Reese's special blog

As of now, there’s a shattering pressure to be located in your abdomen, as if something is digging up extra space that shouldn’t be made. Any squirms of your unadjusted body are diminished with Chrollo’s palm holding you close by your belly, your back against his chest. You’re warming and sitting on his lap and everything about it is wrong — you are maintained with only your t-shirt on, legs and crotch nude for him to split you on his cock also to be warmed.

He’s waiting — comfortable on the couch, unlike you — anticipating the moment your body will decide to relax and give his hardness more space to leash you from inside, rather than just be knocking against your cervix painfully. Sitting on top of his cock for the first time is certainly stressful enough to show up in how tightly your pussy squeezes him.

“Relax,” he mutters gently into your nape and one kiss is left where your back’s surface begins, although it only sets your nerves on fire more. Even his pants, only unzipped, touching your naked legs is overwhelming. Worse, his hand travels from your belly to be between your spread thighs draped over his, then circles on your clit to work wonders — you do moan with shame. You’re wetter than you’d like to be, but your muscles still work against you. Your legs already hurt from the strain of slightly hovering your body above his lap, too uncomfortable to sit down on him fully, and he’s not helping with his arms around you forcing you to submit to gravity.

“Chrollo, please, I can’t do this,” you whimper out the plea, pushing your palms at the side of his thighs. The irrational side inspires thoughts you should have let him have you, since this is the key to ending what your predicament is about — you refused to sleep with him, so he’s piling up your compliance step by step by letting you get used to the feeling of being filled by him.

Because no, sex with him is not avoidable; of course, he could have simply forced himself on you, but he’s still acting out that damn role of a patient guy, one meeting you halfway. He stole you months ago, he praised and worshiped you for many more prior, it is only right he collects the fruit of his hard labor.

(While the truth is, he’s probably biding his time for fun — obtaining something is not as fulfilling as the chase for it. And you’re worth every pursuit. Not to mention, the nicer you are, the more normal he feels about intimacy with you; believe it or not, he’s not just trying to pretend to be a human, but be one also.)

Things are promising for Chrollo only: you’ve never allowed him to penetrate you before and it’s both humiliating and nerve-racking for it to finally happen. He’s taking what he shouldn’t be taking nor was he allowed to, and you’re rightfully scared. He might not see your negativity if you’re not facing him, though it’s redundant when anything else in your body speaks for itself.

“But you’re doing so well already. Just a bit—”, he announces his slight thrust up, one making you gasp and clench on his cock. “—more.”

He offers you a few extra of those shallow thrusts, until your head is collapsing on his shoulder with extortion, small sweat building up on your forehead already. Your fingers knead his thighs, nearly causing pain. You’re no longer as tense, able to sit down and handle him better, although who knows how long he’ll keep you here, split in half.

Your bodily perception is concentrated in your abdomen, still with your pussy tormented by the expansion of his girth, and it’s still uncomfortable; not even size-related, but coming from the intrusion this experience is not even his fingers given before this game started helped. Your eyes dart around the room only for your brain to fail to disconnect with some object to obsess about.

Whatever tears moist your lashline, he collects with his other hand; they’d be perfect for him to drink from, yet so far they are only a small amount in comparison to the waters you’ll produce once he’ll be able to fuck you properly.

Unwanted by you, there’s another type of ache to be felt — a sweet buildup spread across your tight hole, involuntarily begging for more friction. Need washes itself down your thigh. Your feet finally try to touch the ground and stand up to run away from it, but the arm crossing your front pulls you closer, so rapidly he’s pulling a creak out of the couch. 

“Stay still,” he demands, slightly strained in his voice. Your squirms backfire against him as well — your walls rub around his cock or swallow it more with every jerk a bit too well, he’s nearly as desperate as you for more.

Resigned, you collapse your entire body against his chest, with your palms gripping onto the couch’s edge limply. At least you don’t have to see his interested or horny face. “Chrollo, how long do you plan to keep me like this?” you ask with reasonable anxiety. You may have learned some of his behavior but you are still akin to a novice in navigating his person, incapable of foreseeing more elaborate plots. He can be too unpredictable, and your ideas of him are ambivalent already.

“Well…” He gives up on your clit and rubs your hip instead; it’s meant to be soothing, except you are too paranoid about his hand deciding to wander lower again. “Perhaps a chapter will do. That is, if you behave,” he informs lazily.

So between ten to even fifty novel pages, depending on how over-detailed his picked author can get. “… And how long is it?” you gulp after asking the question carrying too many terrible answers possible.

“Hm, let me see…” Chrollo leans forward with you still on his lap and in his arms, this same angling his cock inside you to be curved and pressed into a spongier spot, that your toes curl from both pain and sensitivity. He picks up the book and leans back onto the couch, beginning to feel the tremble of your form. He keeps it over your head, while the other hand crawls under your clothing and teases your skin.

Every rustle of the page causes your heart to beat faster; he's either lying about the chapter’s length or it’s that long.

“Thirty one.” It’s as if you hear a death sentence verdict.

“Thirty one?! That’s gotta to be like an hour of reading!” you realize frantically. You don’t even count on it being thirty one, in case he decides you did something wrong and need to start another round.

“It seems this writer had an affinity for creating detailed landscapes,” his voice comes to be amused, well-aware what this means for you — warming his dick for an hour or so. “Shall we proceed or do you have any more input to share?” His point is clear: the more you protest, the longer you will be skewered like this.

All you can do is nod the back of your head pathetically into his shoulder. He’s right about that one thing. Running away is futile too.

First five minutes, despite how slow they pass, you manage to get through his ‘foreplay’ surprisingly easily. You're almost led to believe he has turned off his surroundings awareness, this much immersed in his little novel, as he’s simply letting you be. Your eyes trace shapes of the living room’s TV, then the gray-framed windows and its city paintings outside, ending with slight dust gathered on the glass coffee table. The texture of your top is smooth under your fingers. It’s nearly possible for you to shut off your bodily senses and not think of the way his cock is splitting you; besides, the pain has subsided already.

Or so you would have thought. The lesson — or should he say, the preparation for the starting of your sex life — wouldn't be successful if you simply tuned out the feeling of being penetrated by him. “Could you pass me my tea, love?” Chrollo asks with nothing but innocence.

It is just now you notice the teacup of thankfully not steaming tea on the glass furniture. There’s no way in hell for you to grab it and hand it over, not without spilling some on yourself, but it’s especially difficult to do so without experience similar to being gutted alive by his cock. Sitting on it vertically is intense already. “Chrollo… you’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse nervously, simultaneously hoping to annoy him enough for him to grab his drink himself.

“Doing what on purpose, exactly? There’s tea I’d like to drink. You know I drink tea. Considering our current arrangement, you’re the one who needs to grab it for me,” he informs calmly. You hate his logical reasoning, or how unperturbed he is besides a few silent gasps given when you move too much. “Otherwise, I’ll have to start our process over. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

You tense up at his clear threat. Losing a few minutes of progress is the least you want, so you acquiesce. You lean your body forward; you are smart enough to try to slightly pull out by raising your hips, but he chases you to it, as the hand that’s not holding his book forces you to sit down. “No cheating.”

You cry out, feeling as his cock’s head presses your insides a bit too deeply; to make things worse, he twitches, as if growing impossibly harder at your noise. You choose to force your body to move with more zeal and lean yourself forward, grabbing that stupid cup with a shaky hand. The worst is not over when you have to lean back against his chest with enough control in your muscles to avoid spilling the earl grey over you both.

You support the teacup’s saucer with your other hand, and slowly drag your body backwards. 

When your back hits his chest again, you let out an exhale as if you just ran a marathon. “Thank you, darling,” he mutters when grabbing the porcelain, before he's pressing a kiss onto your neck from behind you. Even that is capable of creating more mess within your hole, as you already are sensitive all over you; now that kiss gets you wetter, as it was purposely aimed on the edge connecting jaw and neck.

For a sip to be taken, he has to halt reading for a second, dragging on your torture the same. After he’s done and sets the set away thankfully himself, he grabs his pages again; although, this time, he moves to adjust himself right after. His length stirs your juices, you clench on him, drawing out a bleat from you and deep sigh from him. You dig your nails into your thighs, chasing hurt as distraction, and your feet raise to rest on your tiptoes.

“Chrollo—” you tilt your head on his shoulder, able to catch his curious face in your side vision. “How many pages are you in?” you manage to utter through your constrained with emotion throat.

“Ten,” he mutters and glides his free hand’s fingers over your jaw, hungrily observing the unbecoming look on your face. You really are like this thanks to him only, and he could get drunk on your attention. If it were another person, perhaps he’d find their demonstrative ways, full of emotion and vulnerability to be deplorable. With you, he’s eager to unravel you.

“T-ten,” you repeat, barely calculating the portion in your addled head. About one third into the chapter, and you’re already losing your mind.

It’s not that you necessarily want him to grab and finally fuck you, but if you well know he wouldn't let you end things prematurely, you still hope for little something to make things feel less like you're lacking something — being edged from more pleasure. All those tiny, shallow thrusts from tiny movements, and all those stirs were enough to build up arousal proficient in creating chaos begging for scattering.

He’s conscious of that, eager to take advantage. “You know we can skip all of this if only you choose to let me have you fully. It’s inevitable, so…” he proposes, gently-toned and patient to sell you the deal further.

You immediately shake your head, instinctively terrified of the prospect. Your current situation may not be ideal or not-petrifying, yet you're still not ready for the main thing. 

“Are you sure? I can tell you want something, not to mention…” his book is abandoned for him to reach between your messy thighs. “I can feel your misery all over me.” His fingers drag across your slit, smearing your wetness from your hole to your clit, where he stops to rub a few circles.

You shake on his lap, feeling ripples of a pleasure higher than before. Your calves strain as you bump your legs feebly try to raise your hips away from what he’s doing to you.“Please, stop,” you whine, attempting to clench your legs shut and stare ahead. Sadly, he doesn’t stop, not even feeling the pain from your thighs suffocating his bones.

Let him get you relief. Don’t let him get what he wants. Let him help you. Don’t let him win—

He chuckles: a stranger on the street would find it pleasant-sounding, but you know better. “I’m not so sure about your answer, so I'll ask once more — should we end this and move to better things, or should I keep reading?” his voice is pathologically calm.

“I…” you hesitate. That’s when he offers you a first, big thrust — a sample of what you can receive should you only ask. You try to get away from his lap again and again does he shove you closer to him. You scratch his pants and he thrusts into you again as punishment, you have no choice but to stop fighting.

“Yes?” he prods with amusement when you obey.

“Please, just…” you don’t realize you're opting for grinding your hips back at him, until a groan passing his lips lets you on the knowledge: you freeze.

“You have to use or words. I cannot let a misunderstanding happen, can I?” His thumb taps your clit and you go insane.

It’s not much love and desire speaking when you turn your head and suddenly kiss him, holding onto his bicep, if merely a desperation to let go of your gathered emotional tension. Regardless, your behavior is so unusual that even he appears surprised at first.

Chrollo is no fool to deny himself of your lips nonetheless. He grabs your throat to angle your head, kisses you for a few heated moments, then shoves his tongue into your mouth so lovely you get dizzy spells. When the kiss ends with your bruised lips, he puts his forehead against yours. 

“Should I read your kiss as your ultimate decision?” He stares you into the eye, his breath grazing your skin and obstructing your clarity further. The hand that hasn’t left your throat rubs it softly, sweetly docile.

He’s hopeful, as his eyes say that. It’s not a pretty sight, only speaking of what he wants to do to you. How this is about further obtaining you, tying you to him, going as far as inspecting his ‘goods’ as well.

It’s scary, dehumanizing, and absurd. You’re reminded of what he’s truly after in that just one gaze. “N-no. I don’t agree,” you answer instantly.

Chrollo sighs with tad disappointment, only to smile with curiosity. Your decision is still beneficial for him. “Fine then. I suppose we should wrap things up and start over tomorrow?”

A mortifying silence follows. “What?” you take a lot of time to ask with shock. 

“I’m not sure if you’re in the right shape to continue. We should try again later,” this mocking is said with a chaste kiss on your cheek, one not shutting your bemused mouth. 

All of your progress just went to waste, all because you got impatient. Although, it’s not as if he had ever said cockwarminghim will be an event organized just once. In any case, he’s a winner — one that’ll be happy with having you in any form.

“Don't cry.” He murmurs bluntly and wipes your tears of frustration appearing seconds later. “You did well for your first time,” it’s almost a praise.

