a man should know gentleness, not just strength. That included learning how to braid hair.”

His fingers had been so careful as they’d worked through your tangles, so gentle that it hadn’t hurt at all. And as he’d braided and arranged your hair with surprising skill, he’d talked to you—told you stories about his mother, about his training, about anything and everything to distract you from your tears.

By the time he’d finished, you’d stopped crying. And when you’d turned to look at him, had seen the soft concern in his red eyes, the small smile on his lips as he’d admired his handiwork, something in your chest had shifted.

Oh, you’d thought. Oh no.

Because you’d realized in that moment that you loved him. Not the way you loved your parents or your friends, but something bigger, something that made your heart race and your cheeks flush and your stomach do strange fluttery things.

You’d been ten years old, and you’d fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a fourteen-year-old trainee who’d learned to braid hair from his mother and who’d never once made you feel like you were too much or too difficult or too anything.

What you hadn’t known—what you wouldn’t learn for years—was that Sylus had fallen in that moment too.

He’d been holding back tears of his own as he’d braided your hair, thinking of his mother who’d died just a year before, whose gentle teachings he’d been trying desperately to honor. And when you’d turned to look at him with those trusting eyes, still damp with tears but smiling now, something in his carefully controlled heart had cracked wide open.

He’d been too young to understand it fully, but he’d known: this girl, this princess he’d been assigned to protect, had become the center of his entire world.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The years had continued to pass, and the feelings had only grown stronger.

You’d been twelve when you’d first seen him truly fight.

Bandits had attacked the royal caravan during a trip to a neighboring province. You’d been terrified, frozen in the carriage as you’d heard shouts and the clash of steel. Then the door had been ripped open and a man with a scarred face and wild eyes had reached for you—

And Sylus had appeared like something out of legend.

He’d been sixteen, still technically in training but already more skilled than many full knights. He’d pulled the bandit away from you with one hand and put his sword through the man’s chest with the other, and the cold efficiency of it had stolen your breath.

Then he’d turned to you, and his expression had completely changed—from that deadly warrior to the gentle boy you knew, concern flooding his red eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he’d asked, checking you over with shaking hands. “Did he touch you? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you’d managed, though you’d been trembling. “You saved me.”

“Always,” he’d said, and the intensity in his voice had made something warm bloom in your chest. “I’ll always save you.”

After that day, he’d been officially assigned to your personal guard rotation despite his young age. Your father had seen what you’d already known: there was no one better suited to protect you.

But the new official capacity had changed things between you. Where before you’d had freedom to just be friends, now there were expectations, protocols. He’d started calling you “Princess” more often than your name, had stopped seeking you out during his free time, had maintained a careful distance that had made your heart ache.

You’d been thirteen the first time you’d truly understood what it meant to miss someone who was standing right beside you.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been fifteen when you’d first felt the magnetic pull.

It had been late evening, and you’d been studying in the palace library—or pretending to study, at least. Sylus had been stationed outside as your guard, but you’d insisted he come inside because it had been winter and the hallways were freezing.

He’d sat near the fireplace, supposedly watching the door but actually reading one of the military strategy texts you’d seen him glance at longingly. You’d been pretending to focus on your own book but really watching him—the way the firelight had painted gold across his silver hair, the way his brow had furrowed in concentration, the way his lips had moved slightly as he’d read.

Beautiful, you’d thought. He’s so beautiful.

At some point, you’d both looked up at the same time, and your eyes had met across the room.

The air had felt charged, electric. Neither of you had moved, but you’d felt pulled toward him like a string was tied between your hearts. You’d seen his throat work as he’d swallowed, seen the way his eyes had darkened, and you’d known—somehow you’d known—that if you stood up and crossed to him, if you’d closed the distance between you, something would have happened.

Something irreversible.

But you’d been fifteen and he’d been nineteen and he was your guard and you were a princess, and there were so many reasons why you couldn’t.

So you’d looked away first, breaking the moment, and you’d heard his quiet exhale like he’d been holding his breath.

It had become a pattern after that. These moments where you’d get too close, where the air would shimmer with possibility, where you’d almost—almost—let yourselves cross that invisible line.

But you never did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been seventeen when you’d realized he was pulling away.

The cuddling that had been so natural when you were children—him letting you fall asleep against his shoulder during long carriage rides, carrying you when you’d gotten sick, letting you seek comfort in his presence—had gradually stopped.

You’d try to lean against him and he’d shift away. You’d reach for his hand and he’d find a reason to move. You’d ask him to stay and talk with you like he used to, and he’d make excuses about duty and propriety.

It had hurt. Gods, it had hurt so much, and you hadn’t understood why.

You’d thought maybe he’d finally seen you clearly—seen that you were in love with him—and had been trying to distance himself because he didn’t feel the same. Or worse, because he’d felt sorry for you.

The truth, which you hadn’t known, was that Sylus’s feelings had grown beyond what he could safely control. Every casual touch had become torture. Every time you’d smiled at him, every time you’d said his name, every time you’d looked at him with those trusting eyes, it had been harder and harder to maintain his composure.

