Your position had long since grown too complex for the role you originally had.  Once a lady-in-waiting to the Tsaritsa, you were asked merely to be a liaison in the Archon’s stead.  But you asked questions, interested in understanding the Gnostic web that tied everything together; it was less about faith and every bit simply being tired of not knowing what Her Majesty was referring to.

And then you simply…never left his side.  Morning lessons began to include tea, and then by the time that was over, it was lunch time and you were still present.  Time already sped by as it was at his age but in your presence, it may as well have not existed at all.

Zandik felt himself relax against the soft chaise, long legs outstretched on either side of you, your back curled forward.  You were hiding your latest floral creation from him as best you could.  All the while, he had brushed out your hair from the unnecessary pins and begun to braid, fingers working off of muscle memory from his time with the Eremites, humming all the while.  

Every once in a while, he plucked off a nearby purple flower, a rose in name alone, and wove it into the pattern.  Padisarahs were difficult to grow here but he used those, too.  The occasional Mourning Flower for a pop of vibrancy.  

If there was ever a goddess of the flowers, she walked along the ground, warming every room she was in.  He always felt a kinship to Deshret and couldn’t help but wonder if the Desert King felt as such.  

His only lament was meeting you now, at eighty four, compared to your thirty-something.  Perhaps that was for the best.  He would have completely devoured you at thirty-five, likely ruined you at least in some capacity.  Certainly would have made his current passing musings happen much earlier under the guise of curiosity.

For he couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone about his legacy the wrong way.

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind until the Knave, vicious woman that she was, asked for a meeting regarding a colicky new addition to the House.  You were present for most events and meetings nowadays, purely out of a selfish need for your comfort.

You scooped the child right up out of the pram, adjusted them into a hanging tiger pose, and walked his office perimeter for what must have been an hour.  Not a single cry, not even settling them back down.

It wasn’t the first instance of seeing you with children.  Those who could not be put into spy work because of Crucabena’s tests landed in his care.  More often than not, they became the subject of minor experiments that were to their benefit: new limbs; new methods of bodily repair.  They became errand runners, lab assistants, and Forty-Five did his best to find placement for the children who had skills needed elsewhere.  You were there to greet them when you could be and more than once, he’d heard reports of story time and penmanship help and repairs to comfort toys.

Goddess, indeed.  You had to be, to walk alongside the monster he was known to be.

But he’d taken the wrong approach to his legacy, he had to have.  Zandik was all but certain now that he couldn’t shake images of you from his mind as he worked in a smaller braid into the larger design.

“Zandik?”

He pulled his gaze away from your hair, realizing his fingers were still pinching a few strands, not yet having started another section.  He’d been staring off, lost in thought, all the while you’d turned your head ever so slightly to see him out of the corner of your eyes.  His good eye found your visage instantly, a pool of eternal patience.  

“Your thoughts must be heavy if you stopped humming,” you said.

This close, he could smell your soap and lotion, and the heady scent of your pheromones undercutting both.  He’d been humming to put it out of his mind but the knowledge you were likely ovulating may have been one of the subtle nudges that started this whole storm of thoughts to begin with.

Zandik finished off your braid, fingers tracing a path of Padisarahs before you shifted and turned around.  In your hands was a crown of Kalpalata Lotuses, Frostlamp Flowers, and an occasional Mourning Flower.  You had yet to yet the Sneznhayan lilies you had pruned earlier for the task.

You moved effortlessly, a pang of envy moving through him as you placed a knee on either side of his hips and sat, never putting your full weight on him.  He could take it, he’d always insisted, but you only ever gave in when he was inside you.

His hands rested on your hips as you asked that he look down for you  to place your work upon his head.  Your fingers brushed his ears softly.  His member throbbed as he took the chance to indulge in the remainder of his fantasy.  Zandik fixed his sights on your abdomen as he let a hand drift to press against your flat stomach.  Your body would handle the process well, even if something unforeseen happened.  Something about you was simply…stubborn that way.  He pulled you closer, pressing you against him and burying his face in the crook of your neck, forcing you to pause.

He could imagine the fullness of your breasts, the glow in your face, the way you’d smell.  Knowing full well it was his seed growing inside of you, making you his in the only other way he could…

Hadn’t he buried these impulses?  He was too old; he would die and leave the child without a father, surrounded by contraptions that claimed to be him…

Your hands found his hair and he felt his member twitch greedily.

“Talk to me, my love,” you coaxed.

He took a slow inhale and then looked up at you, hand still on your belly.

“There are many things I’ll never get to do,” he said.  “I thought the Segments were a worthy way to leave a trace of myself behind but I’ve come to realize that was a mistake.”

Your face softened further and you combed your fingers through the hair at his temple, just as always liked.  You weren’t helping the matter, being so doting and gentle.  “How so?”

“They’re inorganic, mostly.  They’ll survive but only insofar as being able to pass knowledge to others, maintain records.  Once I’m gone, the memories of me will only exist in the minds of others.  I leave no physical trace behind.  No lineage.”

No, no, don’t cup his cheek like that, he wouldn’t survive this conversation if you—

“You would be a beautiful mother,” he confessed.

How he wished his vision was better to drink in your face.  Why hasn’t he met you fifty years ago?  Why hadn’t the Elixir worked?

He could succeed only to never…

You tilted your head and kissed him, tender and filled with everything that words failed to convey about complex human connection.  The closest comparisons were waves to a shoreline, the sun to the horizon, water shimmering in an oasis.

He gasped when your hand traveled, finding his pants pocket.  Your fingers skimmed his length as you found what you were looking for.  He always kept an extra one on him, not that it was necessary every time, but he was never not prepared.

You pulled away from the kiss long enough to hold up the tiny pill to him, confirming his thoughts.  You slipped it between his lips and he almost choked as you grazed your lips against his ear and said, “Then make me one, Zandik.”

His sense of control shattered.  He grabbed your skirts, hiking them up and hastily twisting them into a knot to keep them out of the way.  Hard though he was and as much as he loved watching you bounce, he still needed time enough for the medicine to work, and he was not about to waste the opportunities in this position.

“Perhaps we should use gravity to our advantage,” Zandik said, grazing his teeth on your lower lip.

He felt your smirk as you reached and clung to his shirt while you leveraged your weight, mindful of moving too quickly.  The wet patch of your panties burned against him, your core already soaked.  How long were you going to stay silent about your own needs?

Zandik moved down the length of your body carefully, pulling your dress down to free your breasts, placing open-mouthed kisses along the soft flesh until he found your nipple.  He sucked until your nipple hardened and then rolled the nub with his tongue, one hand idly managing the same on the other side, causing you to wriggle against him.  You once described the sensation of him sucking as having tugged a string right down your abdomen and he grinned against you as you arched, clearly feeling the same now.  He gave the same attention to your other breast, and by the time he was pleased with his handiwork, you were already panting.

He grazed his teeth along the fabric of your dress until he arrived at the apex of your thighs, heady arousal filling the air.

“Hungry little thing,” he chastised, pulling your panties aside to inspect your glistening pussy.

You were plush and soaked, more than ready, but something about this moment demanded patience from both of you.  He had it in abundance, even if his cock ached at the sight of you.  Nothing might come of this, for there were way too many variables involved, but when you looked down at him like that, how could he not taste you?

He lapped at you, paying special attention to your clit, using his nose while his tongue pressed into your folds.  His fingers dug into your thighs, squeezing, pulling you closer to him.  You tasted sweet and when you began to tremble, he pulled away, face sticky as though he’d bitten into a ripe peach, your juices coating his lips and chin.

Oh, you were a sight.  Lips swollen and parted, eyes hooded in denied ecstasy, skin flush with need.  You were unabashed in your desire.  A sight only for him, a goddess undone at his touch who never made him feel unloved in the process.

He would have ruined your fifty years ago.  He didn’t understand, not then, what it meant to have companionship such as this.  

“Zandik,” you whispered, voice hoarse, hands reaching  to cup his wet face.  “You’re lost again.”

He shook his head.  “I’ve never been more at home,” he replied.  “You truly want this?”

“To bear your child?”

“And all that goes with it.”

“I know the risks and the agonies.  If I do one thing with our time together, let it be this.”

He didn’t deserve you.

Zandik moved to kiss the inside of your thigh, slowly working his way back up, your skin hot under his lips.  He sighed into your mouth when he finally kissed you properly, tongue meeting yours with steady certainty, meeting his movements beat for beat.  You pulled at his belt and unfastened it with ease, positioning his tip at your entrance.  He pushed into you in a single stroke, your walls scalding as you engulfed him down to the hilt.

He rocked gently, holding himself back as he took long, slow strokes.  Every inch.  He needed to feel every inch of you, feel the way your pussy molded itself to him, hear the way you parted for his cock.  You, who held more divinity in your bones than the Archon he served, certainly more than the Archon who failed him, and he needed to know it with every fiber of his being.  He broke the kiss to press his face into your neck, suddenly overcome with a strange wave he couldn’t identify that burned his eyes and caught his breath.  The flowers atop his head rustled and he let out a shaky gasp as you stroked his hair.

No, no, too early, not yet—

“Come for me, Zandik.  Let go and come for me.”

Fire stung his eyes, tears welling up as you rolled your hips, pussy clenching for every last drop that he could no longer hold back.  He shot deep inside, driving himself as far as you would take him to plug you up.  His cock throbbed, still swollen; he was sensitive but nowhere near ready to stop.

Zandik caught his breath, blinking away the tears, and then moved to capture your lips again.  It didn’t take much for your walls to flutter again, and again, and again, tributes owed for allowing his heretical self to bask in you.  He was shaving off years of life, certainly, but it was worth it, he reasoned as he pulled you down and pressed your legs to your chest, driving every drop of his seed into you.

He kept himself inside you until his cock finally softened, both of you entirely spent.  The glass around you was foggy, obscuring the wintery landscape into little more than a white blur.

It mattered little.  Zandik pushed the sweaty strands of hair from your face and pressed his lips to your forehead, nose, and cheeks.