When he pulls out, you can feel the lingering throb, your hole pulsing desperately for more. Your legs are weak when he helps you stand up, he’s right there to seize your waist. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s late.” Maybe if you kiss him goodnight he’ll provide relief on his fingers, no matter you’re selling another part of yourself to him for a mere temporary distraction from your shitty hostage situation.

The shame is immediate and intense. He's going to know. When he moves down to the pelvic exam, he'll part your legs, and he'll see the slickness glistening on your inner lips. He might even comment on it in that same detached, clinical voice, pointing out your arousal as if it were a symptom. The thought makes you throb even more, a vicious cycle of humiliation and unwanted pleasure. You can only stare at the ceiling, praying he doesn't notice the slight trembling in your legs.

Next you have to go onto the chair. He adjusts the chair, and your legs are lifted into the cold metal stirrups. The paper gown is bunched around your waist, leaving your wet pussy completely exposed to the sterile air. You feel a fresh wave of humiliation as your slickness glistens under the bright exam light. His gloved fingers part your folds, and you flinch at the direct contact. He makes a low, thoughtful sound, pretending to be focused on his examination. But his touch is slow and deliberate, circling your clit with a firm pressure that feels anything but clinical. A soft, helpless moan escapes you as your hips lift slightly from the chair, betraying your arousal. He continues to talk about muscle tone and sensitivity, all while his finger slides lower, tracing your entrance. You can feel your own wetness coating his glove, and you know he can feel it too. The shame burns through you, but your body arches into his touch, craving more of the pleasure you know you shouldn't want.

His finger slips inside you easily, a testament to how aroused you are. He works it in and out slowly, his thumb still pressing circles on your clit. Your body betrays you completely, hips moving in time with his thrusts. He pulls his finger out and you feel a cold, clinical instrument pressing against your sensitive flesh. It’s a speculum, and the metal is a shocking contrast to his warm touch. He inserts it, the coldness making you gasp as he slowly cranks it open, spreading you wide under the bright light. You are completely exposed, your wet, pink inner walls visible to him.

He hums, making notes on a chart, but his eyes are fixed on you. He then takes a long, thin probe. He tells you he’s checking for nerve response as he traces it along your swollen lips and over your throbbing clit. Each touch sends a jolt through you, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out, utterly ashamed by how much you’re enjoying this violation.

He switches off the bright light, leaving you in the dimmer ambient glow of the room. The speculum is removed with a cold, metallic click, but the feeling of being stretched and exposed lingers. He discards the glove with a snap and picks up a different instrument, this one with a smooth, rounded tip that hums softly when he turns it on. He explains he needs to test your pelvic floor reflexes.

The vibrating head is placed against your inner thigh, and you jump at the sensation. He slowly moves it higher, the vibration buzzing closer and closer to your dripping wetness. When it finally makes contact with your outer lips, a shudder runs through your entire body. He applies gentle pressure, massaging your most sensitive areas with the device. Your back arches off the table as the vibrations travel deep inside you, pushing you closer to an orgasm you desperately don't want to have here. He watches your face intently, his expression unreadable as you struggle to stay quiet, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

He picks up a smooth, cylindrical tool, its surface cool and slick with gel. Without a word, he guides the tip to your entrance and pushes it inside you. The fullness is immediate and shocking. He begins to piston it in and out with a steady, rhythmic pace that mimics a cock.

Look at me, he says calmly, his voice a low murmur. Describe the sensations.

Please. I... it feels... full, you stammer, your eyes fixed on the ceiling. You can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. It's... stretching me. The tool hits a spot deep inside that makes your toes curl. A... a deep pressure.

Good, he encourages, increasing the speed slightly. The sound of the tool moving in your wetness is obscenely loud. And now? What do you feel now?

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of shame and pleasure. It's... building. I feel a... a heat. It's... I can't... The words catch in your throat as the sensations intensify, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The tool slides deeper with each thrust, its smooth, unyielding surface rubbing against a spot that makes your whole body tense. A hot, coiling tightness builds low in your belly, impossible to ignore. It feels... intense, you force out, your voice trembling. Like a... a wave starting to form.

Very good, he says, his tone utterly clinical. And the physical response? Can you describe the muscle contractions?

You squeeze your eyes shut, humiliated by the question. My... my stomach is clenching. Everything is getting tighter. Inside, it's... it's fluttering. The words are a strained whisper. The pleasure is becoming painful, a desperate need for release that you’re fighting against. I... I think I'm going to...

And the emotional state? he prompts, his pace never faltering.

Ashamed, you gasp, a tear finally escaping down your temple. So ashamed. But I can't... I can't stop it. The orgasm is right there, triggered by his relentless questioning as much as by the tool fucking you. Please...

A broken sob escapes your lips as you writhe against the cold leather. Please... I can't hold it...

You did very well, he says, his voice softening for the first time. His hand stills the tool, pressing it deep inside you. You're allowed to cum now. Let it happen.

His permission is all it takes. The wave you've been fighting crashes over you, a violent, shuddering release that rips through your body. Your back arches off the table as a cry echoes in the quiet room, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around the intruding object. The pleasure is blinding, mixed with the sharp sting of humiliation as you climax under his calm, observing gaze. It seems to go on forever, your body trembling uncontrollably until you finally collapse, spent and exposed.

He withdraws the tool slowly, and you gasp at the sudden emptiness. Your entire body is still trembling from the orgasm, your pussy throbbing and oversensitive. You expect it to be over, but he simply clicks on a penlight. He parts your folds again, the light beam focused directly on your swollen, glistening flesh. His other hand gently prods at your entrance, and you flinch.

Very responsive, he murmurs, making a note. The aftershocks make you clench around nothing, and a fresh trickle of wetness escapes. He traces a finger around your sensitive rim, observing the way your hips jerk involuntarily.

The examination continues, his touch clinical yet unbearably intimate on your aching, well-used pussy. He seems fascinated by your body's lingering reactions, and you are utterly helpless under his scrutiny.

He makes a low, appreciative sound as he observes the slight quiver of your inner lips. The cool air of the room is a stark contrast to the heat radiating from you. He then produces a small, smooth mirror on a handle.

I want you to see the state of your cervix after such a pronounced climax, he explains calmly, angling the mirror. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he insists. Look.

He crashes into you seconds later and by some stroke of luck, you end up directly between his horns, saved from a gory end as he thrusts them into the wall. Pieces of stone crumble off and dust your shoulders. The way his head has to dip down to accommodate his horns puts him forehead-to-forehead with you. He breathes out a hot, frustrated breath.

He's still worked up, but he seems perfectly okay with putting his attention on you, his horns and hands pressing against the wall and caging you in. You don't know what to do, so you try to calm him by petting his muzzle.

He leans into you, his heavy, sweaty body pinning you in place. You don't dare make a peep. The referees are running over, but even they seem unsure of how to get him to disengage. Finally, he pulls back on his own, shaking his head and blinking the haze away. The tip of one of his horns has broken off. He pries it out of the wall and drops it into your hand like a little gift then stalks off, shouldering past the referees.

To: Pantalone, Regrator of the Fatui

Subject: On Continued Allocation for Celestial Research

Regrator,

The current funding tier allotted to my department is insufficient. This is not a complaint. It is an observation, much like the ones I am making of Teyvat’s sky, which continues to contradict the official cosmological model you so generously bankroll. The discrepancy has widened since my last report. Either the firmament is lying, or history is, and I am inclined to believe both.

There are three moons embedded in all pre-Cataclysm records on-hand. Two have already ceased to exist, while the one that remains behaves erratically when observed over long periods of time. My current observational arrays have already verified cyclical deviations that cannot be attributed to atmospheric interference or faulty calibration. These results are conclusive at their present resolution, but without upgraded instruments, further analysis will stagnate at correlation rather than causation.

The methodology is already established. What limits progress is material reach. With adequate funding, I can upgrade my current arrays, reinforce their anchoring mechanisms, and pursue the moons’ residual signatures at a depth previously unattainable. All relevant budgetary projections are compiled in the attached appendices. I trust you will find the figures comprehensive enough to occupy your attention.

Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, has never asked that truth be gentle, only that it be obtained. Your participation ensures the machinery remains adequate to its task. However, my studies do not pause for consensus. Approval determines only how much time is wasted.

— Il Dottore Second of the Fatui Harbingers

Pantalone finishes the letter with one arm loosely draped around your figure.

You had climbed into his lap somewhere between the second paragraph and the mention of lunar instability. His office chair accommodates you both without issue, and he no longer bothers feigning surprise when you settle there as though it were an assigned seat. Whenever you deign to visit, this is where you choose to be.

He finds the habit… charming. Cats, after all, have an instinct for claiming what they favor.

The paper makes a soft sound as he folds it once and sets it aside on the desk, but you barely look up. Your attention is occupied with the delicate silver cord attached to his glasses, fingers idly toying with it like it was some rare filament spun just for you. Your tail curls lazily around the arm of the chair. One of your legs is tucked against his thigh; the other draped carelessly over the side, wholly unconcerned with propriety.

“So,” Pantalone murmurs, “you delivered his ultimatum personally.”

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you giggle as you trace the ridges of muscle beneath his thermal clothing. “The Doctor just wants his machines bigger. And sturdier.”

“I’m aware of what he wants.”

The Regrator’s hand rests comfortably at your hip. It makes you shift slightly in his lap, adjusting your weight with no hesitation whatsoever. There is no coyness in it. You have always been like this with him—with Dottore too. Touch is as natural to you as breathing.

“You read it three times,” you note.

“I enjoy thorough investments.”

You hum, leaning back against him without asking permission. Your head tips against his shoulder, and you peer up at him with open curiosity. If anything, you seem more interested in the faint gleam of his glasses than in the letter that prompted your delivery.

“I like your office,” you say. “It’s quiet. And everything’s shiny.”

He nods solemnly. “That is the intention.”

Your gaze drifts toward the desk, where a few stray mora sit in a shallow tray. You perk up immediately. Without missing a beat, Pantalone reaches forward and draws the tray closer. Coins clink softly as he tilts it just enough for the gold to slide and scatter.

You scoop a coin between your fingers, eyes gleaming with curiosity as you hold it up to the light filtering through the tall windows. You know what mora is. You understand better than most that humans trade it for food, for shelter, for power.

But to you, it is simply something bright and satisfying that he lets you touch.

“You never get mad when I take them,” you giggle.

“Because you never take them,” he corrects gently. “You return them when you’re finished.”

You pause, considering this. Then nod, as though this is simply how things are meant to be.

Your affection for Pantalone has nothing to do with his wealth. You do not calculate the weight of his fortune. You just like that he is soft-spoken. That he smells like ink and expensive paper instead of antiseptic and ozone. That when you sit in his lap, he does not move you away.

“And you understand,” Pantalone starts as his thumb traces an idle circle against your side, “that when Dottore offers you as clarification for his experiments, it is not purely academic.”

You blink. “He said you’d pretend not to understand.”

A quiet laugh escapes him.

“I see the two of you remain in alignment.”

Your ears brush his cheek, and a low, contented purr hums against him as you nuzzle closer. It is an unfair tactic. Pantalone is very much aware of that. Yet his arm tightens at your waist all the same.

“I like when you keep the Doctor on his toes,” you admit. “It makes him sharper.”

Pantalone hums. “And what does it make me?”

You consider that far more seriously than any question about the moons.

“…Happier,” you decide at last.

For a fleeting second, something unguarded flickers in his gaze.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “If you continue speaking so plainly, I may approve his budget immediately.”

You grin, completely unbothered by the implications.

Behind you, the letter rests on the desk, full of data sheets on Teyvat’s celestial aberrations and Dottore’s thinly veiled provocations. But with a nekomata youkai perched in his lap, Pantalone finds himself considering that some investments are valuable for reasons entirely separate from return.

And perhaps, he does not mind being so transparently bribed.

The purr in your chest deepens when Pantalone’s fingers resume their deliberate circling against your side. Then, without preamble, you press the smallest, warmest kiss to the corner of his mouth. Never quite on the lips unless he decides it first. Pantalone doesn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of that same mouth curves the tiniest fraction higher.

You take it as permission.

Another feather-light lands just beneath the hinge of his jaw. Then another—much closer to the pulse that beats steady and infuriatingly composed beneath his skin. Your tongue darts out next, tracing the elegant column of his throat in one slow, appreciative lick.

He exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

“Rewarding yourself already?” His voice stays velvet-smooth.

You hum against his neck, nosing along the crisp edge of his collar. “I was very good. Carried the whole envelope across Zapolyarny Palace without crumpling a single page. Didn’t even bat my eyes at the yummy treats Miss Sandrone tried to slow me down with.”