He’d been twenty-two and desperately in love with a eighteen-year-old princess he was sworn to protect, and the wanting had been consuming him. The desire to touch you, to hold you, to tell you everything he felt—it had been overwhelming. And worse, the thoughts had become less innocent. The way his body had responded to your proximity, the dreams he’d had that had left him aching and ashamed—he’d hated himself for it.

So he’d pulled away. Had tried to put distance between you and his inappropriate feelings. Had tried to be nothing more than your guard, nothing more than what was proper and right.

It had been killing him, but he’d thought it was necessary.

What he hadn’t realized was that his distance had been killing you too.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been nineteen when you’d almost kissed him.

It had been your birthday celebration—a small, private thing, not the grand ball the court would throw later in the week. Just you and a handful of people you actually cared about. Sylus had been there in his capacity as your guard, standing near the wall with his usual vigilant posture.

But you’d been drinking wine—more than you probably should have—and the alcohol had made you bold.

You’d crossed to him, aware of people watching but not caring, and you’d grabbed his hand.

“Dance with me,” you’d said.

“Princess, I don’t think—”

“It’s my birthday,” you’d insisted. “And I want to dance with you. Please?”

He’d hesitated, clearly torn, but you’d pulled on his hand and he’d finally, finally given in.

You’d danced—a proper, formal dance, his hand at your waist and yours on his shoulder, the appropriate distance maintained between you. But it had felt anything but appropriate. Every place his body had touched yours had burned. His red eyes had been locked on your face, intense and wanting, and you’d felt dizzy with something that had nothing to do with the wine.

The music had slowed, or maybe you’d both just stopped paying attention to it. You’d been swaying together, closer than you should have been, his hand sliding lower on your back, your fingers threading into the hair at his nape.

“Princess,” he’d whispered, and his voice had been rough, strained. “We shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care,” you’d whispered back. You’d been looking at his lips, watching them form words, wanting to feel them against yours with an intensity that had stolen your breath.

You’d started to lean in. He’d started to lean in too, his eyes already closing, his head tilting—

“Your Highness!” One of your attendants had called, breaking the moment. “The cake is ready!”

You’d both jerked apart like you’d been burned. Sylus had stepped back immediately, his expression shuttering, and you’d wanted to scream with frustration.

So close. You’d been so close.

But the moment had passed, and Sylus had bowed and excused himself, and you’d been left standing there with your heart hammering and the taste of almost on your lips.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been twenty when you’d overheard the conversation that had shattered something in you.

Two of the palace guards had been talking in the hallway outside your chambers, not realizing you were right inside the slightly-ajar door.

“Qin’s got it rough,” one had said. “Being assigned to the Princess full-time. Must be exhausting, never having a moment to himself.”

“At least the pay is good,” the other had replied. “And it’s prestigious, being the Princess’s personal guard. Opens doors for advancement.”

“True. Though between you and me, I don’t think he had much choice. The King specifically requested him for the position. Not like he could refuse even if he wanted to.”

“Think he ever gets tired of it? Following her around constantly?”

“Probably. But he’s too professional to show it. That’s why he’s the best.”

You’d stood there, frozen, as their voices had faded down the hallway.

Duty. That’s all you were to him. A prestigious assignment he couldn’t refuse. A job that paid well and looked good for his career.

All those moments between you—the dancing, the almost-kisses, the way he’d held you—it had all been in your head. He’d been professional. Doing his duty. Nothing more.

The realization had crushed you.

You’d cried yourself to sleep that night, mourning something you’d never actually had.

What you hadn’t known was that Sylus had heard that same conversation from the other end of the hallway. Had heard those guards reduce his deepest feelings to mere professional obligation, and had been grateful.

Because if everyone thought he was just doing his duty, if no one suspected the truth of how desperately in love with you he was, then maybe he could keep serving as your guard. Could keep being near you, even if he could never have you.

It had been better this way, he’d told himself. Better that you thought his care was merely professional.

Even if the lie had hurt worse than any blade.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been twenty-three when you’d started receiving serious marriage proposals.

Noble sons, foreign dignitaries, wealthy merchants seeking to elevate their status—they’d come in a steady stream, and you’d rejected every single one. Your father had been patient at first, understanding your reluctance to marry young, but as you’d approached your mid-twenties, the pressure had increased.

You’d had to sit through countless meetings with potential suitors, had to smile and make polite conversation with men who’d looked at you like a prize to be won. And through it all, Sylus had been there, standing behind your chair or near the door, his face carefully neutral.

You’d watched him sometimes during those meetings, trying to gauge his reaction. Did it bother him to see other men courting you? Did he care at all?

His expression had never changed. Professional. Detached. Doing his duty.

It had hurt worse than any outright rejection.

What you hadn’t seen was the way his hands had clenched behind his back, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. The way his jaw had ached from keeping his expression neutral when everything in him had wanted to remove these men from your presence by force.