“We may not succeed immediately,” he whispered.

“I know.  That doesn’t change what I said.”

The silence had stretched for twenty minutes and the air in the little hideaway seemed seconds from growing too thick to breathe. Dottore had moved you here after the failed attempt at subduing Columbina. It was a pleasant enough place that he'd personally carved out with the newfound powers. A small lab hidden away in a cliff. And with his large lab in Nod-Krai gone, surely no one would think to look for another?

Dottore had wanted to move you further away, but you'd refused. It was already bad enough that he wouldn't let you stay at the larger research facility up until it had been raided. Of course you understood the risk, but you were hardly helpless.

You supposed having to patch him up now was the consequence of refusing to leave Nod-Krai altogether. Not that you could bear the thought of him returning to a lonely place in this condition. He didn't have to say that it was worse than it looked.

Shouldn't a deity be above wincing when rubbing alcohol was used on their wounds?

Why did it have to be you who broke the silence. You had yet to even attempt to pierce the dark cloud around Dottore and still your stomach had already dropped. His body looked odd with all the modifications. Not that now was the time to say.

"You're not going to tell me about the results?"

The temperature dropped a few degrees. Perhaps that wasn't the best line of questioning right now.

It was truly horrendous if he didn't even want to discuss experimental results. Even a failure held important information to dissect, reconstruct, and put to use.

Archons above, you'd been reduced to brushing fingers against his skin, leaning against him, kissing the top of his head. Anything to get him react to something. He hadn't even reached for your hand.

Another point of discomfort was how he'd kept his mask on. Of course, that was how he appeared in front of others but… You sighed, fastening the end of a bandage securely around his arm. It had been so long since he'd hid his face when it was just the two of you.

"We should've brought something more efficient than this." Perfect, give him a chance to go off a tangent about one of his solvents for recovering health and closing wounds.

Dottore merely grunted.

You adjusted your shirt.

Well then. Were you supposed to start weeping in relief that he hadn't perished entirely? Or scold him for losing one of the moon marrows? You supposed you could yell a little, although it would probably echo quite uncomfortably with the stone walls. Throw yourself into his arms and lavish him with praise?

Maybe he'd want something sweet.

Just as you turned to look in some of the supply crates, there was a tug at your cloak, barely there but enough that you stopped.

Finally.

Dottore's voice sounded like he'd been swallowing sand when he said your name, rough and coarse. He'd probably been yelling at the Traveler and their little entourage. You waited for a moment only to feel his hand release its grasp. "Forget it."

The pit in your stomach was rapidly growing as you walked away. Seconds stretched to minutes as silence settled once more. You searched through some of the crates stashed towards the back, briefly wondering how long Dottore must've been making arrangements for this outcome. They could stay for months without lacking anything.

"Are you planning to leave?"

You straightened up at his words, clutching a small pouch of hard candies.

"Excuse me?"

He still wore his mask when you turned. The signature quirk of his lips was nowhere to be found as he continued, nor did his voice sound anything like what she had previously encountered. "Now that I've failed here, will you abandon me as well?"

You blinked once. Twice. Your hands were steady as you loosened the string on the pouch, picking out a peach flavored candy and holding it up.

"To what end?"

"You-.." Dottore's hand twitched. He'd discarded the gauntlet at least. "If you abandon me now, the others are of a disposition likely to forgive you. Blame me, say you knew nothing of my true ambitions." He sounded disappointed. And you would've pitied him if not for the following sneer. "I'm sure they'd be happy to collaborate with you."

You picked another candy, lemon, and threw it as hard as you could at him.

Dottore recoiled in surprise, head still covered by that infernal mask snapping up. His sharp teeth flashed in the dim light emitted from his body.

"Maybe I will."

Time stopped moving. Figuratively at least. You were relatively certain that neither you nor the world had been frozen at the behest of a spurned heretic. Stubborn as he were, even Dottore probably couldn't manage that without all three marrows.

You stepped forward, peach candy still in hand as you pocketed the pouch. Dottore made no move to prevent you from nudging the mask away from his face and let it clatter to the ground. His eyes were a little misty.

Despite his transformation, he still looked like a wounded critter when you cupped his cheek. That he leaned into it was a good sign. Before he could protest, you'd slipped the candy past his lips.

"You're a fool if you truly thought I'd do such a thing. Wouldn't you say our 'collaboration' has transcended terms as simple as mutual benefit?"

A faint hint of a smile crossed Dottore's lips as he sucked on the candy.

You lowered herself into his lap, letting your forehead rest against his shoulder. His skin felt almost a little tingly, like a current ran just beneath it.

"But I will leave if your body doesn't change back after this nonsense." Both of them chuckled, melting further into the embrace.

Perhaps you'd been a little worried about him.

The hallway leading to The Doctor’s laboratory was eerily quiet, his subordinates—like yourself—were currently on break at the cafeteria indulging in much needed fuel to power through yet another hectic day. The soles of your shoes echoed throughout the metallic floors, it served as a reminder at how deserted the corridor was; even though you’ve walked down this same path for years, the atmosphere never once failed to lick an icy shiver down your spine. It didn’t help how lifeless and dull these hallways were. As for the purpose of your early return in The Doctor’s laboratory, one of your colleagues had told you that the Harbinger required your presence urgently, and given your colleagues' words, it seemed to be a matter of importance.

Though, you wondered why The Doctor had specifically asked for you; as far as you were aware, your ranking as his subordinate wasn’t anything special—merely conducting experiments and quality control were your tasks, just like all the other subordinates under his authority. Ah, you didn’t mess up anything, did you? You always always followed protocols and it wasn’t like The Doctor had previously given you an earful for messing up an experiment. 

In fact, he had been nothing but full of praise towards you; there was one instance where the Harbinger gleefully praised your intellect. Although to others, he never held back on his dissatisfaction whenever a colleague of yours messed up certain experimental procedures. The Doctor always spoke to them of the importance of materials as they were not easily obtainable, and to always carefully read the protocols. Unfortunately, his rather strange bias towards you made you the butt of the jokes amongst your colleagues in cafeteria conversations, and you were more than certain they were currently laughing at you behind your back.

“Hah! She’s like a teacher’s pet but instead of a teacher it's Lord Dottore! Hahahahahaha!” One of your colleagues started right after you were told The Doctor needed you back at the laboratory.

Of course, it was all light hearted but you wished they were a bit more mature about the situation because sometimes you couldn’t help but feel . . . weird around Lord Dottore at times—especially at times where he’d lean over your shoulder to inspect your task for the day. Maybe he simply needed a closer look but the way his chest ghosted against your back had you biting the inside of your cheeks.

Stepping inside the laboratory, you were greeted with an empty space, devoid of the man you were looking for. The room was how everyone left it before heading to the cafeteria—powered equipment turned off, hazardous chemicals stored away, and several documents sprawled across counters. For a supposedly urgent matter, you expected him to be at least present in his own laboratory.

Confused, you called out, “. . Lord Dottore?”

Silence stretched for a few moments before you received a response, “I am in my office. It would be preferable if you joined me.”

At the sound of his familiar voice, you followed its origin where it led you to the slightly ajar door to his office. Your heart pounded against your chest, you’ve only been inside there once to drop off research notes because the person who usually did it was absent that day, The Doctor also wasn’t inside when you had entered previously so this was your first time in his office with him.

Something about that unnerved you. Sure, he was somewhat ‘nicer’ to you but there wasn’t denying the fact that he was an interesting individual but you were under the same organisation, so it wasn’t your place to question the Harbinger nor his motives.

As you walked inside, you quietly closed the door behind out of politeness before turning around to get on one knee and bow your head. During the brief movement, you caught a familiar tall figure standing just off to the side of The Doctor’s desk.

“Lord Dottore, Lord Regrator.” But what was he doing here?

There wasn’t much you knew about Lord Regrator other than he was the Ninth Harbinger who was in charge of economic policies in the nation.

“There’s no need for formalities. Sit. I called you here to discuss a special experiment.” Dottore gestured a gloved hand at the empty seat before his desk, the corners of his lips slightly curled.

A special experiment? At the mention of an experiment, your heart calmed a little—it was your expertise after all, so there was no point fretting over it but the strange tension in the room seemed to scream otherwise. It also didn’t explain why Regrator was present, it wasn’t like they were about to start discussing finance with you.

You nodded, standing up to quietly make your way to the empty seat, “Of course. May I ask what this experiment is about?”

As you sat down, Dottore spoke up once more, both elbows atop the wooden desk, leaning a little closer, “Recently, I have been expanding my research on the human brain and its connection to the body regarding its response to bodily sensations such as touch. I have appropriate non-invasive equipment in my personal laboratory, however, the procedure is rather . . invasive.”

Invasive? What could Dottore possibly mean by that?

“Naturally, such an experiment necessitates a suitable candidate and their willing consent.”

A participant—you assumed that was your supposed role, the reason why Dottore required your presence. Once more, your heart thrummed out of nervousness, you weren’t going to conduct an experiment, you were going to be experimented on. The mention of an invasive procedure already had your mind spinning in a million different scenarios; he wasn’t going to cut you open, was he . . ?

“Your intelligence precedes your colleagues which is why I have found you to be the suitable candidate. Of course, it all comes down to your decision but it would be a delight to have your involvement.”

You sucked in a small breath, “May I . . read over the research proposal, Lord Dottore?” He wordlessly nodded, opening a drawer on his desk before sliding a neat stack of papers over. 

Written in bold letters was the title: ‘Sensory cortex activation by stimulation’

The human mind remains an imperfectly understood mechanism. This study aims to document and analyze cerebral activity in response to external stimuli such as touch and pressure in order to better identify the relations between the human brain and body. The implications of this experimental research extend beyond mere academic curiosity, a more complex understanding of neurological behaviour under euphoric conditions may provide valuable insight into artificial human enhancement procedures. Experimentation of this nature requires a fully informed and consenting participant.