“Heroic restraint,” Pantalone deadpans, but his free hand has already slid higher, cupping the back of your neck with just enough pressure to keep you close.

You respond in-kind by dragging your tongue in a longer, wetter stripe up the side of his throat, ending with the softest graze of teeth. His pulse jumps beneath your lips. Giggling, you pull back just far enough to meet his eyes through those lenses. Your own are wide, pupils blown dark with want, tail lashing once against the chair arm in barely-contained excitement.

“I like being good for you,” you whisper. Always so honest with him. “And the Doctor said… if you looked pleased with the proposal, I could ask for a treat.”

Pantalone arches one elegant brow. “Did he now.”

He studies you for one long, measuring heartbeat. Then his gloved thumb sweeps across your lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the heat of your breath.

“Come here.”

You surge forward like you’ve been waiting your entire life for it.

He meets you halfway, lips tasting faintly of the black tea he drinks in endless cups and something richer underneath, something that’s simply him. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory in the way only Pantalone ever allows himself. He lets you chase it, lets your hands clutch at the fine wool of his coat while you give the smallest, helpless roll against his thigh. Your hips rock in tiny, needy movements that match the rhythm he sets with his tongue sliding against yours.

When he finally pulls back—just far enough to speak against your swollen mouth—his voice has dipped rougher at the edges. “You’re trembling already.”

“Can’t help it,” you whimper, nuzzling under his jaw again. “You taste expensive.”

The Regrator lets out a pleased chuckle.

His hand leaves your neck and slides down. Thick fingers find the hem of your skirt, push beneath it without fanfare. The leather is cool against the fever-hot skin of your inner thigh. You jolt, thighs parting wider on instinct, giving him room.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You know I prefer to take my time.”

Despite that, he doesn’t make you wait long.

A gloved digit traces the damp center of your panties, mapping you through cotton before hooking the fabric aside. The first press is shallow. The second slides deeper, leather dragging against slick folds in a way that makes your whole spine arch.

You muffle a broken sound against his throat.

“Hm,” he starts as his fingers curl just right inside you. “Soaking my glove before I’ve barely begun. Did delivering one letter really wind you up this badly… or were you already thinking about this the entire walk here? Perhaps even longer?”

“Both,” you gasp, hips jerking forward onto his hand. “Thought—thought about sitting in your lap the whole time. Thought about your fingers. Like this.”

The glove makes everything filthier somehow—smooth, expensive leather sliding in and out, the faint creak of it audible between your hitched breaths. He adds a second finger and you keen, tail thrashing hard enough to knock a pen off the desk. Neither of you cares.

“Shhh,” Pantalone soothes, even as his thumb finds your clit and begins slow, merciless circles. “You’ll ruin my paperwork if you keep knocking things over.”

“S-sorry…” You try to still, but your body won’t listen. You’re rocking into his hand now, shameless little thrusts that smear wetness across the fine leather. “Feels—feels so good, please—”

“Please?” He tilts his head, watching your face with clinical fascination and unmistakable hunger. “You’re already clenching like you mean to keep me here forever. Tell me what you want.”

Your ears flatten in embarrassment even as your hips chase his fingers harder.

“Want… want to come on your lap,” you breathe. “Want you to watch. Want—want to be good and come just from your fingers and… and then maybe you’ll sign the Doctor’s stupid budget—”

He laughs again and presses deeper, thumb grinding harder against your clit.

“Then come,” he orders softly. “Show me how grateful you are for being allowed in my chair.”

It hits you like a wave breaking—sharp, sudden, and devastating. Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his wrist as you shudder through it, soaking his glove, his trousers, probably the upholstery too. A string of broken, kittenish cries spills against his neck; your claws prick uselessly at his shoulders through layers of fabric.

Pantalone doesn’t stop moving his fingers until the last fluttering pulse fades. Only then does he slowly ease them out, bringing them up between your faces so you can see how his digits glisten beneath the lamplight. You don’t hesitate. You lean forward and drag your tongue along the leather, cleaning yourself off his glove the way you know he likes.

His gaze stays fixed on your mouth the entire time.

When you finally pull back, panting, ears drooping in sated bliss, he cups your cheek with his dry hand. “Messy kitten,” he murmurs. “You’ll have to let me send this suit to the cleaners.”

You nuzzle into his palm. “It would be worth the trouble.”

He glances at the letter still lying forgotten on the desk. Then back at you—flushed and purring with your tail curled loosely around his wrist like a living bracelet.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I’ll consider Dottore’s proposal more… favorably now.”

You beam up at him, eyes glittering as your hands inch towards the prominent bulge in his trousers. “See? Told you I’m a very good assistant.”

Pantalone only smiles.

“Indeed you are.”

You had not always moved among the Fatui, much less its Harbingers, as though you belonged.

There had been a time when silk would have felt foreign against your skin. Before the silver gleam of Snezhnayan winter ever reflected in your eyes, you had known a different kind of cold. Not the clean, crystalline chill of snow, but the frost of abandonment.

Nekomata were rare enough to be coveted, and coveted things were rarely treated gently. In certain markets in Inazuma, your kind was whispered about in the same breath as ancient relics and contraband. There were substances distilled from naku weeds that dulled the mind and softened instincts, that wrapped sharp claws in velvet fog and made resistance feel distant and dreamlike. Administered carefully, it made you pliant. Administered carelessly, it hollowed you out.

You still remembered the taste of it long after you could no longer remember the face of the woman who fed it to you.

When you ceased to be profitable, you ceased to be protected.

The night she’d discarded you, there were no final words; only the sound of footsteps fading beneath the roar of rain. Thunder rumbled overhead while lightning split the sky in blinding flashes. The rain poured in unforgiving sheets, soaking through your clothes, washing blood into the gutters at your side. You curled instinctively on the slick path where you were left to die, arms shielding your head as your figure twitched weakly in shallow pools of stormwater.

You remember looking up once, praying the Shogun’s lightning would just kill you in one strike. You expected the next pair of worn-out boots you saw to belong to someone who would finish what had been started. Wandering ronin loved to take advantage of anything too helpless to move.

Instead, you saw polished leather pause beside you.

Rain slid cleanly off dark fabric. The man who stood over you seemed untouched by the storm, immaculate against the ruin of your body. When another bout of lightning lit up the dull gray sky, the razor edges of his teeth caught the light when he smiled.

It was not a comforting smile.

He crouched, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you—not with pity, and not with disgust, but with something far more unsettling.

Interest.

“Well now,” he murmured. “How inefficient.”

You did not understand then that he was not referring to you.

You expected him to leave you. You expected him to kill you.

Instead, the man removed his coat and wrapped it around your shaking body before lifting you up, one arm steady beneath your knees, the other braced against your back. You struggled at first, claws scraping uselessly against layered fabric, but you lacked the strength to do more than tremble.

Some time later, you found that the thunderstorms of homeland were nothing compared to that of Snezhnaya’s winters.

The man who saved you—Il Dottore, as he referred to himself—cleaned your wounds with a steadiness that never faltered, even when you snapped at him. He bound your ribs. Reset what had been broken. When you flinched at every touch, he did not scold you for it. He simply adjusted.

The withdrawal from the drugs was worse than the cold had been.

Your body shook for days. Your mind felt as though it were tearing itself apart, instincts flaring and collapsing in uneven waves. Yet Dottore remained present through all of it. He replaced what had poisoned you with counter-agents, recorded your vitals, observed your reactions. When you clawed at him in delirium, he did not pull away.

“You will stabilize,” he said once, as though discussing weather. “I have brought creatures in far worse shape from the brink of death. You are, comparatively, a manageable case. I see no reason you should prove more disappointing than the rest.”

That was how you learned that the Doctor was not a cruel man.

He reintroduced you to the presence of others gradually, assistants entering the room one at a time while he remained nearby. The first few you greeted with hissing fury, but no one struck you for it. No one raised a hand and beat you like your old captors did.

Eventually, the hissing lessened.

Dottore clothed you in fabrics that did not irritate your healing skin. Fed you until the sharpness of your ribs softened. Gave you tasks small enough not to overwhelm you: carry this vial down the corridor; pass this message onto another Harbinger; sit here without flinching whenever someone passes behind you.

You did not realize when fear stopped being your default state.

It happened gradually, like frost melting in sunlight.

The first time you attended a Harbinger meeting, you thought someone might die.

Sandrone had told you that in passing that the Tsaritsa’s prime envoys are volatile when gathered. Like the unstable compounds intricately separated in Dottore’s lab forced into the same vial. You asked her if they ever fought.

“Not physically,” she told you. “That would be a waste of time.”

Whenever you step inside the grand chamber of Zapolyarny Palace, you begin to understand what she meant by that a little more each time.

The air in the room always feels charged before a meeting begins, not so different from how lightning gathers inside a storm cloud. Being from Inazuma, you would know this quite well.

You follow half a step behind Dottore, fleet-footed and almost buoyant despite the charged quiet of the chamber. The fabric he chose for you that morning sways gently with each movement, a soft counterpoint to the rigid silhouettes waiting at the table. He does not glance at you as he assumes his seat. You take yours beside him, and no one reprimands you. They never do.

Across the length of the table, Pantalone looks up first.

His gaze finds you with unerring certainty, gliding over the room on the small, living contradiction seated beside the Second Harbinger. The faintest smile curves at his mouth as though he had not tested the limits of your composure in the privacy of his office mere days ago.

You return the look with uncomplicated warmth, a flick of your ears the only sign that you remember more than modesty demands. He inclines his head in greeting, nothing more.

At the head of the table, Pulcinella clears his throat.

“Her Majesty’s vision proceeds into its next phase,” he begins, his voice resonant despite his small frame. “The remaining Gnoses must be secured, and each Archon will require a different approach.”

You listen, chin resting lightly in your palm. The air is thick with the mutual restraint of people who could very much kill each other had it not for their shared allegiance. When voices overlap, they do so cleanly—no shouting, no crude displays of temper. Most of the time.

When Pulcinella starts droning about boring things like logistics and tactical procedures and all those other words that would put you to sleep faster than Dottore’s test serums, you let your eyes wander.

Across the table, La Signora sits poised and glacial. Even at rest, she looks as though she is enduring the room rather than occupying it. She has never openly claimed affection for you. It would not suit her. But the first time you brushed against the hem of her gown—curious about the texture of the embroidery—she merely sighed and patted down the drape of your mismatched clothes.

“You shed,” she clicked her tongue, producing a handkerchief.

It had been folded neatly into your pocket afterward.

Beside her, Arlecchino watches the room with narrowed eyes. She pretends indifference for the most part. But there was once a time her fingers carded thoughtfully through your hair while she listened to Dottore and Capitano debate metaphysics several meetings ago. The Knave had asked if you understood any of the nonsense your savior spouted in this very same chamber. You sat on the question for only a moment before saying:

“Nope. It’s all gibberish most o’the time.”

“You’d do poorly at the House of the Hearth,” she’d remarked with a chuckle. “Too honest.”

You’d taken it as a compliment.

For all her outward irritation, it is Sandrone of all people who always has something tucked away for you when these meetings convene. A sugared almond. A wrapped confection. She sets them down in places you wouldn’t suspect her to be, and refuses to acknowledge the delight the treats bring you. Even now, she accidentally “drops” a colorful wrapper onto the floor near enough for your tail to pick it up.

“It was surplus,” she insists every time. “I obviously can’t give these to Pulonia, can I?”

It never is.

Columbina—the Harbinger who’d unnerved you the most with her haunting voice—had once seemed scarcely aware of your presence at all. Until you began asking whether she had treats whenever Sandrone was too busy to give you a quick fix. Dottore had taught you that fear was simply a variable to be reduced through exposure. That was how you decided to go about it.

Now, even the once-eerie Damselette started pilfering from Sandrone’s sweets stash to press something into your palm without opening her eyes.

The others, however, are not so easily charmed.

Tartaglia barely spares you a glance; you cannot spar with him, and therefore you do not particularly exist in his hierarchy of interest. Scaramouche seems perpetually irritated by your presence, his gaze lingering just long enough to suggest that you remind him of something he would rather forget—Inazuma, perhaps. The scent of rain and thunder that Dottore said you always carried.

Meanwhile Pierro, Il Capitano, and Pulcinella typically observe you only as one would note a piece of furniture: present, accounted for, not to be mishandled. Despite the power they hold, they understand that Dottore’s playthings—however defined—are not to be tested lightly. You suppose Pantalone is the exception. He enjoys testing boundaries far too much.

But not today.