The way he’d gone back to his quarters after each of these meetings and destroyed training dummies, imagining them as every suitor who’d dared to think they were worthy of you.

You’d never seen the way he’d broken down the night he’d heard rumors that your father was losing patience, that he might arrange a marriage without your consent if you continued to refuse everyone.

The night he’d realized he might actually lose you. That you might belong to someone else, and he’d have to stand by and watch it happen because he was nothing. No one. Just a guard with no title and no prospects and no right to love someone so far above him.

You’d been twenty-six when Zou Cheng had proposed.

And that’s when everything had changed.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The walk back to your chambers had been suffocatingly silent.

Sylus had fallen into step behind you the moment you’d dismissed yourself from the receiving hall, his presence a steady shadow at your back. You’d kept your chin high, your expression carefully neutral as you’d passed through the corridors of the palace, aware of the eyes that followed you—servants, courtiers, guards. Word of your rejection of Zou Cheng’s proposal would already be spreading through the palace like wildfire, and you refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled.

But the moment your chamber doors closed behind you and Sylus, the carefully constructed composure shattered.

Your hands were shaking as you turned to face the room, breath coming shorter, faster. The tears you’d been holding back since Zou Cheng had smiled at you with that entitled, predatory expression were burning at the backs of your eyes.

Your attendants looked up from where they’d been preparing your afternoon tea, concern immediate on their faces.

“Please,” you managed, your voice strained but still kind, still soft. “I need some time alone. Thank you.”

They bowed quickly, sensing your distress, and filed out with worried glances over their shoulders. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only you and Sylus in the spacious chamber.

He stood near the entrance, his tall frame relaxed but alert in the way it always was—like he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Today he wore robes of deep red silk with gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs, the formal attire of the imperial guard when not in full armour. The crimson fabric brought out the color of his eyes, made his long silver hair seem to glow in the filtered sunlight. His sword hung at his side, the leather of the scabbard worn smooth from years of use. His expression was carefully neutral, but those red eyes watched you with an intensity that made your chest ache.

The moment you knew you were truly alone with him, the dam broke.

“It was completely awful, Sy. A disastrous show. A freaking outrage. Did you see the way that Zou Cheng was looking at me? The way he could barely compose himself as I declined his proposal? I should’ve slapped him when he tried to come on to me. He’s a fucking disgrace,” you grumbled, pacing around your luxurious and elegant bedroom.

The chamber was a reflection of imperial refinement—walls adorned with hand-painted silk panels depicting cherry blossoms in full bloom, their delicate pink petals seeming to drift across the fabric. Latticed windows of dark wood filtered the afternoon sunlight into soft, golden beams that pooled across polished floors. Carved wooden screens separated different areas of the spacious room, and your canopy bed was draped in layers of flowing silk in shades of cream and rose. The palace itself was a sprawling masterpiece of red lacquered pillars, sweeping golden-tiled roofs that curved toward the heavens, and tranquil courtyards where ancient trees stood guard over stone pathways and lotus ponds.

You’d smiled at your bodyguard—your knight—Sylus Qin that morning as he’d escorted you down to meet Zou Cheng, nervous energy making your hands tremble slightly as you’d adjusted your hair. You’d asked him softly if you looked beautiful, needing that reassurance before facing another suitor you had no interest in. He’d glanced at you with those striking crimson eyes, something flickering in their depths before he’d smiled to himself and responded with a quiet, “Yes, Princess.” You could have sworn his pale cheeks had flushed slightly, that he’d looked away as if composing himself, though maybe that was just wishful thinking—your heart projecting feelings onto him that he’d never expressed.

Now, as you paced, your pink hanfu swished around your legs, the delicate peonies embroidered into the fabric catching the light. A few strands of hair had come loose from your carefully arranged style, the jade pins your attendants had spent an hour placing now slightly askew from your agitated movements.

“Princess,” Sylus said quietly, his deep voice cutting through your spiraling anger like a knife through silk. He hadn’t moved from his position near the door, but something in his tone made you pause mid-step, turning to look at him.

His jaw was tight, you noticed. The muscle there flexing almost imperceptibly as he watched you pace. His hand had drifted to rest on the pommel of his sword—not threateningly, but like he needed something solid to anchor himself to.

“You had every right to refuse him,” he continued, his voice carefully measured, professional. “Zou Cheng is…” He paused, and you saw the way his fingers tightened fractionally on the sword hilt. “He’s not worthy of you. His behavior was inappropriate and disrespectful.”

You laughed, but it came out bitter and sharp. “Inappropriate? Sy, he practically cornered me when you stepped back to give us ‘privacy.’ He put his hand on my waist and told me I should reconsider, that a woman of my ‘particular situation’ couldn’t afford to be so selective.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the tears threatening again. “Like I’m some kind of burden to be offloaded. Like I should be grateful for his attention.”

Something dangerous flashed across Sylus’s face—there and gone so quickly you almost missed it. His eyes darkened, the red seeming to burn brighter for just a moment. His other hand flexed at his side, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed whatever his immediate reaction had been.