Methodology: The participant will be situated within a controlled laboratory environment under my supervision to maintain consistency of neurological readings throughout the duration of the experiment. Neurological activity will be monitored and recorded through the use of neural-imaging apparatus for high resolution cerebral observation. The participant will be gradually exposed to sexual stimuli in certain body areas as follows: nipple, clitoral and vaginal (penile penetration) leading up to orgasm which is the expected peak readings.

To ensure authenticity of collected data, the participant must remain aware and capable of providing continuous informed consent during all stages of experimentation and contraception will be used. Furthermore, a second participant (assigned to Pantalone) is set to carry out sexual stimuli mentioned above and is considered a controlled variable along with the primary participant. Collected findings will subsequently be analyzed for potential applications in the fields of cognitive enhancement and artificial synchronisation of human neural patterns.

In simpler terms, Dottore wanted to observe human neural activity during a euphoric state to better understand the connection between the brain and body? In all honesty, you were speechless. Not only was the former supervising the entire experiment but Lord Regrator was also a participant, at this point you were convinced this was some kind of humiliation ritual. There was no denying that The Doctor was extremely professional when it came to research, and you were more than certain it wasn’t going to be his first time seeing a naked human body—he had even written a formal proposal which further confirms that this experiment wasn’t some kind of perverted shenanigan.

“Do I, uh—Does the experiment require the primary participant to be . . fully naked?” You feigned a cough, flipping a page as you tried your best to avoid eye contact with Dottore. Though he wore a pointed mask, you were certain his eyes remained solely on you.

“It is not a necessity. Only stated areas in the proposal are required to be exposed for efficiency. I’d also like to mention that a generous compensation will be given once the experiment concludes.”

At the mention of compensation, your ears perked up. Even though the Fatui was an influential organization in Teyvat, the pay you received was fairly enough to get by but if you were being honest, you could use a bit more mora especially with this month’s bills rolling around. Without another word, you nodded, finally looking up at the Second Harbinger.

“Alright. I will participate in the experiment, Lord Dottore.”

Beneath the pointed mask, his rosy lips stretched into a wider smile, “Excellent. I require you to sign this contract then I shall conduct a pre-experiment interview to obtain better understanding of the participant.” Reaching over the desk, he flipped over to the last page of the proposal and slid a fountain pen over, silently tapping his gloved fingers against the wooden surface as he watched you sign. 

With your participation officially sealed with a signature, The Doctor carefully placed the document inside the drawer and fixed his attention on you, gloved hands loosely clasped around one another, “Are you sexually active?” His question settled into the thick silence awkwardly, it stuck out like a sore thumb—all too sudden and personal yet your commander had simply asked it as if he were asking about today’s weather.

You were aware this was part of the protocol but having Regrator present in the office seemed a bit much for you; what was he even here for? Surely, he wasn’t about to start asking you medical related questions, he didn’t even work in the field. Discomfort enveloped your warmed skin, a thousand kisses akin to small prickles—hot and itchy.

Shifting ever so slightly in your seat, you spoke, “N-No . . but I have had intercourse before.” Archons, if you were given the option between Her Majesty unleashing her unforgiving ice on you or to explain your sex life to The Doctor, without hesitation you’d pick the former. Dottore was still your boss, after all but thankfully, he was as professional as you expected, keenly listening to your reply while nodding—nothing more, nothing less. If he had any reaction to your answers, he didn’t let on.

“And when was the last time?”

God, when was the last time you had sex? You simply couldn’t remember. Being a Fatui wasn’t a walk down the park, days in The Doctor’s laboratory were long and tedious, by the time you return home late in the afternoon, you’d only have the strength to eat and wash up before welcoming the night. The routine was monotonous, yes but there wasn’t room to mope around  and complain.

“I cannot accurately say but most likely a month ago.” With your boyfriend then but The Doctor didn’t need to know about your past relationship.

The Second Harbinger’s questions continued for a couple more minutes, he asked about every single medical related question you could think of—medical history, current medications, prior injuries, and existing neurological conditions. Naturally, you tried your best to answer as accurately as advised by The Doctor and each response was recorded with meticulous precision.

“Good.” The word sounded less like praise and more like a conclusion. “If at any point you wish to withdraw from the study, you will retain your right to do so.”

Silence stretched inside the cold room.

You stared at Dottore. Through his pointed mask, he stared back. Neither of you spoke as his words lingered in the icy atmosphere like wisps of smoke, light and airy yet it held a bitter taste. A beat passed, then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth curved upward.

“I assume you’re wondering whether I genuinely mean that.”

So The Doctor was aware of your growing suspicion regarding his previous statement; you knew well enough how he worked, his experimental endeavours weren’t obtained through ethical and considerate experiments, and for him to state something like that was clearly out of character. Or maybe he actually housed an ounce of decency in him.

“Pardon my brazenness but yes, a little.”

The smile on his lips widened, “Reasonable.”

“Coerced participation produces unreliable results, especially neurological results.”

It wasn’t concern nor ethics but merely data quality, you didn’t know whether to applaud him for being such a dedicated scholar. Surprisingly, his reasoning was sound, emotions can and will affect neurological scans; factors such as stress can create physiological ‘noise’ which would increase variability in data.

At the lack of your reply, The Doctor merely dismissed your silence as acknowledgement and spoke up once more, “As you’re already aware, this study requires two participants. The reliability of the data is dependent upon minimising external variables and, unfamiliarity constitutes as such.”

“In other words, you’re making us socialize.” Lord Regrator finally spoke up, his dulcet voice curling around your body like a serpentine predator.

Well, it wasn’t entirely odd to familiarise oneself with a fellow study participant, especially if intimacy was on the table but the whole situation felt rather awkward. Under more casual circumstances, you’d feel at ease but being confined in your commander’s office with another Harbinger felt nothing but forced; you felt nothing less than a puppet being forced to interact with another toy at the hands of a naïve child.

“Call it whatever you prefer. Participants exhibit measurably different neurological responses when interacting with unfamiliar individuals.” A gloved finger tapped the wooden desk, “Trust levels, social comfort, perceived predictability—they all introduce inconsistencies. Unless, of course, you want me to find another willing participant. After all, you do have the right to withdraw from the study, Pantalone.”

Hidden beneath Dottore’s words was provocation but to Pantalone, the taunt was clear as day. From where he stood, he could see the way the former’s lips curled into a smug smile—a silent challenge between both of them. But Regrator didn’t bite, no, instead, he shifted his attention toward you.

“Well.” He smiled pleasantly, “It seems we’ve been assigned homework. If Dottore wishes us to become familiar with one another, I suppose introductions are in order.”

Satisfied that events were proceeding according to plan, the Second Harbinger immediately returned to his notes. Lord Regrator watched his companion for a brief moment, “He’s actually taking notes. How amusing.” A gentle laugh escaped his lips, he moved a tad closer to get a better view and the scent of tobacco faintly invaded your senses.

For the next hour, conversation between you and Regrator drifted from formal introductions to declassified Fatui affairs to Snezhnayan politics, and for the entirety of it, Dottore wordlessly sat in his seat, taking notes of everything. The conversation started off stiff as expected—Pantalone may be a participant but he was still a Harbinger, and with it came formality but as words flowed, you eased slightly. You learned about his role as a high ranking Fatuus and despite your lack of interest in his field, you simply nodded along.

Lord Regrator differed from Lord Dottore, and whether that observation was positive or not, you were uncertain. Different in a way that the former was clearly built for conversations, he gave flattery when needed, smiled at your words, and gave colourful responses; you assumed he obtained his mannerisms through his role but even with his authority, he was easier to converse with.

“Alright, that is all for today. I shall require both your presence next week once I have the appropriate equipment set up.”

With that, you excused yourself first and headed back to the cafeteria with a racing heart. On the way over, you questioned whether what you were getting yourself into was something you’d regret in the future but all your mind could think about was the coming week. The mere idea of Lord Regrator intimately touching you shouldn’t have invited heat between your legs but with every step taken closer to the cafeteria, the more it grew. It didn’t help how obscene visuals of you and him flashed in your mind every second or so.

The new week rolled around with slight anticipation; it was embarrassing, really, the slight excitement buried in the depths of your core pulsing with expectation. It was weird to anticipate such an erotic experiment but pure lust fogged your mind primarily due to the fact that you simply haven’t had sex in a month. Weeks of pent up stress and emotions? You were definitely overdue for release. Though, you did have to constantly remind yourself that it was a formal study within a controlled environment, and not some kind of one night stand with your commander’s colleague.

“I trust you’re both well rested?”

The three of you were back inside The Doctor’s office, it was late afternoon, the warm glow of the sun spilled through the frostbitten windows, painting the rather dull room in a mellow hue. The rest of your colleagues had already left the laboratory which meant you, along with the two Harbingers were the only ones present. It made you a little nervous—being alone in a room with two of Snezhnaya’s influential individuals.

Pantalone hummed and you replied with a small nod, already feeling your skin starting to prick.

Dottore led you both into another room connected to his office, it wasn’t as vast and you assumed this was strictly out of bounds to everyone but him. The room felt unnervingly sterile, its walls were constructed from smooth metal panels with narrow seams, and bright white lighting illuminated the space.

At the centre of the room stood the experiment’s primary apparatus—a reclining examination chair surrounded by an intricate arrangement of cables, a machine, and polished metallic arms suspended from the ceiling. The most striking feature of the room was the wall opposite the entrance—a single pane of reinforced observation glass stretched nearly from floor to ceiling; beyond the glass you assumed was the control room, housing machinery responsible for operating the experiment.

“For the entire duration of the experiment, I shall remain inside the control room to oversee the study and note down all results. Remove any unnecessary layers of clothing such as overcoats and gloves, and meet me by the apparatus.”

Left in your blouse and pants, you headed to the center of the room where Dottore stood with Pantalone just a step behind. The former tinkered around the apparatus, pressing a few buttons and flipping switches with a gloved finger, causing the machine to whirr to life; it hummed a low, almost quiet tune that somewhat settled your nerves.