Pulcinella folds his hands atop the table, gaze sweeping the length of it. “Inazuma remains resistant. Its isolationist policies will complicate conventional infiltration tactics. The Raiden Shogun does not tolerate foreign interference lightly.”

A faint scoff sounds somewhere down the table.

Pulcinella continues as though he hasn’t heard it. “Trade routes are tightly regulated. Diplomatic channels are minimal. Any overt maneuver risks immediate retaliation.”

Silence settles for a beat before the man at your side speaks.

“Retaliation presumes awareness,” Dottore replies smoothly. “Intervention need not be overt.”

The Rooster’s eyes narrow slightly. “Are you suggesting subterfuge?”

“I am suggesting,” Dottore corrects, “that divine systems, however absolute they present themselves to be, are not immune to disruption. If the Raiden Shogun’s response patterns prove… unpredictable, contingency measures can be implemented.”

You last exactly ten minutes before boredom finally takes over.

Without ceremony, you rise from your designated chair, drift the short distance to Dottore’s side and, with the same instinctive ease you show in Pantalone’s office, settle into his lap.

He does not pause.

One arm adjusts automatically to accommodate you, hand resting at your waist with casual possession. His tone does not falter as he corrects an assumption regarding the inner workings of Inazuman politics. Across the table, Pantalone’s smile deepens—a barely-there twitch of his lips that only you and the Doctor could possibly pick out in a room full of borderline criminals.

Pulcinella studies Dottore for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Your contingencies,” he says carefully, “must not compromise diplomatic leverage.”

“They will not.” Dottore waves him off before scratching behind your ear—a gesture that scandalizes Sandrone so much, she’s scowling. “Unless diplomacy proves inefficient like it often does these days.”

There’s a faint tightening flickers at the Rooster’s mouth, but he inclines his head. The matter is settled. He pivots smoothly toward Capitano, inviting the First Harbinger’s input on long-term strategy. Just like that, the brief tension dissolves.

You, however, are not interested in long-term strategy either.

Instead, you shift in Dottore’s lap, tail curling lazily around the his clothed leg. His arm remains loosely at your waist, anchoring you without looking down. He continues contributing to the discussion at hand as though you are nothing more than a minor adjustment in posture.

However, his fingers press lightly into your side—a subtle warning.

“Behave,” the Doctor murmurs under his breath, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. “I have no interest in disciplining you in front of my colleagues.”

That would have been enough for most people.

You are not most people.

Your ears twitch. You tilt your head back just slightly, watching the sharp line of his jaw as he speaks about taking advantage of the current power imbalance within the Tri-Commission. You let your fingers trace idly along the in-seam of his coat—feeling the ridges of his ribcage beneath his clothes.

Pierro’s voice enters the discussion, drawing the others into a broader debate about long-term destabilization efforts. For a moment, most eyes shift away from you and your obvious pandering.

You take that as opportunity.

Resting your cheek against his chest, your fingers find their way beneath Dottore’s many layers. You trace the cold skin beneath, tugging lightly at the fabric of his clothes as though you were fascinated by the texture. You thought he would let you do as you pleased, but Dottore’s hand tightens at your wrist in a way that makes you sure you won’t get out of the lab in one piece tonight.

“Quite the persistent thing you are…”

Moments later, the room goes still in the way it does when someone has crossed an invisible threshold. Pierro’s gaze shifts slowly toward you and Dottore.

“Doctor,” he says, calm but edged with steel, “control your pet.”

You blink, ears flicking with mild annoyance. The chamber remains deathly quiet for a heartbeat longer, silence that only occurs when every Harbinger present is deciding exactly how much they care about the breach in decorum.

Tartaglia is the first to break. He doesn’t quite laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches violently upward as he smothers his laughter behind a gloved hand. The other Harbingers surely have their own reactions to this, but you are far too distracted by Pierro’s razing stare to account for all of them.

“She is controlled,” Dottore replies smoothly. “If she were not, you would know.”

Another ripple of tension moves around the table.

Pierro’s eyes narrow slightly. “This is a council chamber.”

“And we are still discussing how exactly we plan to get the Raiden Shogun to surrender her Gnosis. That much is clear to everyone in the room,” he answers lazily. “Unless my assistant’s presence has somehow compromised your cognitive function.”

Pierro holds Dottore’s gaze for a long, assessing moment. The chamber remains silent. Even Pulcinella does not intervene this time. At last, the Director exhales softly through his nose and turns his attention back to the matter at hand.

“As I was saying,” he resumes, “Inazuma’s internal divisions present opportunity. The Tri-Commission is not a monolith. Pressure applied correctly may fracture it from within.”

Just like that, the meeting continues.

No reprimand or visible consequence because the understanding is clear: Dottore’s behavior is tolerated because he is useful. You are the same because you belong to him.

When the discussion finally shifts away from Inazuma and toward projected timelines, the Doctor’s hold on you loosens, but does not release entirely. His thumb traces once along the inside of your wrist in a slow, deliberate motion that has you purring from his touch.

Then he leans closer.

From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a murmur exchanged between superior and subordinate. His lips brush near your ear, breath cool against your skin.

“I do not recall you being quite this bold in front of my colleagues,” he whispers sardonically. “Have you grown careless… or simply too curious for your own good?”

You pause, considering how to answer. But the Doctor beats you to it.

“Behavior like that,” he continues softly, “requires correction.”

The words settle over you like a cloud. Where most would feel fear at the promise hidden in his tone, something entirely different unfurls in your chest.

A sharp, electric thrill.

The meeting carries on around you. One thing about the Tsaritsa’s collection of infallible pawns was that they knew how to operate on the same page despite their stark differences. But beneath the table, you sit very still in the Doctor’s lap, pulse quickening not from shame.

But anticipation.

As soon as the reinforced steel doors seal behind you, the air shifts.

The sterile chill of Zapolyarny Palace’s corridors gives way to the eerie acoustics of Dottore’s private lab—a cavernous space lit by the cold glow of alchemical lamps and the faint crackle of experimental apparatuses. Vials bubble softly on distant shelves, and the scent of something sharp lingers like the promise of a storm.

You don’t wait for instructions. You’ve already done this before.

The “punishments” Dottore doles out are rarely as straightforward as they sound—more like equations he solves with your body as the variable. You can already feel the anticipation coiling in your gut as you pad across the tiled floor toward the custom examination chair at the room’s center.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen it: sleek metal frame, padded restraints that look clinical but feel anything but, and those telltale conductive straps woven through the upholstery, humming faintly with latent energy.

Dottore watches you from the doorway with his arms crossed, his mask obscuring whatever expression might flicker beneath. “Eager, aren’t we? One would think this was a reward, not a correction for your little display in front of the others.”

You glance over your shoulder, tail flicking once in playful acknowledgment. Your hands are already at the fastenings of your clothes, fingers working the ties loose without a shred of hesitation.

He steps closer, the click of his boots echoing in the quiet. “Shameless creature. Parading yourself like that in the council chamber, grinding against me like a common whore. I suppose old habits die hard—your time in that Inazuman brothel must have etched it into your bones. It’s almost amusing, how predictably you devolve.”

The words are crude, laced with that detached cruelty he wields like a scalpel. But they slide off you like rain on glass. You’ve heard worse—from him and from others. Besides, he’s not wrong; the haze of those drugged nights lingers in fragments, but you’ve reclaimed it, turned survival into something sharper, something yours.

If anything, his observation only sparks a defiant purr in your chest. You shrug off your clothing, letting it pool at your feet, ears perking as the cool lab air kisses your bare skin.

“Who’s devolving?” you tease, as you leave yourself in nothing but your panties—damp already from the meeting’s lingering tension. You don’t bother with those yet; instead, you hop onto the chair, settling back against the padded surface with your legs parted just enough to be inviting. “You’re the one who built a whole chair for this. Sounds to me like you’re the shameless one, Doctor.”

Dottore chuckles darkly as he approaches. His gloved hands move to secure the conductive straps around your wrists and ankles. Sensors adhere to your skin: one at your pulse point, another over your heart, a third lower, pressing against the sensitive flesh just above your mound. They whir to life, syncing with the chair’s mechanisms, ready to monitor every flutter and spike of your vitals.

A quiet hum reverberates in the Doctor’s throat as he calibrates a sleek wand-like device from a nearby tray. It’s slender, metallic, with adjustable nodes that buzz with electro energy. Low-level pulses derived from his Delusion experiments, refined for... precision applications.

“Your vitals are already elevated. Hypothesis: nekomata physiology amplifies elemental stimuli, blurring pain and pleasure thresholds. We’ll test that today. As punishment for your lack of restraint earlier, you’ll endure without release until you verbalize your transgression. Admit how you disrupted the meeting, and perhaps I’ll grant mercy.”

You arch a brow, testing the straps with a playful tug. “Or what? You’ll zap me until I behave?”

“Precisely.” He traces the wand’s tip along your collarbone first. A faint pulse thrums through it, as mild as a static spark, but it sends a shiver cascading down your body. Your tail twitches against the chair, ears flattening briefly as the sensation registers.

Dottore notes it all as he adjusts a dial. “Baseline response: mild contraction in trapezius muscles. Heart rate up twelve percent.” The wand drifts lower, circling a nipple. Another stronger pulse surges along your skin and you gasp, back arching as electro dances across your flesh. It’s not pain; it’s fire, coiling hot in your core, making your thighs clench instinctively.

“Is that it?” you breathe through a defiant grin. “Doesn’t feel so punishing. Feels... good even.”

“Premature conclusion.” The Doctor ramps it up, trailing the device down your stomach before pausing at your navel. The next zap syncs with the sensors, pulsing in time with your quickening heartbeat. It buzzes against your inner thigh, teasing close but not quite where you need it. Your hips buck, a whine escaping your lips as wetness soaks through your panties.

“Admit it,” he presses. “You were bold because you wanted this—wanted me to correct you.”

“Maybe,” you taunt. “Or maybe I just like making you lose composure. Keep going, Doctor.”

He obliges, hooking your panties down your legs with clinical detachment before pressing the wand directly to your clit. The pulse hits like a storm in sharp, radiating waves that make your whole body seize. You cry out, claws scraping uselessly against the restraints, as pleasure borders on overload. The sensors beep, feeding data to a nearby console but Dottore denies you the edge. He pulls back just as you teeter, leaving you panting and frustrated.

“Threshold noted: forty-seven percent intensity induces involuntary spasms. You’re dripping already—shameless, as expected.” He sneers. “But you are not permitted release yet until you admit to your misbehavior.”

You shake your head through the haze. “Make me.”

The wand returns with the pulses syncing faster. He maps you methodically: the tender crease where thigh meets hip, the swollen folds already slick and parting for him, and the slick entrance that flutters uselessly every time the current grazes it. Your purrs fracture into high, broken moans that bounce off the walls of the secluded lab.

You try to hold out. You really do.

“Still nothing?” Dottore’s voice is velvet over steel, clinical and mocking in equal measure. “Your pride is most admirable. But it has always been my least favorite trait of yours.”

Another pulse lands directly on your clit, and your hips jerk so violently the restraints creak. A string of incoherent sound spills from your throat as your claws scrape metal, leaving faint silvery scratches. Heat coils tighter and tighter in your belly, right on the razor’s edge of ecstasy, but he pulls the wand away at the last possible second. Again.

You snarl through your teeth. “You… fucking sadist—”

“Language.” He adjusts the dial with infuriating calm. “And here I thought nekomata were supposed to be graceful under pressure.”

Zap.

This one hits lower, right at your entrance, and the sensation ricochets straight up your spine. Your whole body locks up as your thighs tremble, inner walls clenching around nothing. A sudden, sharp pressure builds low in your pelvis, something much different from the orgasm he’s been denying.

You freeze.

He notices immediately, of course.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. He deprives you of the wand but lets it hover just close enough that the residual static makes your soaked folds twitch. “Sudden spike in abdominal pressure. Involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor. Care to explain?”

Your face burns. “N-no—”

“Don’t lie to me.” He taps the wand lightly against your inner thigh and the contact sends fresh sparks racing toward that unbearable fullness. “Your body is far more honest than your mouth.”

Another targeted pulse, right where the pressure is worst. You yelp as your hips snap upward involuntarily. A hot, shameful trickle escapes before you can do anything and it drips down your perineum, soaking the padded seat beneath you.

You whimper, mortified by what he’s doing to you. But the humiliation only makes the ache worse. Your clit throbs harder; your walls flutter desperately around empty air.

Dottore sighs—the long-suffering sound of a scientist confronted with particularly messy data.