“He touched you?” The words came out quieter than before, but there was an edge to them that made your breath catch. Not anger at you—never at you—but something cold and lethal simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

“Just my waist,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “But the way he looked at me, Sy. Like… like he was already imagining…” You couldn’t finish the sentence, shuddering.

Sylus was silent for a long moment, and when you looked at him again, his expression had smoothed into that professional mask he wore so well. But his eyes—gods, his eyes were still burning with something that made your heart race.

“If he ever touches you again,” he said, voice low and absolutely certain, “he’ll lose the hand. I don’t care what his rank is.”

The fierce protectiveness in his tone sent warmth flooding through your chest, chasing away some of the coldness Zou Cheng’s attentions had left behind. This was why you loved him, you thought helplessly. This steadfast devotion, the way he made you feel safe and valued and—

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. He was your knight. Your protector. These feelings he showed you were duty, nothing more. No matter how much you wished otherwise.

“Come here, sweetie,” Sylus said softly, and the endearment made your chest ache. He moved away from the door finally, crossing to you with that fluid grace that came from years of training. When he reached you, he lifted one hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, before gently tucking one of the loose strands of hair behind your ear. “You’re trembling.”

His touch was so careful, so tender, that the tears finally spilled over.

“I’m just so tired of this,” you whispered, looking up at him. At this distance, you could see the way his silver hair caught the light, the sharp lines of his face softened by concern. “Every week it’s another proposal from another man who sees me as a political opportunity or a prize to be won. None of them actually want me. They want what I represent.”

“Then they’re all fools,” Sylus murmured, his hand still hovering near your face, like he wanted to touch you again but didn’t trust himself to. “You are… so much more than what you represent, Princess.”

The way he said it, the quiet intensity in his voice, made you wonder—just for a moment—if maybe you weren’t imagining everything after all.

You wiped at your tears quickly, embarrassed by the show of emotion even though it was just Sylus. He’d seen you cry before—too many times over the years—but it still made you feel vulnerable in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice still thick. “I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. Especially not today—the Lantern Festival is tonight and I need to…” You gestured vaguely at yourself, at your tear-stained face and disheveled hair. “I can’t go looking like I’ve been crying over that bastard.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sylus said firmly, finally dropping his hand back to his side, though he seemed reluctant to do so. “And for what it’s worth, you could never look anything less than beautiful.”

Your breath caught at the words, at the way he said them—so matter-of-fact, like he was stating an undeniable truth rather than offering a compliment. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks.

“I… thank you,” you managed, your heart doing complicated things in your chest. You cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “I should change. The pink is pretty, but it’s too associated with this morning’s disaster. I can’t wear it to the festival.”

You moved toward the carved wooden screen in the corner of your chamber where your attendants had already laid out your festival attire—a stunning hanfu in deep crimson and gold, far more elaborate than what you currently wore. The color of celebration and good fortune.

“It’ll just be a moment,” you called over your shoulder as you disappeared behind the screen, already reaching for the pins in your hair.

You heard rather than saw Sylus move to stand near the window, giving you privacy while still remaining in the room. It was familiar, this dance you’d done countless times over the years. Him always nearby, always vigilant, but never crossing certain invisible lines.

Your fingers fumbled slightly with the fastenings of your pink hanfu as you thought about those lines. About how desperately you wanted him to cross them, to acknowledge that there was something between you beyond duty and childhood friendship. But he never did. He was too honorable, too bound by his position as your protector.

And you were too afraid of losing even this—his presence, his steadiness, his gentle words—to ever push for more.

The crimson hanfu slipped over your shoulders like water, the silk cool against your skin. The embroidery was exquisite—golden phoenixes and lotus flowers swirling across the fabric in intricate patterns. The sleeves were long and flowing, edged with gold trim, and the outer robe was secured with an ornate sash that took you a moment to tie properly.

You stepped out from behind the screen, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “Could you…?” You gestured to your hair, which you’d taken down completely, letting it fall loose around your shoulders. “I have the lotus clip for the festival, but I can’t quite get it positioned right on my own.”

Sylus turned from the window, and you watched his eyes widen fractionally as he took in your appearance. That look again—the one that made your heart race, that made you think maybe, possibly, he felt something too.

“Of course, kitten,” he said softly, crossing to you. The endearment, different from the others, always made you melt a little. He only used it in private moments like these, and you hoarded each instance like precious treasure.

You sat at your vanity and handed him the white lotus hair clip—a beautiful piece carved from jade, with delicate petals that seemed almost translucent in the light. Your hands brushed as he took it from you, and you could have sworn you felt him tremble.

His fingers were impossibly gentle as they gathered your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine that you desperately hoped he couldn’t see. He worked in focused silence, arranging your hair with surprising skill for a warrior.

“Where did you learn to do this?” you asked quietly, watching him in the mirror.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips—the kind of smile that only appeared when he let his guard down around you. “I’ve been doing this since we were little, remember?” His voice was soft, almost nostalgic. “You used to sit still for maybe thirty seconds before getting distracted by a butterfly or a bird, and I’d have to start all over again.”