“Lie down.”

The Doctor looked over his feathered shoulder, pointed mask gleaming beneath the harsh lighting before turning his attention to the suspended metallic arms for inspection. You did as you were told, positioning the entirety of your body along the examination chair, the leather was cool against the fabric of your clothes which left tiny goosebumps from the difference in temperature. Wordlessly, you watched as he positioned the metallic arms near your head, several inches away from contact; its tips were equipped with a semi-circle that encased your head. So, this was what The Doctor meant about non-invasive equipment.

“Once I operate the machine, you may feel a slight sensation but do not fret, it is simply the apparatus emitting pulses of energy to record neural activity. And as for you, I require complete obedience—every single word.”

“Hah, you act as if I’m some kind of disobedient mutt. I’m wounded.” Regrator pressed a hand over his chest, a mocking smile directed at his colleague.

The latter didn’t bother replying and instead walked off to the control room, the soles of his boots clicking with every calculated step. Pantalone softly shook his head, muttering a faint “Lovely as ever.” beneath his breath, full of sarcasm.

“Any command given will be spoken through this intercom.” 

Your attention quickly moved from Regrator to the mounted speakers on the corners of the room as Dottore’s amplified voice filled the space. Gaze darting over to the foot of the examination chair, just past the Ninth Harbinger’s torso, you watched your commander on the other side of the observation glass. Heat warmed your cheeks at the realisation that you directly faced the latter which meant he’d be able to see everything you exposed.

“Base readings first. In the meantime, Pantalone, I trust you have already taken the concoction I made prior?” 

With the metallic arms whirring to life, you could barely hear The Doctor’s words over the pulsing of the machine. Just as he mentioned, there was a slight foreign sensation in your head, it felt like pressure but also not at the same time, though, it wasn’t painful. You could only watch as the two conversed over the observation glass.

“Indeed.” Regrator nodded.

Two days ago, Dottore had given him a curated substance meant to increase one’s libido, thus concentrating blood flow to the genitalia. He had no qualms consuming it but it was foreign, indeed, he had never taken such a drug before and it took all his willpower not to take you right then and there. It didn’t help how his semi-hardened cock twitched inside his pants, involuntarily rubbing against the fabric of his underwear.

Dottore jotted down a few notes as the monitors displayed your real-time cerebral activity; so far, everything looked good, “Commencing the first phase of the experiment: nipple stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. For the entire duration—without stopping—the nipples are to be stimulated via gently pinching or twisting.”

Thirty seconds didn’t seem too long, right? With that, you slightly lifted yourself off the examination chair, bringing your blouse over your chest before attempting to unclip your brassiere. Seeing your struggle, Pantalone brought himself closer, a faint whiff of tobacco following, “May I?”

Despite his chivalrous offer, his amethyst gaze kept darting at your clothed breasts and the smoothness of your skin—he knew it was impolite to do so but being under the influence of Dottore’s concoction had him acting a tad out of character. He cleared his throat as his cock twitched at the sight before him, swallowing down the low moan he almost let out. Could you really blame him? The garment was a black lace adorned with intricate patterns, not to mention the fabric being slightly see-through—a feature he found rather brazen. Pantalone could almost assume you wore this specific garment today for him to see. And maybe for your commander, as well.

“Thank you . .” You nodded and allowed Regrator to help.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He laced an arm through the narrow space between your back and the chair, lithe fingers expertly unclasping your brassiere with one hand.

Your heart may or may not have skipped a beat.

In one swift movement, the garment loosened around your torso, threatening to slip off. With slight hesitation and a burning face, you removed the fabric and shyly placed it on the chair right by your thigh. Almost immediately, icy air kissed your warmed skin which caused your nipples to harden, a small hiss almost slipping past your lips. While you were occupied with embarrassment, Pantalone’s gaze traced the curves of your chest, each mound sinfully beckoning his large hands—maybe even his mouth too. Obviously, it wasn’t his first seeing a naked woman but how his mind reeled with selfish fantasies was beyond childish.

In the control room, Dottore was unfazed—he had seen many nude bodies before and yours weren’t any different. It was nothing special, really but your cerebral activity on the other hand . . . That was more interesting.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He spoke into the intercom.

“I’ll be starting now, Miss.” Regrator sat on the narrow space of the chair, his clothed thigh brushing against your own; you tried not to think of the warmth which radiated from his body or how your name effortlessly rolled off his tongue like it was meant to be.

A silent nod was all you could muster—not even a split second eye contact to acknowledge his presence out of politeness but from the looks of it, Regrator didn’t mind at all as he proceeded to bring both hands up to your chest. If only you’d look his way you’d see a shy hue of crimson dusting his pale cheeks and ears but alas, your gaze fixated on the ceiling above.

A small yelp forced its way past your lips; Regrator used both index fingers to gently trace your areolas a couple of times, mere centimetres shy from your pebbled nipples, the tips of his fingers were cold—not icy but enough to send a strong shiver down your spine. You missed the way the corners of his lips subtly curled upwards in utter amusement—who would’ve thought Dottore’s lovely subordinate hid quite melodious tunes? There was no doubt his Harbinger colleague thought of the same thing.

As a matter of fact, despite being behind an observation glass, Dottore heard the sound you made all too clearly. The door to the control room was slightly ajar which caused any noise—minute or not—to spill through. It wasn’t foreign for his experimental subjects to create any noise but today differed, what was usually tunes of pain turned into hums of pleasure, and he couldn’t decide between the two which he preferred.

Maybe, just maybe by a tad bit—from how his core twisted with delight—it was probably the latter.

But Dottore had no room to ponder over that, not when your neurological activity displayed exquisite images on his monitor. As expected, a small cluster of highlights illuminated the somatosensory cortex which indicated its activation; he quickly jotted down notes, eyes trained on the screen before him, trying not to let your saccharine noises get to his head.

Another twitch of his now fully hardened cock had him letting out a low groan beneath his shaky breaths. The sight before him was simply exquisite; Pantalone may not have the best eyesight but he didn’t need a perfect vision to deduce the divine beauty—breasts splayed flat, torso arching ever so slightly, your head turned to the side, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and brows furrowed in embarrassment.

Oh, what a shy little thing you were.

“Lord R-Regrator—!” He gently pinched your nipples which spread a sharp, quick shock across your chest. Another arch of your back pressed your skin closer to Regrator’s digits, he experimented with a slight twist, turning them between his index fingers and thumbs.

Archons, how embarrassing! You tried. You truly tried to hold back any unwanted sounds but the Lord Harbinger seemed to know what he was doing—how to please a woman—you couldn’t help but moan out his name from how amazing his hands felt against your feverish skin. Save for the low hum of machinery, the room was filled with complete silence and any noise made stuck out like crimson ink on a blank ivory canvas.

“Do let me know if my actions hurt you at some point.” Pantalone mindlessly murmured, mind completely fogged with lust, and senses drowned in your muffled moans.

You finally looked up at him through glassy eyes and wet lashes, it didn’t help how the bright lights above drew sparkles in your irises. He almost missed the wordless nod you responded with, too focused on the growing haze painted on your face. As Regrator continued his stimulation, shallow pants filled the space above your face and by this point, your face was as warm as it could get. Occasionally, your body shuddered beneath his expert touch, slowly and steadily driving you over the edge as each second passed.

Before another embarrassing moan could spill from your lips, The Doctor’s voice flooded the room via intercom, “First phase has concluded. Moving on to the second phase: clitoral stimulation. Duration: 30 seconds. As previously mentioned, stimulation has to be continuous for the entire duration.”

Even though embarrassment had slightly subsided, you hesitantly reached for the button of your pants, undoing them with trembling hands. Once more, the Ninth Harbinger offered assistance to which you thankfully accepted—there was no reason getting shy now, he had already played with your nipples earlier. Driving the soles of your shoes onto the cushioned examination chair, you lifted your hips and pulled your pants down along with your underwear with the Harbinger’s help—just enough to expose your cunt.

His eyes zeroed in on your glistening entrance. All for him? Oh, he was being spoiled, indeed. The sight of your cunt fanned the blazing flames of Pantalone’s ego—all this just from mere nipple play? How adorable. You must’ve been really touch starved.

“Before we commence the second phase, Pantalone, I trust you can find the clitoris, right? Perhaps you need my assistance?”

“I am not ignorant, Dottore.”

“I am simply making sure. No reason to get snappy.”

You wanted to laugh. Two Harbingers bickering should not have amused you but the pettiness behind your commander’s voice and the slight annoyance laced with Lord Regrator’s words was all too amusing. If you were to tell a fellow colleague about them two bickering whether one could find the clitoris or not, they would not believe a single word that’d come out of your mouth. Who knew they could talk about trivial matters, too, how interesting.

Lord Regrator returned his rightful attention to you, his dull expression immediately shifted into the soft smile he always wore, “Ready, Miss?” Meek, you nodded. The Harbinger repositioned himself, right knee slotted between your parted legs to get a better view of your wet cunt.

He gathered the slick coating your cunt, spreading it on the pads of his fingers before pushing back your clitoral hood to reveal the swollen nub of flesh all in its needy glory. Embarrassingly enough, a simple ghostly touch on your clitoris had your entire body jerking against the leather of the chair, followed by a wanton moan of the Harbinger’s title. You quickly turned your head to the side and pressed the skin of your forearm against your lips—a futile attempt as the moment you obstructed your face, Lord Regrator’s digit began rubbing your clitoris in tight circles, as though a wordless protest against muffling the sounds you made.

His fingers were good—amazing, even, to the point where you wished thirty seconds went as quickly as a single second. In your head, clitoral stimulation of that duration was doable but you wholly underestimated yourself and the Lord Harbinger’s skills, on top of that, you were still trying to recover from earlier. You weren’t supposed to orgasm on this phase of the experiment otherwise it would ruin it entirely but it seemed like he had a goal: to drive you over the edge before the thirty seconds were up.