He sets the wand aside on the tray with a soft clink. Then, he peels off his usual black gloves, folding them neatly and dropping them somewhere out of your line of sight. From a nearby drawer he retrieves a fresh pair of pale sterile gloves. He snaps them on like he’s done so hundreds, if not thousands of times, and the echo rings in your ears.

“I knew this would be… untidy,” he comments. “But I underestimated just how quickly you’d lose control. You really do like it when I poke and prod at your body, do you not?”

He doesn’t touch you with his bare hands. Not once.

Instead he retrieves the wand again, now holding it between two gloved fingers like an extension of himself. He resumes the torment with lighter pulses that circle around your clit without ever granting direct contact. Every graze sends another helpless spurt escaping you, warm and humiliating and so intensely arousing you can barely breathe.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Soaking my chair, my restraints, yourself. And you’re still trying to pretend this isn’t exactly what you wanted when you climbed into my lap. I might have spoiled you a tad too much.”

You shake your head frantically, but the denial comes out as a broken whine. The puddle beneath you grows, obscene and glistening under the fluorescent lights. Your thighs tremble violently; your tail thrashes so hard it knocks a small metal tray to the floor with a clatter. Neither of you cares.

“Admit it properly this time,” Dottore orders, pressing the wand just shy of your entrance and holding it there. The constant low thrum vibrates through your oversensitive nerves, making every muscle quiver. “Or I leave you like this until the neutralizer wears off and we start the whole sequence again tomorrow.”

Tears of frustration and shame prick your eyes. Your voice cracks when you finally speak.

“I—I teased you,” you gasp. “In the meeting. Sat in your lap. Disrupted everything—please—”

“Please?” He tilts his head, the mask hiding everything except the dark gleam of satisfaction in his visible eye. “Please what?”

Another humiliating trickle. You sob once, hips jerking uselessly.

“Please let me come—please, Doctor, I can’t… I’m sorry… I’ll be good—”

He considers you for one long, agonizing heartbeat.

Then he presses the wand flush against your clit and holds it there in full intensity.

You scream as your body convulses. The orgasm rips through you in violent waves, dragging another gush of warmth with it that soaks his gloved hand, the wand, the chair, everything. Your walls spasm uselessly around nothing; your tail curls so tight it cramps as you ride it out, shuddering and whimpering long after the peak has passed.

Only when the aftershocks have reduced you to trembling, oversensitive twitches does he finally switch the device off.

Dottore discards the wand into a sterilization tray without ceremony. Then he reaches between your thighs and gathers a slick sample of the mess you’ve made on two gloved fingers, lifting them to study the glistening fluid under the light.

“Fascinating,” he says softly. “Fluid volume increased three-hundred percent under sustained low-level electro-stimulation combined with a humiliation trigger. We’ll need to run quantitative analysis later.”

You can barely process the words. Stars begin to dance in your vision. Despite the rather pleased tone the Doctor’s voice has taken up, something tells you this isn’t over just yet.

The sharp rap of knuckles against metal cuts through the din of machinery in the lab.

You’re still floating somewhere between oblivion and the afterglow, your body limp in the restraints as your chest rises and falls in uneven pants. Every muscle feels liquid. The puddle beneath you has spread far enough that you can feel the cool dampness seeping against the small of your back. Your ears are too fuzzy to properly track the sound, but some primal part of you registers the interruption.

No one—absolutely no one—interrupts Dottore mid-experiment unless they have a death wish or a title that carries more weight than fear.

Dottore’s head snaps toward the door with a grunt.

“Stay,” he orders you curtly, though you’re in no condition to do anything else.

He strides to the entrance panel, gloved fingers stabbing the release sequence with more force than necessary. The doors part just enough for him to lean through the gap, blocking most of the view from inside. You hear muffled voices—Dottore’s clipped and venomous, the other smoother, richer, almost musical.

“This had better be worth my time.”

“…merely delivering good news, Doctor. No need for the theatrics.”

The doors slide wider.

Dottore steps back with visible reluctance, allowing the intruder entry.

Pantalone enters like he owns the room which, in a certain accounting sense, he probably does. His long coat sweeps the threshold; the silver cords of his glasses catch every harsh lamp and throw tiny prisms across the walls. He pauses just inside, that bespectacled gaze sweeping the lab with polite disinterest until it lands on you.

His smile unfurls slowly, lazy and devastating.

“Well now,” he drawls. “What do we have here?”

Your ears flick feebly. You try to focus, but the world is still swimming at the edges. All you can manage is a soft, dazed whimper as his polished boots click closer.

Pantalone stops at the foot of the chair, his hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted in appraisal. His eyes trace the mess without a hint of surprise—only amused calculation.

“An entire pool of your own slick,” he muses, almost fondly. “You must have truly tested his patience this time, kitten. I’ve never seen you leak quite so… generously.”

Your face flames despite the haze. You want to curl up, hide, snap something bratty back, but all that comes out is a small, broken sound halfway between a mewl and a sob.

Dottore’s voice slices in from behind Pantalone, tight with irritation.

“What exactly is it that brings you here, Regrator?”

Pantalone doesn’t even glance at him.

“I already approved the budget increase for your celestial arrays,” he says mildly, as though discussing tea tariffs. “Thought I’d report it in person. A personal touch, you understand.”

“And yet here you linger.”

“I had an inkling you two would be… occupied.” Pantalone finally turns his head just enough to regard the Second Harbinger. “But this is the first time I’ve witnessed one of your little sessions with my own eyes.” His gaze returns to you, softening at the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Aren’t you being rather cruel to your own assistant, Doctor? Look at her—completely fucked out of her mind. I’m willing to wager you didn’t even touch her directly once.”

Dottore’s laugh is short, sharp, and entirely without humor.

“Scientific rigor demands detachment. Direct contact introduces too many variables.”

“Mmm…” Pantalone steps closer to the chair, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of expensive ink and black tea that always clings to him. He crouches gracefully, bringing his face level with yours. One gloved finger traces the air just above your cheek—never quite touching—and when you chase it, he simply laughs. “If this is detachment, I’d hate to see what possession looks like.”

You try to speak. What emerges is a slurred, “Panta…”

“There she is,” he murmurs, pleased. “Still with us, kitten?”

Dottore makes an impatient sound.

“If you’ve finished gawking—”

“Oh, I haven’t.” Pantalone straightens without haste. “In fact, I find myself… curious. You’ve collected quite a bit of data, I presume. But data without context is merely noise.” He glances at the console where your vitals still blink in accusing red and green. “May I?”

The Doctor’s posture goes dangerously still.

“You may not.”

“Then perhaps you’ll indulge me in allowing a small demonstration instead.” Pantalone gestures lazily toward you. “She’s already so beautifully ruined. Surely you wouldn’t deny a colleague the chance to observe the after-effects up close? For comparative purposes, of course.”

The air thickens. You feel both their gazes settle on you—heavy and possessive with entirely different flavors of hunger. Dottore exhales through his nose, the sound almost a growl.

“Ten minutes,” he snaps. “Touch nothing that hasn’t already been compromised. And if you so much as alter the readings—”

“Ten minutes is more than generous. Thought you’d only allow me five at most,” Pantalone replies smoothly. He turns back to you, crouching once more. This time his gloved knuckles brush ever so lightly along your jaw, sending a fresh aftershock rippling through your oversensitive body.

You arch into it with a helpless sound.

“Poor thing,” he whispers, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth where drool has gathered. “He worked you so hard, didn’t he? But you still purr for more?”

Behind him, Dottore’s voice drops to something lethal and quiet.

“Careful, Regrator. She is not a toy to be passed around.”

“Of course not.” His eyes never leave yours. “She’s yours. I’m merely… appreciating the craftsmanship.”

His free hand drifts lower, hovering above the mess between your thighs without touching. You whimper anyway, hips twitching toward the promise of contact that never quite arrives.

“Ten minutes,” Dottore repeats.

Pantalone inclines his head in mock deference.

“Ten minutes,” he echoes.

Then he leans in until his breath fans across your ear.

“Tell me, kitten,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Dottore to hear. “Shall we see how much more beautifully you can break before he decides I’ve overstayed my welcome?”

Your tail gives one feeble, eager lash against the chair. Somewhere in the haze, you manage the faintest, most wrecked little nod. Pantalone’s smile turns molten.

“Good girl.”

His gloved fingers move to the restraints first. The conductive straps release with soft clicks, one by one. As each falls away, he lifts your wrist (then the other, then your ankles), turning them gently in the lamplight. Red welts stripe your skin where the padding had bitten in during your convulsions. He tuts softly before bending to press his lips to the worst of them. He lingers there, letting his breath warm the abraded skin until you shiver.

One of the truths you’ve learned living among the Fatui is this: they are merciless when the Tsaritsa’s will demands it. They will raze cities and spill blood across continents without blinking. But in their private indulgences? In the things they claim for themselves alone?

They are shockingly delicate.

Even Dottore—whom half of Snezhnaya calls a heartless fiend—never damages a test subject beyond repair. A broken tool is useless; a dead subject yields no further data.

Pantalone, though… Pantalone is indulgence incarnate.

He doesn’t need to break anything to own it. He simply charms, coaxes, purchases with smiles and silken promises until what he wants is already his before you realize the transaction has closed.

Right now he clearly wants to fuck you.

In front of the man who owns you.

“So,” he says conversationally, “what exactly were you testing here, Doctor? Some new application of electro-conductive stimuli? Or is this purely for… personal calibration of hybrid physiology?”

Dottore hasn’t moved from his spot near the console. His arms remain crossed; the sterile gloves still gleam under the lights.

“I know precisely how that silver tongue of yours operates, Regrator,” he deadpans. “Don’t acknowledge me during the experiment. Just give me results. Since you’ve so graciously volunteered yourself as the control variable, after all.”

You clench involuntarily at the sheer authority in the Doctor’s command—a low, unyielding drawl that brooks no argument. Fresh heat blooms between your thighs despite the raw sensitivity; another slow trickle of arousal seeps out, glistening anew on skin already soaked.

Pantalone notices immediately, of course.

“Ah,” he breathes, delighted. “Even his tone is enough to make you drip again. Remarkable.”

He shrugs out of his coat properly, folding it with care and draping it over the back of a nearby stool. His gloved fingers move to his belt, the soft metallic clink of the buckle echoing in the sterile quiet. He unfastens it, pops the button of his trousers, and drags the zipper down just enough.

His cock springs free, thick and already glistening with pre-cum that beads and slides down the shaft in a slow, obscene trail. The contrast is filthy: immaculate Regrator, half-undone only where it matters, while you’re bare and trembling before him.

Pantalone steps between your parted legs, the chair still reclined at that perfect angle to display you. Your thighs tremble as he hooks them over his hips, gloved hands sliding under your knees to draw you closer to the edge until the head of his cock nudges your slick entrance without pushing in.

He leans down instead, bracing one hand beside your head. The other cups your jaw before his thumb traces the seam of your lips until they part on instinct.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do. The eyes behind those lenses are molten in their intensity, pupils blown with want.

Then he sinks in.

The mere sensation of being split open has you keening, claws flexing uselessly against the padding of the chair. Pantalone is thicker than the toys Dottore sometimes uses for these experiments; the stretch burns sweetly, every ridge dragging against oversensitive walls still fluttering from your earlier climax. The Regrator exhales through his nose once he’s fully seated, hips flush to yours. He doesn’t move immediately, letting your body adjust and clench and weep around the intrusion.

“Still so tight,” he praises softly. “Even after all that torment he put you through. Such a resilient little cunt, isn’t it? Squeezing me like it hasn’t just soaked this entire chair in your filthy mess.”

Your ears twitch, flattening in a haze of shame and want. You can feel Dottore’s gaze on you—clinical, dissecting, but undeniably present. It sends a fresh thrill racing up your spine, your tail lashing once against Pantalone’s thigh in eager betrayal. Knowing he’s watching, noting every twitch and gasp like data points… it makes your walls flutter harder, slick gushing around the cock buried in you.

Pantalone notices that too, of course. You realize this in the way he chuckles as he draws back just enough to watch himself glisten with your arousal.

“Oh, kitten,” he coos, thrusting back in with a wet, obscene squelch. “You love this, don’t you? Being spread open and fucked while he watches. Look at how you’re clenching—desperate little thing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you misbehaved in that meeting just to end up here, leaking all over my cock in front of your precious Doctor.”

You whine, hips bucking up to meet his next slow grind. The drag is exquisite—his cockhead nudging that spongy spot deep inside with every deliberate roll. Your claws prick at the chair’s upholstery, tearing faint lines as pleasure coils tight in your gut again, filthy and unrelenting.