Your chest warmed at the memory, at the reminder of all those years you’d spent together. Back when things had been simpler, before duty and propriety had built walls between you.

“I was a terrible student,” you admitted, smiling at his reflection.

“You were seven,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “And even then, you never sat still unless it was something you truly cared about.” His fingers worked through a particularly stubborn tangle with infinite patience. “I learned to be quick about it.”

“There,” he murmured, stepping back slightly. The lotus clip was positioned perfectly, securing part of your hair while letting the rest cascade down your back. His eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a moment—just a moment—you saw something raw and unguarded there.

Want. Longing.

Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by that professional warmth.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’ll be the most radiant person at the festival.”

You stood, turning to face him directly rather than through the mirror. “Will you stay close tonight?” you asked, hating how vulnerable you sounded. “After this morning with Zou Cheng, I just… I’d feel better knowing you were nearby.”

“Always, Princess,” Sylus promised, and the intensity in his voice made you believe him. “I’ll be right beside you the entire time. Nothing will happen to you. I swear it.”

If only you’d known then how impossible that promise would be to keep.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

read the rest on ao3 <3

You’ve known him since you were sixteen years old. The mere memory of him grabbing at your backpack strap to tug you out of the way as you were about to walk into ongoing traffic imprints your brain like a nostalgic TV memory. He was a sixteen-year-old guardian angel who aged through the years as you grew, interfering in your life as if you were the most life-threatening person ever. 

Freshman year of college, he’s taking the red solo cup of whatever mixed potion the older frat guys made out of your hand. This led to practically the whole campus thinking you were chronically insane as you argued with no one because they couldn’t see what you saw. He interfered with your life at moments when you had it all under control, and he didn’t need to baby you as if you didn’t. But you were grateful for him, and the things he did stop when things got bad.

It's like killing a guy who roofied you at a bar. Despite the toxic drugs from drinking your drink, it had you feeling like you were in another world. You remember the crimson-red liquid staining his large, elegant white wings after the deed was done. After that, he’s never left your side, and you grew to feel suffocated. You couldn’t do much in your life if you had your guardian angel down your neck twenty-four-seven commenting on you getting hurt or dying. 

Now an adult, he still was here. Despite you being perfectly fine. No freak accidents, no near-death experiences. He still was here lurking around as if you were a child. 

Right now, watching as you poorly attempted to get laid. Your panties dangle from your ankle as you wait for the guy to insert, but as your horny meter slowly decreases—so does the poor stranger you met at a bar cock. Your eyes averted between your bodies as he aggressively pumped his condom-covered cock; you could hear his laughs as he was sitting on your kitchen counter chewing on an apple. 

Fuckin’ Sephiroth.

“You know what? That’s okay. Just leave.” You pushed the guy off you, limp dick and all while you’re scrambling to tug your panties back on. 

“What? It just takes some time,” The guy’s tugging his pants up in frustration. “Just please…baby.” He’s grasping on you, and you’re swatting his hand away like it’s an annoying fruit fly. 

“Just go. I’m no longer in the mood.” You warned.

This was a warning not only for yourself but for him. You had a 6’1 angel looming around your apartment who didn’t care to kill someone—especially a person who wasn’t following directions. Your eyes darted from him in the kitchen to the guy who kissed his teeth while collecting his belongings.

“Don’t call me anymore! You completely wasted my time.” He sneered at you while leaving your apartment. The door closed with a harsh slam that made you jump. 

As silence drifts over your apartment, and the only thing you can hear is the sound of that annoying clock in your kitchen ticking, you lean back on the couch with a sigh. “You know, you completely ruined the vibe, you know?” Your eyes land on the white-haired male as he finishes the apple he obnoxiously chews on.

“Do not blame it on me.” He tosses the apple in a trash can and stands up to close the space between you.

“I am blaming you because it seems like every romantic connection I attempt to make, you are there to ruin it.” You sneered at him before sitting up. “I don’t think this will work anymore, Sephiroth.” 

“Are you saying you want to release me of my duties of being your guardian angel?” He asks. You can feel he got closer despite shifting your eyes closed to calm yourself down from this talk. 

You two have been together for years. He’s been protecting you for years, and now it felt so suffocating that you couldn’t breathe. Sometimes, you wanted to release him of his duties, but you knew when you did that every memory you’ve shared with him would vanish. It would be like you two have never met. 

The sight of him with his elegant white wings on his back. The sight of blood staining his pale skin after murdering someone that hurt you. The look of worry when you almost walk into traffic, and he was a split second from being too late. 

He was yours just as much as you were his. But you needed space. 

“Yes.” You breathed out, pushing yourself off the couch to enter your room. “You know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I don’t think we can co-exist in each other’s lives anymore.” You explained you turned around, and he was leaning against your doorframe with the most obnoxious face. 

It was as if your words were going out one ear and the other for him. “We’re not young anymore. I don’t need you being so….so.” You were searching for the word to describe how you felt—frustration riddling your bones as you attempted to express yourself. 