“L-Lord Regrator, I think—Mhm!”

“Hm? Were you saying something?”

The arm slung over your face immediately flew downwards to grasp his wrist, attempting to slow down his actions. Your free hand gripped on the side of the examination chair, nails digging crescents into the leather to ground and steer yourself from the impending orgasm. You arched your back and moaned aloud once more, earning a satisfied smile from the Lord Harbinger.

Dottore’s gaze ripped away from the monitors and landed at the centre of the room where you and Pantalone where, he carefully watched as your body pathetically writhed under the latter’s eager touch. He could barely see your lust-bitten face but judging from the moans you let out, his friend was doing exceptionally well at pleasing you—even the activity displayed on the monitors could back that fact; more regions of the brain were now highlighted indicating an increase in activity,

It was indeed fascinating to observe how one’s brain lit up from mere stimulation.

The tune of shallow, soft pants filled Regrator’s ears, it was amusing to watch you scramble and gather the threads of sanity in your palms, refusing to let pleasure take control of your body. Did he feel bad? A little but he was no saint. He switched from tight circles to figure eights, pressing onto your sensitive nub with a little more pressure. Your legs shook with bliss, fingers wrapped around his wrist tightening as you teetered to the brink of an orgasm.

“Ngh—ah! Lord Re—Haah!” 

“I suggest you use your words otherwise I cannot understand you.” Mockery laced his dulcet voice but with the hum of machinery mixed with your shameless moans, you didn’t pick up on it.

When did Pantalone last have fun like this? Sure, he was powerful enough to control the nation’s economic state with a mere snap of his fingers but being able to control the pleasure you felt? Beyond satisfying. Not only was he rewarded with your lust-fogged expressions but also how your body squirmed beneath his touch—desperate and pathetic.

Your core tightened, it stretched and stretched further waiting for the recoil called climax but before you could reach it, your commander’s cold voice filled the room once more, “Second phase has concluded. We’ll be moving on to the final phase after a short interval.”

With that, Regrator pulled away his hand which elicited an embarrassing whine of protest from you. In a daze, you stared up at the ceiling and silently thanked Lord Dottore for the short interval because you knew well enough you’d be a complete mess once the third phase began. Though, the Second Harbinger’s reasoning was most certainly experiment-related rather than pure concern for the subject.

The tight knot deep in your core disappointingly dissipated as each second passed without stimulation—it was beyond frustrating to say the least, especially after weeks without sex. Despite the cool air inside, a sheen of sweat lightly coated your entire body and you felt stuffy; suddenly, the fabric pulled halfway down your legs felt too restricting, the blouse pooled around your neck didn’t help either. At this point, you just wanted one thing, and judging by the crimson blush on Lord Regrator’s cheeks, he wanted it too—release.

Dottore simply wasn’t being nice with the interval, the main reason for it was to let your cerebral activity return to baseline, otherwise readings from the second phase would carry on to the third phase and mess with the experiment. But he did have a more selfish reason that didn’t need disclosing—the growing tent between his legs.

He only needed a few moments to recollect himself. His bodily response to the scene before him was normal—he was still a man, after all— but in a professional setting, it was undesirable. Dottore knew what he was getting into when he first wrote the proposal for this serendipitous experiment but he didn’t expect to be aroused by it. He leaned back in his seat, a subtle glance at the prominent bulge before letting out a soft sigh.

How truly inconvenient.

After a couple moments of recollecting himself—or simply trying to—Dottore spoke into the intercom to commence the final phase, “The third will be slightly different, there will be no set duration as the end goal of this phase is an orgasm but restrictions will be in order. That means strictly no touching aside from vaginal penetration, this would count as kissing, groping or holding one another. Doing so would interfere with results.”

Since Dottore observed the sensory cortex, other forms of stimulation besides penetration would also be recorded, lowering authenticity of the results.

“Contraception is located above the machinery.” He added.

Pantalone reached for the smooth surface of the machinery next to the examination chair where he grabbed a sealed packet. Lithe fingers curled around the waistband of his pants, you watched as he unbuttoned and pulled it down just enough to reveal his hardened, leaking cock. It slapped against his clothed abdomen, donning a crimson blush that mirrored the hues on his pale cheeks. The pearlescent glob of pre-cum coating his slit had you salivating a little, tongue subtly swiping over your bottom lip.

Wide eyed and lips slightly parted, you could only wordlessly stare at the foreign sight before you, he was decently thick and merely looking at it had you clenching around nothing—eager to have all of the Lord Harbinger inside you.

Pantalone let out a low hiss, expertly rolling the latex down his shaft, “Ready?” Amethyst eyes clouded with lust found your gaze. Lord Regrator’s expression was different from what he usually wore, the cunning, unreadable smile was gone, leaving room for a flustered one.

With a wordless nod from you, the Harbinger fully situated himself between your legs, both hands each circling around the back of your knees to push them to your bare chest, “Hold your legs open for me, will you, dear?” You did as you were told, hooking an arm on each knee, keeping your legs in place and eagerly waiting for his next move.

Knees digging on leather, Pantalone placed a hand on the wide headrest of the chair while the other curled around his base, slowly guiding his cock inside your sopping entrance. A mix of your moans lingered in the air as he bottomed out, the entirety of his shaft sat inside you—heavy and hard. The stretch was delicious, it almost felt purely sinful, you’ve never taken a cock that stretched you this good before and it was dangerous because you might just get addicted to it.

Pantalone leaned over you, free hand now joining the other on holding the headrest. The silvery chain of his glasses dangled mere centimetres from your face, teasing and ghosting over your feverish skin. He sat still for a moment to relish inside your tight, velvety walls, he felt like a boyish virgin all over again with how stimulated he was, and he hasn’t even started thrusting yet.

But Pantalone had a job to do: to bring you to an orgasm because that’s what he agreed to upon signing the contract of this study—to put your pleasure before his own.

A beat or two passed ‘til he slowly drew his hips back—with only the bulbous tip remaining inside—and languidly thrusted, your nails dug into your soft skin, leaving small crescent-shaped indents. You could really only hold on to your legs and take the steady yet forceful pace Lord Regrator had set which caused your body to jolt repeatedly with every smack of his hips against your own.

It was pure torture for Pantalone, you looked absolutely divine yet he wasn’t allowed to hold you—to grope and squeeze at your bouncing breasts, to rub at your clit, to suck on every part of your exposed skin and finally taste you for himself. Alas, he could only rake his gaze up and down your semi-naked form and fantasize how you’d react beneath his palms.

The examination chair groaned underneath the weight of Pantalone’s thrusts, high pitched squeaks interlaced with the string of moans and whimpers filling the entire space. Pantalone carefully shifted his weight to his upper body, anchoring his hands on the headrest to piston his hips into your own.

“O-Oh, god! Lord Regrator!”

“God? H-Haah! Ngh—‘M no god, my dear.”

Bitterness laced his trembling words, it's almost as though he took offense and now he expressed his disdain by merely picking up the pace, rendering you a babbling mess to shut you up. Skin slapping and the smell of sex dangerously danced in the air, one Dottore couldn’t simply ignore—especially the former.

The Second Harbinger messily jotted down notes, fingers tightening around the pen every now and then whenever you let out a loud moan. He didn’t stop his gaze from wandering to where you and Pantalone were, crimson gaze locked onto your jolting form while his friend eagerly pounded you like a starved man. How your legs vigorously bounced in the air was enough to let him know how roughly Pantalone went on you.

The problem between his legs worsened and Dottore may or may not have rubbed his hard on a few times beneath the desk. Just to get a small taste of friction his hardened cock desperately wanted. Childish? Perhaps but fuck he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of trading places with Pantalone—even for a mere second or two. He was more than curious what you’d feel like around him.

“Lord Regrator! I’m—aah! I’m close—ngh!” Legs burning from holding the position, you let go and opted to wrap them around the Harbinger’s waist, locking him in a rather intimate distance. Pantalone let out a breathless chuckle and changed his pace into deep, short thrusts, he grinded into you every few strokes or so, allowing you to see the stars.

A few more sharp thrusts and the knot inside your stomach snapped violently as pure bliss engulfed the entirety of your body. Pantalone, unable to move due to your legs tightening around him, sheathed his cock deep inside and grinded on you, his fat tip rubbing against your sweet, sweet spot. He watched your limp body convulsed beneath him as shocks of pleasure came crashing into you.

He followed suit, spilling his warm seed into the latex while relishing in the tightness of your walls, a loud grunt forced from his rosy lips.

The two of you stayed still for a moment, individuals merely reduced to a heaving mess as the fog of orgasm slowly dissipated from your bodies. As if on cue, Dottore spoke through the intercom,

“The final phase of the study has concluded. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

A breathless laugh from the Harbinger above you, “I sure hope you managed to collect ample findings, Dottore.”

The latter could only scoff, of course he was able to do so. As opposed to his hypothesis—where he had only hypothesized two regions would be active—a handful of regions were active during an orgasm. It gave him a better understanding of how to map the human brain.

At the latter’s silence, Pantalone spoke once more, “Though, I am rather curious,” He let out a small hiss while pulling out. “Why did you need a second participant? Surely you’re more than capable of executing this task yourself, no? Unless . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you simply can’t do it.” To please a woman, he wanted to add.

There was only one way to interpret the Ninth’s words and despite it being ‘friendly’ banter, annoyance bubbled in Dottore’s chest, “Obviously, I would need to record findings hence my lack of participation in the study. But if you ask me, I would have done a better job.”

“Really?”

Silence followed.

Solely due to their brief exchange—or was argument a better word?—you found yourself sandwiched between Lord Dottore and Lord Regrator; every article of your clothing long discarded on the cold tiles, and machinery turned off, long forgotten. With the former laying on the examination chair, you straddled him, trembling legs on either side of his waist while the other Harbinger pressed his clothed chest against your back.

“Lord Dottore . .” You bit your lip. 