Behind you both, Dottore makes a small, interested hum. “Note the involuntary flutter at seven centimeters depth,” he intones flatly. “Consistent with prior data on post-orgasmic hypersensitivity.”

Pantalone’s laugh is breathless, genuine amusement mingling with the soft slap of skin on skin as he sets a languid rhythm. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Always the observer, never the participant. Perhaps you should loosen those rigid protocols of yours every now and again, Doctor. Indulge a little. It might do wonders for that god-complex of yours.”

Dottore’s response is immediate. “My protocols ensure reliable results. Indulgence leads to error.”

Pantalone tuts, shaking his head as he leans down to nip at your collarbone—sharp enough to sting, sweet enough to make you arch into it. “But look at her.” He punctuates that with a deeper thrust, grinding his hips in a slow circle that makes your toes curl and a fresh spurt of slick coat his balls. “She’s obsessed with you watching. Dripping down my thighs already, and we’ve barely started. Imagine if you joined in properly. Touched her with those clever hands instead of hiding behind your notes.”

You mewl, the words painting vivid pictures in your haze—Dottore’s gloved fingers on you, in you, while Pantalone fucks you senseless. Your walls clamp down hard, pulling a groan from the Regrator’s throat.

Dottore dismisses it with a scoff. “Vocalization amplitude: increased twenty-three percent under sustained penetration versus intermittent stimulation. Proceed.”

Pantalone’s pace quickens just a fraction—long, fluid strokes that fill you to the brim, his cock splitting you open with every snap of his hips. The wet sounds echo obscenely in the lab: your cunt slurping greedily around him, his balls slapping against your soaked ass, and the faint creak of the chair beneath you both. Sweat beads on your skin; your tail thrashes wildly now, coiling around his waist like it can pull him deeper.

“That’s it, sweet kitten,” he purrs, condescending sweetness laced with filth. “You’re making such a mess—listen to how wet you are, gushing all over me while he scribbles his precious data. Does it turn you on that much? Being his experiment? Being my indulgence?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, far too wrecked and needy. Your claws find purchase on his shoulders, digging in through the fine shirt as he fucks you harder, the angle shifting to grind relentlessly against that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. “Please, more… W-watching me—ah!”

Pantalone’s smile is all teeth and tenderness, a predator playing with prey. He slows just to make you whine, before slamming back in, drawing out a broken sob as your body clenches in desperation.

“Mmm, but tell me honestly, kitten,” he murmurs as he bottoms out again, holding deep while your walls ripple around him. “Don’t you wish it was him inside you right now? The Doctor, stretching this greedy little cunt instead of me?”

The question hits like flint struck in the dark. You freeze mid-moan, mind reeling even as your body betrays you with another helpless flutter. Pantalone has fucked you countless times: in his office, on silken sheets, bent over desks stacked with mora. Slow and teasing, hard and claiming. But Dottore… Dottore has tested you, probed you, pushed you to shattering climaxes with tools and serums and that damned wand. Yet never once with his cock. Never skin to skin, body to body. He observes. He records. He doesn’t indulge.

“N-no,” you whimper, ears pinning back in shame. “He… he doesn’t see me like you do.”

Pantalone’s laugh is soft, cheeky, and utterly delighted. He resumes his rhythm—deeper and grinding with every thrust as if to imprint himself inside you. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, darling. Despite all his monstrous feats, the Doctor is still bound by humanity. Frail, flawed humanity. Why do you think he can’t ascend to that godhood he craves so desperately? It’s because deep down, he’s just like the rest of us. He desires. He hungers.”

From the console, Dottore’s voice cuts in like a scalpel. “Watch your tongue, Regrator, or I’ll hook that electrode to you instead and see how well you hold up under the current.”

Pantalone doesn’t flinch. If anything, his thrusts grow bolder, hips snapping with a wet, filthy rhythm that makes your breasts bounce and your tail tighten around him. He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, feeding the fantasy like poison-laced honey.

“Imagine it, kitten,” he coos, his voice dripping condescension and seduction. “Him behind you instead of me. Those sharp teeth grazing your neck while he fucks you raw. His cock splitting you open, filling you up because he can’t resist anymore. Because watching you writhe and beg has finally cracked that cold shell. He’d hold you down, mark you, make you scream his name while I watch this time. Wouldn’t that be divine?”

The words unravel you. Your mind floods with vivid images: Dottore’s hands on your hips, his breath ragged against your skin, his cock throbbing inside you as he loses control. Combined with Pantalone’s relentless pounding, the stretch and drag and grind—it’s too much. Your walls convulse, milking him desperately as another climax builds, hot and inevitable.

Your vision whites out at the peak—your body locking in one final convulsion as Pantalone’s release floods you in thick, scalding pulses. The creamy excess leaks around his shaft, mixing with your release and sliding down your thighs. He grinds through the aftershocks, forcing every tremor from your wrecked body while your spent pussy twitches weakly around him.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your ear. “My filthy kitten, taking it all.”

You would have responded, but the overload is absolute. Your head lolls back against the padded rest as your limbs go slack. The console lets out a series of increasingly urgent beeps—heart rate dropping, respiration shallowing into soft, even puffs—then your consciousness simply slips away.

Neither man startles.

Pantalone exhales once, slow and satisfied, before carefully easing out of you. The wet sound of separation is obscene in the sudden quiet; a fresh trickle of mixed release follows, sliding down your inner thigh in pearlescent streaks. He doesn’t rush. Instead he reaches for the neatly folded towel already resting on the side tray—pristine white, precisely where Dottore always keeps aftercare supplies. The detail is small yet utterly telling.

He begins cleaning you with the same unhurried elegance he applies to everything else: gentle dabs along your folds, careful swipes between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your shared mess without jostling you too much. Only then does he tend to himself, tucking his softening cock away and buttoning his trousers with quiet grace.

Dottore hasn’t moved from the console. His arms are still crossed, but his gaze flicks between the vitals readout and your slack form.

“She’s stable,” he says flatly. “Just spent. Vitals will normalize within the hour.”

Pantalone hums, folding the soiled towel and setting it aside. “I’ll have some of our people take her to the baths. A proper soak, massage, the usual pampering. She’ll wake up spoiled rotten, as always.”

Dottore’s mask tilts slightly. “No. My staff will handle recovery. Your attendants are far too indulgent. They’ll have her purring on silk for days.”

Pantalone’s laugh is soft, delighted. “And you aren’t? Keeping a clean towel within arm’s reach of your torture chair? Refusing to let anyone else near her when she’s like this?” He gestures lazily at your unconscious form. “You’re just as guilty of spoiling her, Doctor—whether you admit it or not.”

Dottore makes a low, dismissive sound in his throat. “Practicality. A functional subject is more useful than a broken one.”

“Of course.” Pantalone shrugs on his coat, fingers deft on the buttons. “Still… she wants you, you know. Not the wand, not your questionable serums—the man behind the mask. And you want her too, or that electrode threat would have come with far less restraint.”

Silence stretches, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors slowly leveling out.

Pantalone adjusts his glasses, the silver cords catching the light one last time.

“Tell you what,” he says, voice light but edged with unmistakable intent. “Send me your next budget proposal—whatever mad little project you’re cooking up—and I’ll approve it on the spot. No questions, no haggling. On one condition.”

Dottore doesn’t respond, but the stillness of his posture is answer enough.

“Next time she misbehaves,” Pantalone continues, smiling like he’s already won, “give her what she actually wants: you. Skin to skin. No experiments. No irrelevant data spreads. Just you, finally indulging that very human hunger you pretend doesn’t exist.”

He leans down, brushing the lightest kiss to your temple before straightening.

“Think about it, Doctor. She’s already passed out dreaming of it.”

With that, Pantalone heads for the doors, leaving the faint scent of ink and black tea behind.

Dottore stands motionless for a long moment, staring at your sleeping form. The console beeps once more, and he exhales through his nose. Then, almost absently, he reaches for a fresh blanket from a nearby supply drawer and drapes it over you.

The lab falls quiet again. There is nothing but the soft bubbling of vials, the hum of machines… and the faint, unconscious purr rumbling in your chest.

Here you were, his beloved Traveler—the one who constantly bested him in every nation you both clashed, the renowned hero of Teyvat and blessed by every archon—naked, your back arched and facing him as you sit and grind on his leaking cock while he sat there, manspreading, with nothing but his coat hanging from his shoulders. His eyes twitch beneath his mask, watching your plush ass cheeks ripple against his thighs as he fucks up into you. Each plap of skin deliciously fills his ears, putting him in a mind-numbing trance. Each of his hands held both your arms by the elbow behind you to support his short, aggressive, and merciless thrusts.

Your wanton moans echoed throughout his empty laboratory, his name spilled over in hungry breaths with every thrust of his hips. Dottore restrained himself from manhandling you to his desk and absolutely wrecking your insides to mush since it was you who pushed him on his lavish leather couch.

Dottore couldn't entirely remember how you two got here. It was only mere moments ago that he was trying to convince you to join his side when discussing his artificial Moon Marrow and how life was restrained by rules set by the gods, and how he and you could transcend from these limits together—as he always planned. Whatever happened then afterwards, it was a blur; you didn't even let him finish his sentence before you pulled him down to your lips, whispering your acceptance to join him—but demanding that you needed more convincing.

And Dottore had no problem providing you with that.

Everything else didn't matter anymore, not when his entire focus was on your warm cunt taking in every inch of him. Your gummy walls hugging and rubbing the sensitive veins that run along his shaft. Or the way it clenches around whenever the tip of his sloppy, curved cock pokes your cervix. Dottore wanted to see all of you—your cute facial expressions, your bouncing tits, your soft rolls squished beneath him. Licking his lips at the sight of you staring intently into his eyes with the same level of infatuation he's had for so long, ever since he met you.

Archons above, he yearned for you; no being has ever yearned before. If he could, Dottore would tear his chest open to cradle you within his ribcage, safe and loved in his hold. You'd never seek out another ever again. Even after days, weeks, and months apart, he still worshipped you with the same fervor and passion as those stupid Frostmoon scions had for their former moon goddess.

No other being compared to his Traveler.

"Mmmm~ more doctor, gimme more~" You softly babble out, completely cock drunk, at his mercy, "Need you—need to fuck you…fill me up with your cum." Moaning into the open air, attempting to speed up your movements despite the firm hold Dottore had on you.

Fuck, he loved you. He wants to breed you, mark you, use you til your insides are molded into the shape of his cock—to the point no one else could satisfy you the way he did. Dottore will give it to you willingly. Teyvat will perish under his boot if it means breeding your womb and watching it leak out of your abused, swollen pussy every day. Just imagining him and the other segments taking turns staining your flesh with their essence—pumping load after load, not leaving a crevice untouched.

Dottore growled at the thought, feeling your wetness pool around his pelvis, "My, so eager for this… experiment. But anything for you, my sweet girl~."

A trembling smirk makes its way to his lips as he reluctantly lets go of his hold on you, scared not because you could overpower him in terms of physical aspects, but in the aspects of how long he can last with you like this. Insatiably unstable. Gluttonous for more than Dottore himself can keep up. And that was a first. Nobody could reach his level of greed; it was woven into his system.

The moment his hands drop to his side, you immediately lean forward with your hands in between his manspreading thighs, back arched, and arms straight in holding you up, "Ready for more of my needed dosage, Doctor~"

"Fuck—Take it all, sweetheart." He purrs, obsessed with the honorific you used for him, "It's all for you, for my obedient little girl, hm?" A deep, dark chuckle escapes him, rubbing his hands all over your ass and hips. Feeling the warmth of your plush body against the nakedness of his palms, occasionally grazing his sharp claws along the soft flesh, "That's what you are, right?—mmmm—My sweet girl, hm? Oh, yes…"

You giggle at that with your tongue lolling out of your lips as you slowly move your hips in circular motions, "Mmmm, yes… wanna be your personal fleshlight. Use me~!"

Dottore moans when you finally maneuver yourself up and down his shaft, ogling each swallow of your pussy covering his skin in a thick and mouthwatering coat of your juices, eagerly squelching at every springy bounce. Contrary to your words, it was you who was more on using him like a toy than him treating you as such—you treat his cock sooo good, ass plapping down in increasing speed and cunt greedily sucking him in. Glossy sweat profusely dripped along the expanse of your back, shining bright beneath the dim white fluorescent lights in his lab—creating a soft glow, almost looking akin to the moonlight rays that shone above Teyvat.