Sephiroth took steps forward, closing the gap between you two. When he was towering over you with such little care at how close he was to you—he fixed your tank top strap and let his slender fingers linger on your shoulder just a little longer to cause goosebumps to garnish your skin immediately. 

“Possessive.” He finishes your sentence as his teeth graze upon his lower lip. “Is that the word you’re searching for, my little ward?” 

And with challenging eyes, you met his and said, “Yes. Possessive, like you own me or something.” 

His chuckles. But this chuckle was different from the one you have heard. It felt more sinister, more agitated. 

“You’re stuck with me, love. If you like it or not. We’re bound together until you die of old age or better yet, I briefly take my eyes off you as fate finally chooses a moment for you to die. Maybe a bus will hit you as you walk into traffic for texting on that silly device of yours, or maybe you’ll accidentally hit your head.” 

Your eyebrows furrow together in frustration and anger at his words. 

“You enjoy my company but don’t want to admit it. You think I didn’t notice the way you bring home little flings to spite me. You think I can’t hear the way your heartbeat quickens at the sight of me watching you get fucked by some man who can’t even make you orgasm. Sephiroth’s eyes glance over your body like he was observing you under a microscope. “So tell me, Y/N.” His finger’s toying with that strap on your tank top that keeps falling off your shoulder. 

“How many times have you imagined me, your sworn protector—your guardian angel fucking you?” His fingers drag alongside your nipples that harden through the thin white fabric of your tank top. “And don’t lie; I know when you’re lying to me.” 

You couldn’t quite remember what you had said after his words for your knees to be pressed upon your stomach and for Sephiroth’s cock to be buried into your throbbing cunt while your moans bounced off the walls. The pornographic sound of heated skin slapping against each other with the sound of your headboard banging against the wall was like music to your ears. But you enjoyed the sight of Sephiroth more. 

His crystal white hair fell in his face so perfectly. Comically enough, you wanted to say he looked like an angel. His eyes kept averting between your fucked out face and in between your body. With each glance down there, it seemed he fucked you into the mattress even harder. Instantly, your legs snake around his waist, completely trapping him from depriving you of what you were so eager for.

Sephiroth chuckles darkly through your pants of desperation, “Seems you’re enjoying this a little too much.” He mumbles. He pulls his cock entirely out of you, leaving you whining for more. 

He guides his cock in between your pussy lips rubbing in the mixture of your essence and pre-cum. Your back arched off the mattress with urgency, and he pushed you back down so you could endure the pleasurable torture of his cock teasing you until you were staining the cotton sheets below your naked body. With each stroke between your puffy lips, you’re squeezing your eyes shut tightly to prevent even the littlest thought of him seeing you like this. You didn’t think you could fathom the mere embarrassment. 

“Come on, you don’t want to see how well you take me?” He questions, his voice rings with a teasing tone that makes your pussy pulse. 

“Fine then.” He mumbles what seems to himself before he hooks his strong arms under your knees, completely trapping you under him and what’s to come.

You wondered if Sephiroth could hear how fast your heart was beating. It felt like it was bouncing around your chest like a small ball in a pinball machine. The feeling of his thick tip brushing against your entrance felt like the world had stopped. Perhaps it did. The idea of a guardian angel fucking his ward into her mattress had to be some form of rule breaker, right? Maybe, just maybe—God had briefly paused the world to give you time to weigh out the pros and cons of this.

But when Sephiroth bottomed down inside you, you felt the world unpause, and a wave of pleasure travel across your body. You even could hear yourself let out a sigh of relief—as if you’ve been waiting for this moment in centuries. The way his cock was inside, you felt like it was a missing piece in a puzzle you need. It fit perfectly, but when he started rotating and thrusting his hips—you couldn’t help but call out his name like it was a scripture.

It wasn’t as if you could do anything else but take his sensual thrusts. The mating press position trapped you from doing anything else but that. The way he was making you feel at the moment had you ignoring all that. Your moans echoed into his ear, and Sephiroth was very responsive because he’d grunt back like a rabid animal in heat. Ensuring that the feeling was mutual. That he was feeling just as good as you were. 

“After this, you’ll be stuck with me forever, right?” Sephiroth asked. His tongue drags alongside the bridge of your right ear, and instantly, your legs snake around his waist, locking your feet together so he won’t let go.

“Mhm, that’s what I thought.” His words send a chill down your spine as he continues to fuck into the mattress.

The pornographic sound of heated flesh echos upon your bedroom, and your eyes seem to squeeze shut in bliss. Savoring the moment between the two of you until you couldn’t anymore. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and your thighs quivered under your guardian angel’s touch. His grip on you grew tighter, and you knew that he was unraveling right on top of you. His groans that echoed in your ear changed into whines of desperation. If you were being honest with yourself, you haven’t seen him this desperate in your life.

But it was a reason for that because, in just three seconds, he was a coming mess. He didn’t even bother to pull out, either. His nails dug into your heated flesh with each thrust inside of you, ensuring that each droplet of his cum stayed inside of you. With your legs wrapped around his waist, you leaned up to indulge in a heated kiss to seal the deal that you knew was going to follow you for years.