In a haste, he had unzipped his pants and pulled out his leaking cock, rubbing the bare tip up and down your sensitive slit. Behind you, Pantalone’s hands mindlessly wandered all over your naked form—from the plush of your breasts to the fat of your ass, he left no skin untouched. But it wasn’t his hands alone, his lips trailed open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, leaving a few small bites in between.

Pantalone gently ushered you forward, one hand splayed across your back to bring you closer to Dottore ‘til your breasts squished against the latter’s chest. Both Harbingers lined their cocks to your entrances and slowly pushed inside. Slumped against the Second, you trembled violently as they stretched your holes out—one wrong move and you were sure to come undone.

With both cocks fully sheathed inside, all you could do at that point was pant like a mere mutt in heat, you haven’t had proper time to come down from your previous orgasm so any form of stimulation quite literally melted your brain and brought tears to your eyes.

Dottore cupped your jaw with a large, gloved hand and angled your face, he examined your fucked out expression momentarily before closing the distance. Messy and desperate, the Lord Harbinger’s kiss simply knocked oxygen from your lungs, he eagerly plunged his tongue past your lips and explored the inside of your mouth. 

The kiss and the sting of his pointed mask digging into your cheek was enough to briefly distract you from their experimental thrusts. Shameless, you wailed into your commander’s mouth, knuckles turning into a lovely shade of ivory as you gripped the collar of his coat.

The examination chair groaned beneath the weight of the Harbingers’ merciless thrusts and one could only hope it was sturdy enough to last an entire round. Creaks of the chair mixed with the sinful harmony of your moans filled all four corners of the room, thankfully this space was a bit more secluded in comparison to your commander’s laboratory which meant anyone else walking down the corridors wouldn’t be able to hear the lewd sounds as much.

Despite the eagerness behind their thrusts, it was certainly surprising to have their movements coordinate with one another—an unspoken rhythm with the sole purpose of bringing you and themselves to release.

Dottore pulled away to catch his breath, leaving a thin translucent string of saliva connecting his kiss-bitten lips to your own, hot breaths mingling together through rough pants. The corner of the Harbinger’s lips curled upwards upon seeing your drunken expression—who knew you looked utterly divine stuffed with two cocks? It made him twitch.

Pantalone’s gaze fixated on your lower half—how your ass bounced and jolted with every powerful thrust he gave. The mere sight of his wet cock appearing and disappearing between the globes of your ass had him heaving a little harder. Maybe it was also due to the tightness of your rear, or the fact that having another cock inside you intensified the pleasurable friction he felt.

A few more harsh thrusts, the coil inside you finally snapped once more, bringing you to a rather earth shattering orgasm. Your body violently trembled in pure bliss as you tried to moan their names to no avail. With the sensation being too much, you fisted Dottore’s clothed chest as if doing so would somewhat ease the pleasurable pain your entire body felt.

The Second soon followed suit, a couple of desperate thrusts into your sopping cunt—ones that had you wailing in overstimulation—before sheathing himself deep inside and releasing thick, warm ribbons of cum. A string of colourful curses in his mother tongue slipped past his kiss-bitten lips as he came inside. Dottore filled you all the way to the brim ‘til his seed slowly seeped out of your greedy hole and onto the leather cushion beneath.

Ah, he’d have to get it cleaned now. 

This left Pantalone who greedily hauled your limp body against his chest; one hand expertly rubbed your swollen clit while the other held your jaw to angle your face upwards so he could plunge his tongue inside your mouth. You choked on the messy kiss as the new angle invited him deeper inside. Dottore’s cock slipped out from the change in position but he didn’t mind, instead, he sat up and took it upon himself to plunge two long digits in your cunt.

His fingers were already long enough to reach far but the added thickness of his gloves had you arching your back. If it wasn’t for Lord Regrator’s firm hold, you would’ve already been slumped against the chair long ago. The former’s fingers moved in a ‘come hither’ motion which allowed him to brush against your sweet spot. Surely you could handle another one, right?

“Oh—hng! Close! Ah—haah!” Hands flew down to circle around Dottore’s wrist, you attempted to pathetically remove his fingers from your cunt which shortly proved futile as he remained unmoved.

You came once more, another blinding orgasm ripping through your orgasm but this time, you could barely even muster a whimper—only a soundless cry and fresh tears streaming down your face. Pantalone grunted and bit your shoulder as orgasm hit him, hot cum painting the walls of your rear; he grinded his hips against your ass to ride out his orgasm before releasing your skin from his bite.

Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing filled the walls and for a long moment, the three of you remained still to catch your breaths with reality slowly seeping in to replace what was once lust. You wanted to sleep right then and there, exhaustion weighed heavy on your body from how hard they both worked you—too tired to even think of the consequences.

You swept your hair covering off as you stepped inside, your riding boots dusted with snow.  The valet at the door took your mare without question, the black beast shaking her head as she was led away. There was no missing your departure from the Palace after morning tea.

The question you were certain was on your fiance's lips popped into your head as you pulled off your gloves and tucked them into your cloak pocket.  

Why were you in such a hurry for piano lessons when your wedding was in just over a week?

Stepping into the lounge off the foyer, you propped open the top of the grand piano and took a look inside.  All strings and hammers intact.  A few were replaced in the last week, actually.  Usually the Doctor handled this but being early, you thought you’d spare his hands for once.

Not that he would ever share the sentiment.  And your purposes were wholly selfish.

You didn’t hear him approach, ever so much a snow leopard in the snow-caked mountains.  

“Tsarevna,” came the icy voice.  “You’re early.”

It wasn’t the words but the weight on your shoulder, cold and hard, that made you jump, hands slamming on keys in a cacophony.  You were thankful the key cover locked in place.

There was no explanation.  Not really.  Other than avoidance of your fiance.

You looked at the Doctor over your shoulder, pale hair falling from the careful arrangement of braids your lady’s maid spent an hour on.  Garnet eyes bore holes into you as you locked your gaze on his.  Much like Pierro and the Captain, he was a mainstay in your life, charged with your mother’s burdens while she buried herself in frozen grief.  Words were unnecessary.

Turning back to the piano, you heard him huff through his nose and shift his weight, cane thumping on the carpet.  He settled into the armchair nearby where he had a perfect view of the keys, pedals, and your posture.

“I have a new composition that could use your particular emotional touch,” the Doctor said.  “You haven’t done sight reading in months.”

“This one?” 

You glanced in his direction while gesturing to the folio on the stand in front of you.  He nodded once and you smoothed your skirts as you sat before arranging the sheet music.  Stretching your fingers and hands,  you were surprised to see neat notes and lines free of splatters.  Purposefully created, a final draft.

The piece started with both hands, left maintaining a rhythm while the right worked a melody, fingers never moving all that far.  You fell into the flow easily, fingers moving like water over the keys.  Occasional reaching with your right pinky.  Compared to other compositions the Doctor wrote over the years, this one was rather mild in its structure.

Yet it tugged at you.  Demanded not your skill, but your heart.  Notes became gentle snowflakes, tinkering on a window pane, the aching melancholy of an end.  It was punctuated with a legato flourish.

When you finished, you paused, staring at the sheets.  “It’s rather…tame,” you broached.  “I imagine an accompaniment would make it more robust.”

“Undoubtedly,” the Doctor replied, almost mockingly.  “There’s more on your mind, Tsarevna.  You never ignore a chance to hone in on emotional tones.”

It wasn’t a secret, your path in life.  Serve your mother.  Make connections.  Be humble and soft as fallen snow but keep your heart walled off, a treasure in an iceberg.  An illusion of freedom to all who looked in while being surrounded by few you could trust.

This version, the true version, of the Doctor was the one your mother allowed refuge.  A man far beyond his years in knowledge but shunned at every turn for it.  Who aged despite every effort to buy himself more time.  You hated the fragments of him, bitter and selfish and unnecessarily cruel to themselves and others.  Only the boy was kind.

And you ran into him just outside the sitting room, staring at you with red eyes.  Not a word was said but you felt them.  Raw and true, as only a child would see the world.

Leaving me like everyone else.

“Lamentation.  An end.  Satisfaction, perhaps, but gentle melancholia remains.  The last notes provide hope, as all humans long for.”

The silence was heavier than the gifted kokoshnik you’d tried on with a feigned smile.

“No one else is here, Tsarevna,” he said.

Even your own teacher wasn’t to be trusted but you could think of no one else.  Your mother?  Impossible.  Pierro reported to your mother.  Rosalyne may have understood, once, and would only be helpful after.  Regrator smelled of smoke too often for your liking and he was too familiar with your fiance, floating around the same social circles.  As the daughter of an Archon and a Fae, you were destined for a slow, long life, and few knew you as long as they.

But out of everyone, only the Doctor was open-minded enough to not shame you.  Ideally.

“I don’t want to give myself to him,” you said at last, looking out the window and then back to the sheet music, fixing their order.  “He looks at me like an object.  A thing to dress and entertain.  He behaves humbly in front of Mother but I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hand holds mine.  I have one value for him and he doesn’t deserve it.”

His other selves loved to talk.  The origin point was quieter, a listener if you ever knew one.  A double-edged sword, for he knew how to use the information given.

“He never had to keep himself for marriage.  His maid actually cornered me on my way here and offered to visit me to teach me how to pleasure him,” you scoffed, fury bubbling deep in your gut.  “Yes, she’d love teach me and then continue to fuck my husband behind my back, I’m sure.”

You tied the folio closed, protecting the composition from your ire.  

“You wish to enter your marriage as equals, then,” the Doctor stated.  “So what is your solution?”

The words you rehearsed on the way here refused to spill forth.  You’d thought about long fingers, worn by time, whenever he would correct your positioning; leg touching yours when showing you foot placement; small praises when you played just right.  None of the younger versions ever played a role in your mind.  It was always the nose clearly broken one too many times brushing against your ear, feeling the leather of the armchair against your legs, the gravely tone vibrating against your breast.

“Tsarvena.”

You swallowed.  Chastising you only made it worse, solidified that if you had to choose someone you knew, it would be him.