Everything he did up until this point was clinical, experimental—the purpose of extending the comprehensive knowledge of Teyvat’s science and understanding the realm beyond celestial hold: the False Sky. In his experimental journey to becoming a god, he might as well deem this as his own version of celestial heaven. Just pure instinct, pure filth—nothing mattered more than fucking your sweet little holes.

There were only two occurrences that Dottore believed were the greatest honors in his entire life: when he was appointed 2nd of the 11 Fatui Harbingers by her majesty, the Tsaritsa, and you reducing him to a mere pleasure toy.

He fucking loves you. Worships you.

Can you see yourself loving him equally?

His head snaps back against the frame of the couch, mouth wide open, panting heavily. Head in the clouds, dazed in the hazy pleasure, he grabs the couch cover in a ripping death grip. Knuckles turning white while the veins protrude along his defined forearms. His tip thwacks deliciously right into your core, causing short ragged gasps to spill over your lips. You babble out incoherent sentences that Dottore had no intention of hearing nor making sense of; he just lay there and left you to do all the work.

"so good, so fucking good~!—hah—gimme your cum, doctor." You coo out, gyrating in full 360 rotations around his cock, pushing him closer to the edge. He could feel his balls tighten with every graze of your clit against the skin, "please! want it harder, fuck me harder~"

Dottore pulled his head back to face you again, and the look you gave him over your shoulder almost made him explode right then and there. The low, heavy weight of your lids partially hid your pupils, but he saw the darkened lust surrounding them and the way they completely turned into hearts—begging, aching for him to pound you into oblivion. Sweet whimpers pour out in breathless pants from your trembling lips, as well as your arms barely steadying to be able to keep yourself upright.

A handful of nerves swim to the bottom of his stomach, indicating his closeness, triggering his ache to breed. Painfully throbbing within the embrace of your tender and slobbering pussy, his drooling cock convulses for more and more attention. Dottore could hear the gargling spasms your slick hole makes, complementing your starving, overstimulated squeals.

"Already tired, sweet girl? Need me to take over, hm?" Dottore hoarsely whispers, his dangerous claws find their way back to the plumpness of your hips, "so—hng—dirty 'n sloppy f'me. My, such an exquisite sight…" With a low growl, he swats your ass, intently sucking his teeth at the jiggle it caused before digging his sharp talons into your flesh and yanking you back roughly onto his front.

Almost immediately, you threw your legs up in a wide spread toward your chest, with Dottore's hands placed beneath your knees to support the weight of them. Dottore moans as he peeks over your small frame to ogle at the salacious sight of your squished breasts, doughy tummy, and the dewy juices covering both your pelvises, glistening everywhere. He nuzzles his face right onto your tender neck before trailing his lips along your skin, peppering teasing kisses while his fingers knead your fleshy thighs. You mewl out strings of pleas for him to fuck your cunt, your digits rub all over your drenched entrance, occasionally brushing his sensitive shaft—Archons, he's going to teach you some patience one of these days.

Dottore sank further into the couch, bringing you down with him 'til you're both settled in an obtuse angle, "tsk tsk, so impatient, pet~" He tuts, "I thought you were my sweet girl?"

Instead of a response, you turn your head to the side and hook your arm around his neck to pull his face to yours, crashing lips in an intense kiss. Teeth clash together, tongues immediately tangoing to the chaotic sounds of mixed saliva and smacking wetness. Dottore tightens his grip on your flesh like iron vices, digging his claws in—surely leaving bruises and scars he'd be smug about the next day.

Drool starts to pool out of the corner of your lips with each moan spilling into his mouth, and Dottores swallows them eagerly, releasing his own down your throat. The Doctor furrows his brows in frustration as he feels himself grinding upwards, right towards your hungry spot, sending reverberating growls to rumble inside you. His artificial conscience was occupied with the euphoric desire to breed breed breed! Don't leave an inch of her untouched, untainted.

Like a flip of a switch, Dottore spears his cock into your pussy, stretching out the slick walls even more with a burn that ignited on the border of pleasure. His hips work through the searing strain in each movement by planting his legs and feet firmly to the ground, steadying himself to last long. The plunge caused you to detach from him, gasping out a squeal, but Dottore chases you back—snarling a low 'no' before attaching his lips. Each thrust upward sends jolts up your spine that make your toes curl and juices leak down toward his full balls, slapping against your clit rhythmically.

The once silent laboratory now echoes with symphonic plaps of skin snapping against skin, wet juices sloshing and squelching, spurts of arousal splattering around the couch, and muffled cries. Dottore plows his cock as if it were his last day on earth, never wanting to let go of the feeling, driving his nerves up the wall—hanging on to his last bit of sanity while denting your being with his entirety.

"You—mmm—take me so well—hah—so full…" He purrs, licking your lips, deepening his angle with a grunt, "Practically made for this… made for me~" Dottore punctuates the last word, pouring what instincts and intent he labels "emotions" into claiming you, claiming what was always his—what was promised to him by Celestia. Heavenly principles be damned.

"You're mine." Dottore huffs, his rhythm falters the moment he exhales those words, pent up and drunk on the aphrodisiac that is you, "Mine to claim, mine to fuck, mine to ruin, mine to please, mine to love… MINE." The confessions topple off his tongue like a mantra he's carved into himself; each syllable burns with the devotion of it, fervent, breathless, and bordering on terrifying certainty.

"Yours~" You pant, intoxicated in your debauched state, "I'm—mm'f keep going—yours."

And he doesn't disappoint. Dottore grits his teeth before smashing his mouth on yours once more, thrusting into you with abandon. More aggressive, more intimate, faster, messier, and impossibly deeper. Your dewy pussy lips cling onto his swollen cock, creamy wads of white dribbling profusely. The repulsive smell of sex permeates intensely with the sterile scent of his perfectly clean laboratory, but Dottore didn't care—no, no, he'd smother himself between your legs for hours upon hours til your essence stuck to him like a second skin.

"Fuckfuckfuck~ don't stop, don't stop, sir…" You pull away from him again, much to his dismay, slurring out pathetic sounds, "Please… Breed me~" But he would be lying if it didn't turn him on even more.

The coil in his stomach twists deliciously, tensing around his pelvis, signaling his sweet release. So close, so close, he notes the way you clench on his cock and your eyes cross as he jackhammers your cervix, abusing your womb to take him in. He feels your thighs quiver with ache, probably cramping at the prolonged hold, and he responds by planting a kiss on your calf.

He wants more. He wants everything you have to give.

He wants it all.

Worship him as he worships you.

"I want you to say it, my dear." He demands, mouth pressing on the skin of your jaw, nipping and licking along the line of it, as his thrusts become sloppy, "Say that you love me…"

"Doctor…"

"Give it to me." He will not be denied, he will not be deprived—not now, not ever. His stiff cock throbs to release, "Please."

"Doctor…"

"Please…"

—

"Doctor!"

Dottore jolts upright in an instant, sitting up in his work chair behind his laboratory desk. Varieties of vials and beakers sit atop scribbled research notes and torn book pages, and at the center is his artificial Frost Moon—mocking him for his incompetence and the empty shell he was. He groans into the open air, his fleeting wet dream dissipates as fast as it came.

Repeated knocks reverberated on his metal doors. It was one of his assistants, concern etched in their voice, "Are you quite alright, sir?"

Dottore clicks his tongue—annoyed and painfully aroused—feeling his hardness strain beneath the zipper of his pants. A dark patch of wetness stains the area; he's disgusted with himself for this shameful act of debauchery. He's the damn Doctor for archon's sake, the feared harbinger in all of Teyvat, the renowned psychotic scholar of the Akademiya. He shouldn't act like this; ejaculating like a hormonal teenager to the thoughts of you.

"Leave me." He growls, shooing the puny human who disturbed him.

Dottore stands to walk towards his large map of Nod-Krai, sprawled on the wall, to a spot near his two large bookshelves. He stares absentmindedly at the vibrant red marker scribbled all over the paper on locations where records of lost Nod-Krai history had been found, and where his dear Traveler could be traversing.

His. Traveler.

His.

Your lewd words echo in the dead air within his mind.

The needy tone twitched his cock back to life, stiff and leaking once more within the confines of his tight pants. He could still feel the phantasmic grip of your cunt hugging him, milking him—thick coats of white glazing his length. Strikes to your core that tickled his swollen tip, sending tremors to his pelvic nerves. Archons, you feel so plump and soft in his hands, an antithesis of his lean and sharp exterior.

One of his hands lift towards the map, towards a candid picture of you pinned right on Nasha Town. You were standing next to your companions—he didn't care to know the names of—with a smile so full, so bright, it put the moons to shame. He traces your features with an obsessive glint in his crimson eyes, absorbing you within the depths of his never-ending pit of a mind. He grows weary of merely looking, he has waited long enough.

Dottore grips on the piece of film, crumpling it in his hold. Deteriorating towards an intense dip of yearning, he tears the map down, shredding it to pieces, knocking over various equipment, breaking a number of beakers, and punching a dent through the wall.

He pants heavily.

"I will have you…"

Voice low, growling under his breath. Primal desires clouding him, filling the void that gripped his projection of you in an imprisoned embrace.

"I WILL. Have. You."

✦ SCARAMOUCHE :

- user [wandererr] :

she came over again last night.

i told her to leave. she said “make me.”

so i did.

made her beg. made her sob. made her say it:

“i’m yours.”

could never get tired of her voice when she’s all messy and whiny.

she came while crying. she’s such a slut.

last updated: 04:12 AM

“pathetic little girl,” Scaramouche muttered, fingers already so deeply buried inside of you that you swore you could see stars. “Always wet even while you’re pretending to hate me. Yeah? You hate that?”

You moaned sharply, too loud. His other hand covered your mouth in an instant, leaning in close to whisper another string of condescending insults into your ear, his breath so hot against your skin.

“Aw, feels that good? Don’t start crying now. You’re acting like you didn’t come here for this.”

You tried to say something, some insult or weak defense, but it was barely credible with your legs spread wide and his fingers still knuckle-deep inside your cunt. And then he curled his digits just the right way and—

Your knees buckled, tears rimming your eyes. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop— please!”

“Yeah. Just like that,” he whispered, watching you with blown pupils and a sick sort of adoration, nothing short but obsessive. “Say it. Say who you belong to.”

You were already a mess, already crying. The tears were slipping down your cheeks, catching at the corner of your lips and Scaramouche kissed them away. Clenching tight around his long fingers, you knew exactly who you belonged to. Your whimpers were quiet against his palm, but you sobbed into it like you wanted him to break you.

“yours—!” you gasped. “‘m yours— fuck!”

✦ ALHAITHAM :

- user [scribe.alh] :

i told her once that she’s a distraction.

she said “good.”

sometimes i wonder if she just needs someone to fuck the attitude out of her.

can’t be normal with the way she’s arguing and disagreeing with basically anything i say just to piss me off.

she’s wrong.

i’m not pissed off.

not at all.

but her smart mouth does need some fixing.

last updated : 01:39 AM

Alhaitham never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. You were already on all fours, hoodie pushed up and underwear thrown into a corner of your room, his cock so deep inside of you, and all he’s said so far was—

“Tell me what you want.”

You tried. Really. But your voice breaks around the second syllable of his name, and he hummed. As if your utter incompetence was to be expected, and he wasn’t just blowing your back out.

The movements of his hips were relentless. His hands grabbed the curves of your waist, using your body to his desire, and all you could do was moan and whimper into your pillows.

“You picked a fight over the thesis I wrote, and now you’re soaking wet. Very cute.”

One of his hands caressed over your back and slithered around your stomach, lifting you up by a bit. The other deepened your arch.

“Is this what you wanted?”

His tone is cold and clinical, “you throw a tantrum just to get me to fuck you?”

You nodded, too fast and too desperate for release. Alhaitham frowns down at you.

“Words.”

“Yes— Yes, fuck—please— ‘m gonna come!”

Alhaitham leaned down, stuffing you so full of his cock that all you could see was static behind your eyelids.

“Atta girl,” he said flatly.

But even after reaching your orgasm, he plowed into you like he’d finally gone mad. He didn’t pull away even for a second, just leaning down your back and breathing soooo softly against the skin of your neck.

“You’re the best distraction of them all.”

He said that last sentence with a playing cadence. Perhaps to soothe your anxiety with a banter like that of a friend, or to veil the frustration of having to deal with the quite tricky patient you turned out to be.

“Ah, yes, you can continue.” you laughed nervously.