You truly were stuck with him forever until you took your last breath. 

Even more so when he found out you had a crush on the man he spent everyday training beside. Constant teasing, constant threats to spill your secrets, constant blackmail. You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had used your crush to his advantage on one hand. 

There was a time you had to put your foot down and tell him no more, cause it was wrong of course. But also mostly cause you were running out of money to buy his silence.

“Yeah but I'm older, closer to his age. So I don't have to talk to him like I'm below him, unlike some people.” 

“Can you even talk to him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why are you sitting here staring..?” 

“He’s training..” 

“Mhm.” The look on his face tells you he’s not convinced. Right now, it was the truth, Sephiroth was swinging his sword in the domed combat simulator, glass walls clear enough for you to see through. So the excuse of not being able to talk to him, out of fear of being sliced in half by his giant sword, was plausible. 

But any other time that you had sat staring at him, making no effort to speak to him, rendered that excuse inapplicable. 

“Shut it..” You push his shoulder with your elbow once more, and he snorts out a laugh. 

“I don’t get why you can’t just talk to him..” 

“Of course you don’t.. because you're obviously blind. Or you’ve been hit in the head one too many times in combat training.” You turn your gaze away from Zack to look back through the glass enclosing Sephiroth. 

His hair is tied up, hanging loosely against his back. It’s a rare sight, so you indulge yourself and stare a second longer than you should. It’s so relaxed, you think, compared to the seriousness of always having it pristinely down. There are stray hairs, flyaways, falling from the hair tie and hanging against his face. It’s unkempt, a nice contrast to his seemingly perfect lifestyle.

He swings his sword with calculated grace, a grace that you (or Zack for that matter) had yet to achieve. The control he held over his blade was impeccable, it never slipped or moved from his hold even when his hands were moving faster than his body could keep up with. Just another thing that had to be perfect in his life.

“How could I ever speak to him and not make a fool out of myself? For one, he’s first class, I'd totally ruin my chances of making first class if I said something totally outrageous. And knowing me, my mind would be so jumbled, I wouldn't even realize the words had left my mouth before he put me on some kind of ‘do not promote’ list.” 

“Oh so.. the only reason you won’t talk to him is because you're worried about making first class? Not.. I don’t know, maybe, the 12-year-old-girl-level crush you have on him.” Your hand slaps over his lips, eyes scanning around you. For the most part, no one looks at the two of you, and you figure the ones that are looking are doing so because of your hand covering Zacks blabbermouth. 

“Would you shut it?” Even with your hand covering his mouth, he manages to laugh at your widened eyes. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are a dead giveaway of his amusement. You remove your hand with a pointed look, one that says ‘keep it down’ in a far more subtle way than a hand over his face. 

“You’re so lucky you’re younger than me.” 

“More like so lucky you don’t want to make your boyfriend angry. Besides, you know I’m stronger than you.” 

“Mhm..” You roll your eyes, and with a sigh, you turn back to face Sephiroth. He stands still now and you realize all of the practice dummies have been broken. From your position, he doesn't even seem to have broken a sweat, even though he’s been in there for over an hour. His sword lies on the ground, thrown without care. 

Even with Zack beside you, and the silent teasing that exudes from his body, your eyes remain trained on Sephiroth. You realize it’s childish, to stare and never approach, but the idea of even standing next to him is enough to intimidate you. 

He runs his hand over his back, pulling the hair tie from his hair, allowing it to fall against his shoulders once more. He turns, presumably to leave the combat simulated, and his eyes meet yours through the glass. You knew your staring wasn’t subtle, it had never been before, but you had never expected to get caught. You had never been caught. 

You turn your head away so fast that Zack almost flinches, probably thinking you were going to hit him again. 

“Jesus,” he looks at you with confusion, “What’s the problem?” 

“He saw me.” 

“What?” 

“He saw me! Through the glass! He totally caught me staring at him..” You stare at Zack with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, before you head falls into your lap in shame.

“Would you relax? I guarantee he doesn’t care or he didn’t even see you. Maybe he was just looking at his reflection.”

You look back towards Sephiroth to see him leaving through the doors of the dome, and then you turn back to Zack with a pitiful whine. 

“This is so pathetic…” 

“I agree,” he smiles when you shoot him a glare, “Just talk to him.” 

“Talk to who?” A deep voice sounds from beside you, higher up than where you sit. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stick up, and Zack's expression is enough to confirm your suspicion about who stands next to you. 

You turn your head to face Sephiroth, and he stares at you expectantly. You think you catch the slightest smirk building on the corner of his lips, but you also think you might just be trying to make yourself feel better. Standing, nowhere close to his height, you hold your hands up. Zack takes this as his sign to stand too. 

“Nobody! Angeal!” You fumble out words, trying to throw out a name before he grows suspicious. 

“Well which is it, nobody? or Angeal?” 