Rising from the bench, you began pacing the room, skirts brushing along the ornate Sumerian carpet.  You followed the worn path, one carved by other shoes, mindful of the rest of the handiwork.

“I already leave without supervision to come here,” you began, turning your gaze back to him.  “And if I were to choose, they should know me.  Very few have ever conversed with me as a person.”

“Regrator would be the more romantic choice.”

“We both know his habit makes his entire being acrid.  Hardly a subtle choice if I return smelling like cigarettes.”

The Doctor watched you carefully, thumb running along the beak of his cane, aquamarine stone glinting.  He lost this battle ten years ago when you’d insisted that the Second Harbinger himself teach you how to play the instrument your father, the Tsar, loved so much.  This time, he had the stubborn tenacity of a man who insisted upon himself because time was not his friend.  They made for terrible negotiators.

“Why present this to me and not my younger self?” he asked at last, twisting his cane idly.

“Because while they are you, they are wholly separate from you.”

He couldn’t be serious.  The segment you saw the most, aged thirty-five, was too arrogant for such a task.  If he was your only other option, you’d just save yourself for your wedding night.

The expression on his face was unreadable but you’d struck a cord all the same.  His hand on his cane was tight, jaw set.

“Am I meant to be flattered by that?”

You stopped in your tracks in front of him and threw your hands out to the side, skirts spinning around your ankles.

“Take it however you wish.  I’d rather perform such an act with someone who at least was present for my first century than another who believes they’re entitled to it by law,” you snapped.  “Is it astounding that someone might actually want you, Doctor?”

“Astounding isn’t the word I would use, Tsarvena.” He stared at you a moment longer than felt natural before he turned his attention to the piano  behind you and the window beyond.  “I will give you my answer next week.”

Dismissed.  There was no mistaking his tone and you dared not push it.

“Be well, Doctor.”

You gathered your things from the foyer and left, not bothering with your cloak until you were halfway to the stables.  It helped clear your head, shake the thoughts of going back inside and climbing into his lap and grinding your wet heat on his leg, leaving a wet patch behind.

After all, if  he’d taught you anything over the years, it was patience.  

A package arrived for you on Saturday while you were out.  It was accompanied by a single flower, one you only saw  in a small greenhouse toured in the early days of your weekly lessons.  The name stuck with you because it was so unfamiliar: padisarah.  A flower from the era of the Goddess of Flowers.

It was fresh, petals soft and center fragrant.

An unusual calling card, you mused.

Ensuring your doors were locked, you settled onto your bed and gently pulled at the box’s lid.  Amid tissue paper, you found an envelope and soft pale blue lace.  Your heart skipped at the material as you ran it through your fingers and your face grew hot when you pulled it up, realizing the garments.

The lace panties in one trembling hand, you reached for the envelope and found a familiar script.

Wear these.

There were stockings and a sheer lace corset, structured only with the necessary underwire.

And you knew just the dress to wear, too.  Easy to undo in the front, no need for your maid that morning.

Perfect.

Your stomach twisted into knots as you arrived on Wednesday to a prepared instrument, score chosen and waiting for you.

This time, you’d taken your carriage, claiming to want to enjoy your last day in peace.  Planning was being handled by others (not that your choice mattered much anyway) and this was the better alternative to seeing you mope around, you mused.  A few hours of freedom before the rehearsal dinner was a small pittance you could be allowed.

Approaching the bench, your icy eyes scanned the sheet music.  New.  Messier.  That tempo was bordering on frantic.  Was he punishing you?

You heard the thump of his cane and turned as the Doctor rounded the corner.  In his free hand, two small objects, one with a thin wire dangling.  He looked a tad refreshed more than usual, monocle shining, but he’d always moved with a particular certainty despite the walking stick.  His back was straight; his tailored shirt did no favors in hiding the brace.  

“Do you still wish to proceed, Tsarvena?”  You nodded and he gestured with the top of his cane.  “Then sit facing me.”

Skirts rustling, you did as he asked and settled onto the smooth, polished bench.  The Doctor rested his cane nearby and held out a flat hand.  “Your foot.”

Brow furled, you raised your leg and rested your ankle into his awaiting hand.  He stepped closer, bending your leg and pushing your skirts up, revealing the stockings.  You felt his cold fingers against your thigh as he traced the material from your ankle to your thigh, a jolt running through you at his touch as he reached the soft flesh near your bottom.

“Good girl.”

You stared at him, watching his face as you felt a strap fastened around your leg, a small device pressed into your thigh.  The Doctor’s fingers didn’t stop and climbed higher, tracing the hem near the apex of your legs.  You caught the softest hum of approval as he dipped beneath the fabric and brushed against your hair, the worn pad of his finger meeting wet lips as he slid a small, round device between them.

“What is that?” you asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

He let go of your leg after a squeeze of your thigh before reaching into his pocket.  You saw a small pill before he slipped it into his mouth as though he was in thought for a moment.  

“I need time.  If you had given at least a few weeks’ notice, arrangements would be different.”

The Doctor settled into his usual armchair and you arranged yourself on the bench properly, the round device prodding your wet folds.  It sat in such a way that you felt a little pressure on your clit, and thus every shift of your hips made your eagerness all the more prominent.

“Play as normal.  We’ll see how the rest unfolds.”

Heart pounding, you took your position and began to sightread, willing yourself to focus.  Huh.  A tarantella.  This one looked old judging by the sun damage on the paper.  Quick and daring, like an arctic fox across the tundra, darting through ice tunnels.  You read ahead to keep the pace only for your pinky to slip and hit a sharp rather than a flat.

You felt a jarring sensation and buzzing beneath you that ran from your core to your belly button, your breath catching.  Maybe just the pressure.  Angling your hips a little differently, you pressed on and continued smoothly, fingers flying across the keys.

Wait, was that a quarter or an eighth note?  The pencil marks weren’t erased neatly, echos of previous thoughts not faded enough.  The strange feeling returned, stronger than before, and you gave a surprised yelp.  You felt yourself grow wetter, the dull throbbing you’d felt all morning giving way to a painful ache.

Thankful for the easy refrain, your fingers kept the melody.  Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the Doctor with one hand on his cane, the other idly playing with a small corresponding remote, half-hardened member pressing against his thigh.  You caught his thin lips in the trademark smug smile that the Segments were known for.

“Poor planning should be punished accordingly, Tsarvena.  Keep going.”

You tried to even out your breathing as you shifted pedals and recognized patterns.  These notes were part of a scale, follow through and hold two beats, not one.  Notes blurred together and you winced as you realized your mistakes just as the vibrations ran through your core, a taste of white hot heat ripped away from you.  Your hands slammed the keys before they slipped off the board entirely and gripped your skirts.  The sound that ripped itself from your lips was almost feral, sharp and keening.

“I didn’t think you had the stamina but that was simply pathetic,” the Doctor sneered.  “Not even halfway through a single sheet.  Come here.”

“I don’t recall you having authority over me, Harbinger,” you hissed, chest heaving.

“You’re in no position to bicker, Tsarvena.  If you had come to me weeks or even months ago, I’d have planned accordingly.  As it stands, I’m likely shaving off a decade of my life for this experiment.  Do as I say and come here.”

You cried out as the device demanded your pleasure again and you rose on shaky legs, every step towards the Doctor complete agony.  Burning red eyes took in every inch of your flushed skin and parted lips, your entire being drunk on arousal.  This must be what it was like, you mused, to be consumed by pure fire.  And he hadn’t even touched you properly.

He reached for the stays on the front of your dress, undoing the hooks with experienced practicality.  Pushing it away from your torso, the Doctor ran his fingers over the lace, callouses nipping at the gentle material.  He tugged you closer, only long enough to play with your hardened nipples.  Flicking, squeezing, sucking.  You felt teeth against the soft flesh underneath before he pushed you away.

The damp lace was irritating, no doubt the intention.

“On your knees.”

The carpet was plush as you sank down, thighs soaked with your own juices.  You’d expected only penetration, the act itself, not this.  What was he—

“Come closer and undo my belt.”

You pushed yourself up and reached forward, elbows resting on his thighs as you pulled at the metal.  You pulled the leather through the shining loop and flicked your gaze up to find him watching you.  He didn’t protest when you reached for his fly and he hissed in relief as he sprang free.  

You blinked, shocked that a man his age could even—

He shifted his hold on his cane and placed it across his knees, pinning you in place.  The dreaded device at your entrance hummed and felt your walls clench at the sight of his cock.  Worn, veiny, and when you dared touch, somehow still like velvet over steel.  He remained silent as you continued touching him, reaching the base and lower still, finding his balls, heavy and weathered.

The thought of them slapping against you clouded your mind and without much thought, you leaned forward to wrap your lips around the glistening tip.  The Doctor inhaled sharply, twitching against your tongue.

It took some coaxing but you finally were able to press your nose to his base, the ache in your core unbearable.  You bucked your hips on nothing, shifted your hips so your heel pressed the device against you harder, unsure of what you were seeking other than relief.

The Doctor growled and grabbed your head, pushing your face against him.  “No, no, save that orgasm for when I’m buried inside you, Tsarvena.”

The pleasure was momentarily broken as the Doctor set  an unforgiving pace.  You sputtered and gagged as he came, refusing to let you pull away until he finished, the last remnants shooting across your lips and chest.

His laugh was gleeful as his fingers painted his cum all over your mouth.

“Works much better than the evidence originally indicated,” he snickered.  “Perhaps I should thank you for forcing my hand, I might never have finished this project without your little request.”

Dazed, you didn’t quite understand what he meant until you realized he had yet to soften.  Virgin though you were, you were well aware of basic reproductive anatomy and expectations.  Wasn’t he at least tired?  He looked almost refreshed, like he’d just had a cat nap.

“Stand up and turn around.”

He shifted his cane to provide the freedom necessary and you turned around, reflection catching in the polished piano’s open lid.  Hair was falling from its pins, your dress hung like a death shroud, and neither of you wiped the pearly substance from your collar.  One look at you and no one could mistake the events.

The Doctor pawed at your skirts and pulled you back, arranging his legs between yours.  Hiking up the layers, you felt cold air on your thighs and bottom.  Fingers plucked the soaked device from your lips and you peered over your shoulder to see him lick it, your slick glistening.

“One experiment we have to forgo, Tsarvena.  Had I been able to plan properly, I would know every facet of your body and you would have the experience you so desire.”

“So you keep telling me,” you replied.  “But are you sure you would have been up for it?”

“I’d find a way.  I always do.”

More squeezing, exploration of the exposed skin between the stockings and the panties.  The lace was pulled down, and you stepped out of them before you felt hot breath on soft flesh, teeth grazing and nipping at one cheek, and then the other.  A shiver ran up your spine and he bit harder, likely enough to bruise.  You tried to reach back to swat at him but you missed.

“No marks, I thought that went without saying,” you snapped.

He gave a chuckle and bit you again, your mouth opening in silent shock at the pain.  “You’ll think of me every time you sit down.”

Casting him an indignant look, the Doctor reached up to spread a hand over your back, bending you over.  The other, now free of the remote and his cane, gripped your hip to pull you back.  His shaft sat between your cheeks, hot and hard, sticky with your saliva.

“Really, like an animal?” you bit out.

“I warned you that Regrator would have been the romantic choice,” came the reply as his touch left your back and he slid his length along your flesh, jolting you as his tip brushed past another sensitive entrance.  “This angle should, however, provide intense results.”

You felt his tip finally pass along your soaked entrance and clit, slick swollen heat sliding around his length as he nestled between your lips.  Your inner walls throbbed eagerly, twitching at your opening, and he groaned in response.

“Last chance, Tsarvena.”

You gave no reply and instead rolled your hips, catching his tip with your entrance.  You wiggled and tried to sink down, your body pliable.  Long fingers grabbed your hips, guiding you down slowly until you sat down entirely, toes brushing the carpet.  Your body stretched to accommodate with a dull ache, unaccustomed to the intrusion.  The Doctor leaned forward slightly, as much as the brace would allow, letting go of your hip long enough to take your hand and guide it between your legs.  You felt his length and then where your body took over, until he took your hand lower, your slick coating his worn skin.  You cupped his balls, earning yourself a groan as you brushed them against your thighs.

“You seem to be quite bold despite your inexperience,” he grumbled into your neck, teeth grazing near the hem of your dress.

“I’m merely curious,” you replied.

“A healthy trait in the right dose,” his breath tickled your skin as he guided your hands to the chair’s arms, pressing them in.  “This works best if your feet are flat.”

Planting your feet and gripping the arms, you let out a shuddering moan at the slick sound as your bodies parted.  Nails dug into the flesh at your hips as the Doctor guided you along his length.  He lifted you to the point where he almost left you entirely, bouncing you on his tip before forcing you back down, your legs burning.  You relaxed into the rhythm he set, every stroke a spark stoking a fire building deep inside.  He bit you as he pulled you down into his lap, your toes balancing your weight and curling into the plush carpet.

Your sounds were obscene, squeals and cries and moans you never thought would fall from your lips.  Panting as your legs trembled, you tried to focus on the pressure building inside you, urging whatever release your body craved—

The Doctor slowed, setting long strokes that toyed with your entrance.  You gave a whining keen, your body craving the fullness, walls demanding more.

“Breath, Tsarvena, and let go.”

White hot heat engulfed your vision as something gave way, your body shattering like ice.

“Good girl.  That’s it, keep coming.”

You shuddered in his lap, swaying your hips, as you clenched down on his cock.  The sensation was so sweet it bordered on painful, your core wanting more despite having just had a taste.  You didn’t want to stop.

A second wave hit you harder and you gave a sharp cry as he guided you through it with a rougher pace.

“Hungry little thing,” he chastised.  “You wanted me that badly for all these years?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yet you waited until the inevitable to come to me.  Pathetic.  We’ll just need to make the most of the last hours we have, then, hmm?”

The pace was unrelenting and you found yourself tumbling over edge after edge as he chased his own release, slamming you down as he twitched.  You felt warmth shoot deep inside, flooding you.

Your eyes locked with your reflection again, this time an image of complete ruination.  Hair truly in tangles, lips parted, eyes dazed.

The Doctor lifted you onto unsteady feet and you felt his essence drip down to your swollen lips.  Rough fingers scooped up the substance and plunged back into you, plush walls more than accepting of the touch.  One hand grabbed a cheek, squeezing and pulling at you.

“Admiring your handiwork?” you slurred, arching onto his fingers.

“If you behave this way for your intended, you have little to worry about, Tsarvena.  We’re hardly finished.”

You gasped as he slid his length between your cheeks again.

“How are you—“

“Anything is possible with the right chemical composition.  You will be little more than a stumbling fawn when I’m through with you.”

He was true to his word.  The piano and score long abandoned, you instead spent the rest of your time in a haze, pleasure so intense it bordered on painful.  By the end, you had no thoughts, filled to the brim and then some.

“I’ll feel you with every step down the aisle,” you mumbled, legs high as you were splayed on the nearby couch.

“Then my work is complete.”

You managed to find the energy to dress and tidy yourself.  When you reached for the lace panties long abandoned, the end of his cane kept them in place.

“Those are mine now.  A parting gift, if you would be so kind.”

Your skirts would be soaked with your mingled juices, then, you wanted to protest.  The glint in his eyes told you that was exactly the point.

Amid the crowd the next morning, you spotted a younger visage next to Pantalone.  The one always sent in the Doctor’s stead when he could not travel long distances.  Younger, the face the public always saw.

The smile and head tilt you received as you walked up the aisle with your husband was unsettling enough.  It was the lace tucked into his breast pocket, peeking out for all to see, that dropped your stomach to your feet the rest of the evening.

You spent your wedding night with thoughts of red eyes and worn fingers, unable to forget.

You returned from your honeymoon weeks later, routine upheaved as you eased into married life.  To no one’s surprise, you looked a little worse for wear despite spending so long in the mild climates of Mondstadt and Fontaine.  At first you only thought it was motion sickness, the boat ride home far choppier and unsettling than the initial trip, but it lingered; when you missed your cycle not once, but twice, all doubt disappeared.

Part of you had known.  You didn’t expect to feel changed but ever since the night before your wedding, your world felt ever-so-slightly off kilter.  

It wasn’t until months later, during a seasonal summit, that you saw the Doctor again.  You hadn’t felt much movement over the last day—hardly a concern for your physician—but it worried you all the same.  To come this far, only for something to go wrong…you only wanted to do this once.

Did he speculate, you wondered, as you did?  You felt it in your bones that the child was his: an intuition that he would never believe until bloodwork proved otherwise.

“Play for me, Doctor?” you asked simply.  “She’s been lethargic lately.  It’s harder for me to reach the keys now.”

He looked older than you recalled, the angles of his face harder, and gaze more pointed.  His shoulders must ache, too.  His words about shaving off years of his life were true, it seemed.  All to give you what you wanted.

What he clearly wanted, too.

You swayed in your seat on the sofa as he obliged you, a familiar tune that your father used to play.  Soft and tender.  How did he remember that?  

It wasn’t until the last notes of the song that you felt the familiar flutter in your belly, relief spreading through you.  You eased yourself out of your seat and walked over to the piano and then reached for his tired hand to press it against the swell of your abdomen.

“She’s yours,” you whispered.

“The probabilities are doubtful.  Your husband was boastful of your excursions over post-dinner drinks.”

“And you don’t think it’s strange that she’s active for you?”

“New stimulus provides that result.”

“We’ll see.”

Something softened in his face for the faintest of moments, as though he was entertaining the idea.  How ironic, you thought, the known heretic impregnating the daughter of the Archon he served.  Fitting.

He left after a strong kick, patting your hand wordlessly in departure.

You recalled seeing him next in a fevered haze.  Fighting with your physician, the one your husband insisted on, hurling insults at your spouse.  Your mother, Archon of her people with larger worries, pressed cold compresses to your head to keep you awake.

“The right thing to do would be to deliver the child,” the Doctor snarled.  “If you wait longer or hope for a natural rupture, you risk both lives.  Pathetic, you’re her partner, you dolt!”

“Zandik,” your mother said, the older man pausing in his rant.  “Is that what you do?”

He stared at you, solemn.  Perhaps it was the fever but you swore he looked guilty.  After a moment, he shifted his gaze to your mother and said, “It’s the only thing to do if you wish to give both of them a chance.”

“Then get the steadiest pair of hands among you for the task.”

The last thing you recalled was your mother singing to you as a figure with glasses and shining red eyes lowered a mask onto your mouth and nose.

Hours later, morning sunlight kissing the walls of your bedroom, you woke to find the chair in the corner occupied.  The aquamarine nestled into the figurehead of the walking stick glinted at you.  Murmurings of a language you identified as a dialect of Sumerian rang over the rattling of the nearby radiator.

A bundle, whining.  Tiny fingers reaching and rubbing cheeks.

“Ah, mamusya is awake, little duchess,” the Doctor murmured.  “You should meet her properly.”

Instinctively, you reached for the covers but the glare sent your way and the sharp stabbing pains in your abdomen halted you.

“I’m old but not incapable, Tsarvena.  Stay there.”

The babe was small and scrunched, cooing as she was shifted over to your arms.  It was impossible to miss the dusting of blue hair, the wrong shade to match yours.  The eye color would reveal itself in time.

“I told you.”

He was silent, idly playing with his walking stick as he watched not you, but the baby.  The Doctor reached out and the child wrapped a hand around his finger.

“Zandik,” you murmured, his name strange on your tongue.

He left without another word and you never saw him again.  Only the shadow of his younger self remained, ever present, ever curious.  The segment in the prime of his life offered you only few words when you were well enough to travel.

“Keep her from the others.  Take her far away from here.  She deserves that much.  It’s what he would have wanted.”