“Angeal. Yeah! Angeal, so.. um.. I should probably go find him.” 

“It just so happens that I have to find Angeal too, allow me to join you.” 

You want to throw the nearest chair at Zack, curse him for speaking so loudly. And you curse yourself for not thinking of an excuse in a reasonable time frame, so you just nod, and excuse yourself from Zack. 

He gives you a pitiful smile, and when you turn to look behind you for support one last time as you walk away he gives you a thumbs up. His face contradicts his hands, and he seems like he’s in a far less teasing mood. 

“Whatever you have to say to him, it must be important.” 

“Hm?” You tilt your head up and to the side to look at Sephiroth, you’ve been walking together for a few minutes now, mostly silently. 

“You're walking fast.” You shrug your shoulders and continue walking. 

At least until your steps are interrupted by him stepping in front of you. 

“Is there a problem?”

“What? Of course not!” He practically glares down at you, arms crossed over his muscular chest. You can see the outline of his defined chest muscles through the straps of his top. And you realize you're practically drooling over him, right in front of him so you force your eyes to meet his once more. But his glare is replaced by a smirk, and amusement in his eyes. 

“I see now..” 

“See what?” 

“Really? Do you think you’re subtle?” Your face flushes and once again you want the floor to open up and consume you whole, but you're stuck here. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” Step back, you scream at yourself, but he moves closer and it’s impossible to move your feet. They feel like lead underneath you, not even giving way to a small shuffle backwards.

“No?” His hand reaches up to rest on your cheek, it's gentle, far gentler than you would’ve expected. But the way his fingers tense against your skin has you feeling fuzzy, “You think I don’t notice the way you stare? Hm?” 

He stares at you, thumb moving to the other side of your chin, holding your face in his hand. He maneuvers your face, moving it however he likes. You realize he’s examining the flush in your cheeks, the way your lips part like you want to say something. His tongue gives a humiliating click when your lips close, and the words are lost. 

“I hear you, when you talk to Zack,” he stops his movement, stilling your face to look directly at him, “You’ve never been a quiet girl. Why are you so quiet now?” 

When you don’t respond his eyebrows scrunch, its subtle and almost missable because it’s gone in seconds. He’s not satisfied by your silence.

Sephiroth bends his shoulders, moving closer to your face, “Although, I suppose you’ve never been very talkative around me.” He moves closer still, swerving his nose to the side of your face until he’s able to speak in your ear, “That’s not very nice. You might hurt my feelings if you keep ignoring me.” 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble out meekly, you're honestly not even sure it’s audible at first but he laughs quietly, breath fanning on your ear. His other hand, the one that doesn’t hold your face, reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear before he pulls away. The breath that leaves your body is almost embarrassing. 

“What’re you sorry for, hm?” He stares expectantly down at you, eyes never leaving yours. 

“F…for ignoring you.”

“So you ignore me?” 

“No!”

“So you’re lying?” You shake your head as much as you can within the hold of his fingers, “Then what are you sorry for?” 

“For not talking to you.” 

“And why don’t you talk to me, I'm sure you know it’s rude to stare and never speak to someone.”

“Because..” His grip loosens, hand moving back to your cheek, thumb resting on your cheek bone. 

“Because why? Cmon use your voice, the one you use to talk about me with Zack.” 

You stare up at him pitifully, and the way words fumble from your mouth has you wanting to throw up, “Because I have this stupid crush on you, and I can't talk to you without getting nervous. I know it’s stupid and I should have told you sooner so you could reject me and I could move on and I never meant to offend you or-”

You hadn’t realized he had gotten so close until his nose touches yours, top lip brushing against yours as he tips your chin up towards him. Your words fall flat on your tongue when you meet his eyes, or rather when you see his eyes that are focused on your lips. 

“Offend me.. that’s sweet..” He’s so close to you, that every word has his lips brushing against your own again and again. 

“Sephiroth..?” You suppress the urge to move the tiniest bit forward so your lips can fully meet his. And you're sure your face is impossibly red. 

“You should’ve told me about this ‘stupid’ crush sooner, such a foolish girl. May I?” You're confused, what is he asking for? His eyes flicker up to yours before moving back to your lips. When you realize what he means you nod your head perhaps too eagerly. 

Slowly, to tease, his lips press against yours, palm pressing into the skin of yours to keep you in place. Eyes fluttering closed, your hands find his chest, silently screaming about the position you’ve found yourself in.

His lips overpower yours in every regard, moving languidly against you. His other hand reaches up to the free side of your face, fingers tickling the skin on your neck and thumb resting on your jaw. 

When he pulls away you can only look at him with half lidded eyes, dazed. 

Al he does is chuckle, rubbing your cheek with his thumb and patting your head. One hand holds the back of your head, leaning down to kiss your temple, before stepping behind you, “Don’t be so shy from now on. Maybe we’ll end up here again.”

His steps echo through the empty hall as he walks away.

“Wait… wait.. I thought you had to go see Angeal?” You turn, taking one step in his direction, then stopping yourself in your tracks hesitantly.