After a few minutes of monitoring this ratnik tending to your gash, the more at ease you were. Despite being a stranger, you felt secure with how he treated you, his poise, and his manners. It was a rather unusual notion to be soothed by someone whose identity you didn’t know yet.

“What’s your name?” you blurted out after contemplation.

“For simplicity’s sake, you can call me Flins.”

“Flins,” you repeated, delighted to know the name of your rescuer. It matched him. Like the source of a flame ablaze in the middle of a dense mist, or—in a less poetic manner—like the flint burning inside the lantern attached to his polearm. Wait, could flint stones cause flames of that color? “I feel indebted to you. Tomorrow, let’s go eat something tasty!”

You expected him to smile or show a hint of gladness in his eyes; instead, his lips didn’t curve upwards a single inch. However, he didn’t furrow his eyebrows, so your comment didn’t displease him either. You weren’t sure what went through his mind.

“Tomorrow…Hm. I’m vexed to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid heading back to the city tomorrow is too soon for you. You’re at risk of it opening if you travel that far.”

So that was the root of that odd silence.

“Right. It’s okay, I can wait. Of course, it is in my best interest not to hurt myself again, ha... Then, when I’m all healed up to leave, let’s go eat somewhere nice.”

Although a bit delayed, this time, a smile appeared.

“Of course.”

In the meantime, you had to be content with what he brought you to eat.

For a thunderstorm that made the worn-down walls inside the lighthouse frigid, a soup was fitting for the occasion. It wafted off the soft aroma of firewood and broth into your nostrils when Flins handed you the bowl.

“Did you already eat?” you asked before Flins retreated from the room. You wanted to ask him to eat here with you, to keep you company. The room, sparsely decorated and furnished with the basics, wasn’t the idea of coziness, to be precise.

“I did.”

You were a bit dejected, looking forward to more of his company, but you didn’t want to be a burden, so you brushed it off.

You hadn’t realized until now that you were starving and downed up the soup.

Once you were done with it, you left it on the small nightstand on your side. You didn’t want to bother him further; he had been beyond helpful so far. It’s a matter of time before he comes back to retrieve the bowl. Besides, you doubt he’d be able to hear you if you shouted in the middle of this downpour. Lightning and thunder illuminated the sky.

With some effort, you sat up straighter again to look at the state of your injury. Fighting back against the discomfort, you managed to prop yourself up enough to gain an eyeful of it.

The swelling was fresh, the clean sutures held the raised skin together. You couldn’t remember what happened then, but whoever landed an attack on you didn’t hold back. When you breathed, you could feel the pull the sutures evoked.

You thanked Flins in your mind for being sensible and not allowing you to leave in this state. It was the perfect recipe for disaster.

The sound of Flins turning the doorknob and entering made you redirect your attention to him.

“I hope the soup was to your liking. Given how isolated this island is from main supply routes, sustenance’s variety is rather limited,” Flins grabbed the bowl.

“No complaints, at all. I’ll sleep like a baby.”

Flins offered a succinct chuckle.

“That puts my mind at ease,” as Flins was about to leave, he looked at you over his shoulder. “If you need anything else, I’ll be by the room next to yours.”

With that, you were again alone in this dim room, the air tinged with sea salt. For a moment, you considered turning the candle on the nightstand off and heading off to sleep.

For some reason, the room you stayed in intrigued you.

If you closed your eyes and remained in silence, you could hear the faint sound of waves crashing into the rocks.

You’ve heard some ratniks spent their whole life in a place like this, which you couldn’t wrap your mind around. Living in a place like this, despite being surrounded by the sea and being close to a beach, seemed rather solitary. Nod-Krai’s climate didn’t provide much of a warm, vacation-like spot in this location.

The worn-out wooden floor creaked when you placed a foot on it.

You used the wall for support, heading in the direction of the shelves. It took you time to reach there, considering the wound on your abdomen, but you handled it well. You didn’t rush towards it, you took deliberate, gentle steps.

You wanted to find something boring on this shelf to read and see if that aided you in falling asleep faster.

That’s when you wondered: was this his room?

You shook your head at the thought. Why would he allow a stranger to sleep in his personal space? This had to be the guest room, or something like that.

If you tried to reach the books placed on the sections that surpassed your height, an immediate pain would immobilize you. Thus, you stuck with the ones at your eye level.

You skimmed through the book spines, searching for the one whose title sounded the most boring.

NodKrai Coastal Lighthouse Regulations and Emergency Protocols, Shipping Routes and Beacon Signals: A Reference Compendium, Standard Maintenance Procedures for Coastal Lighthouses (4th Edition), Essential First Aid for Coastal Work Accidents…  

Well, finding a book that sounded uninteresting proved to be an effortless task here.

…Civilian Observation Records—Coastal Villages—Misc. Notes.

Your hand hovered over the first one you saw, but you couldn’t look away from that last title. It was an odd one, wasn’t it? 

After one more speck of hesitation, you stayed truthful to your main justification for nosing around the bookshelf and ended up pulling the one about coastal regulations. Besides, you didn’t want to get in trouble.

You made it back to bed, book in hand, and opened it up on a random page. The more sentences you read upon walls and walls of text, the drowsier you became. Before long, your sight grew blurry, unable to make heads or tails of what you read, and you fell asleep with the book sprawled across your lap. 

First thing in the morning, the dull pain from your injury greeted you before the sunlight did. The window lacked any curtains, and the first rays of sunrise were enough to pull you out of your rest. You groaned, trying to turn around to sleep facing the opposite side, but the ache in your abdomen impeded it. 

Seeing as it was useless trying to go back to sleep with the sun blazing across the sky, you got out of bed and headed outside in search of Flins. 

“Flins?” you asked, and raised your fist to knock on the door, but when you saw it was ajar, you gave it a light push. 

This room sure was messier than the one you were using. 

It was crammed with shelves and file cabinets, folders and papers tossed on a large desk that barely fit between said shelves. Amid this chaos, the sole thing with a sense of order was a twin-sized bed cornered in the back, the sheet and pillow in their place. 

You were about to step back out when Flin’s unexpected appearance behind you made you flinch.

“My apologies. I was about to greet you, but it seems you beat me to it,” Flins said with a polite smile, but the amused hint in his voice revealed more than that. “Good morning, by the way...” 

Despite the underlying tone of amusement laced in his voice, his presence and overall demeanor were benign, treating you with the same hospitality he did last night. 

You couldn’t pinpoint what’s with this knot in your stomach, however.

“This room was meant to be used as a guest room,” he continued, “but since visitors hardly stayed long enough to need it, I ended up repurposing it into a storage room.”

You realized you might’ve given off a judgmental gaze at him without realizing it.  

“Ah, no. I was just—”

“No need to apologize. I discerned your curiosity and sated it, that’s it,” He waved it off. “I presume you were looking for me because you are hungry.”

This man was adept at reading people. It was scary.

With little else to add, you wanted to follow Flins to the kitchen. He insisted you stay in bed to rest, but you were tired of being cooped in there and convinced him to let you accompany him. 

You took the handrail leading down the spiral staircase, but Flins offered his arm instead.

“Allow me to help you.”

His firm arm now provided you with support while you descended the stairs.

In view of the proximity, you noted the lack of warmth he exuded, even if he wore layers. Not like you were expecting him to be something akin to a human furnace, though the realization made it difficult to ignore.

Once in the kitchen, it resembled the overall aesthetic of the lighthouse’s interior: a reduced space, its walls with traces of saline humidity, and the basic amenities that should be in a kitchen. The lighthouse, it’s built with utility in mind. Nothing else.

You sit on a chair as you chat with him, knowing him better. Until your recovery, this was the singular person you would interact with.

“Are you the only lightkeeper here? Or do you rotate your stay with other coworkers?”

Yet again, another detail you couldn’t ignore. Being stuck in a small piece of land like this, in the middle of a cemetery and all alone, sure sounds depressing.

“It’s just me,” Flins said as he lit the stove.

“That sounds hard. How do you deal with loneliness?”

“I have visitors, on occassions. Aside from that, my light-keeping duties keep me occupied as it is. Oh, and the ghosts that roam the island are quite entertaining individuals.”

He was messing with you, right…

Now that the conversation has ended up on a bit tense note, it wasn’t the first time something in your guts bothered you. Aside from the wound, that is. There was a chance you didn’t notice them yesterday given the novelty of your situation, but now you are in better condition than last night.

The longer you surveyed him while he was busy, the more that turmoil grew.

“Here.” Flins placed a warm grain porridge on the table. You expected him to have breakfast too, but he didn’t.

“Are you not having breakfast?”

“I ate a few hours ago.”

He was about to leave, but, unlike yesterday, you did speak your thoughts.

“Could you keep me company? I don’t like to eat alone…”

Flins walked back again to the table.

“Why’s that? Are you afraid any of the ghosts will bother you?” he pulled the chair out and sat. “They won’t harm you. If anything, they’ll scurry away before you get close.”

Again, with the ghost thing. You suspected he wasn’t joking anymore. This lighthouse was in a cemetery, after all.

“I’m not scared of them.”

However, you couldn’t shake off the feeling that he wasn’t human. That scared you.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever spoken to a lightkeeper. Excuse my curiosity, but what does a day look like for you?”

“Most of it is spent monitoring the coast and the sea in search of any abyss or Wild Hunt creature that’s roaming. Few routes navigate around here, but part of my duty is still to be on the lookout for any shipwreck that may arise. I also fuel lamps, wind the clockwork, and maintain the tower,” His voice was steady and candid, not an ounce of irritation in it.

“And…the ghosts?”

“You wonder if they’re frightening? Not at all. Most of them were former ratniks like me. Some of them I knew before they fell in battle. Some are unruly, but they’re harmless, nonetheless.”

The conversation proved useful to get more familiar with him and soothed you of your turmoil for the time being.

You followed Flins around, at least as far as your injury allowed you to. True to his words, Flin’s schedule followed what he described. For the following week, you even got to see him in action dissipating the hordes of abyssal monsters and aiding those sailors that were lost.

That’s how life with Flins went.

The situation made it easy for you to grow fond of him, as he was the single face you’d seen on a day to day basis. The first one to greet and the last one to say goodnight to. You grew used to his schedule, to his routine, and it being vice versa was true. It has been a mere week, and that sense of familiarity was ingrained already.

You had a life to go back to. People who waited for you to come back. You had sent a letter to your closest ones, reassuring them that you were in good care and you would get back as soon as possible, but that wasn’t enough. Walking short distances and making it down the stairs wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It was time for you to part.

You left the change of clothes Flins lent you on the bed. You now wore the clothes he had found you in first. Flins was always doing something; it was a mystery for you to figure out when he took the time to wash it. Unless he slept less than the recommended amount, that was.

You found Flins occupied in the maintenance room, fixing an auxiliary lamp.

“I’m leaving.”

Flins tightening the bolt was your immediate answer.

“—You may not.”

You paused your steps in front of the door.

He didn’t even bother looking at you when he answered—didn’t bother to drop the wrench he was using.

“…Why?”

“Seven days is not enough for an abdominal laceration to withstand a trek to Nasha Town,” at last, he raised his head to look at you. It was his turn to halt his movements, redirecting his concern to you. “The discomfort of walking over small periods of time might have calmed down, but you need more rest.”

You’re not surprised this was his reaction. He was the best host you’ve ever met, and he took seriously his determination to nurse you back to health.

“I really need to go back, though. If only my family weren’t worried about me, I would take it easy, but knowing they’ve been restless these past days, I need to return.”

Flins left the wrench on the floor and abandoned his crouched position to stand up and walk close to you. You craned your head up to meet his gaze, devoid of urgency.

He wasn’t looking at you, though. Instead, he centered on the glove he was removing from his right hand. The glove was slick with oil, from fixing the lantern. You’d never seen him without them until now.

“I promise I’ll be fine. Besides, I promised to treat you to a nice meal—ow!”

You winced, that sharp and unpleasant pain from your wound throbbed when Flins poked it. With calculated force, he had tapped it. Not jab, not thrust. A tap. It was gentle, but firm enough for you to feel it.

“On the outside, the skin has started to close. Everything else beneath is still swollen and sensitive. You won’t make it outside of this isle without the pain debilitating you.”

For a second there, you felt you needed to insist, but the wavering pain from Flin’s poke made you reconsider it. So far, you had walked short distances, but you hadn’t tried a longer one.

“I’d suggest you wait, at the very least, another week. Even then, you would need to take breaks in between.”

Somehow, the wait for another week to pass was long for you. Even though your host provided you with everything you needed, that didn’t deter boredom from reaching you. On certain days, you would keep company, spending hours chatting with him while guarding the coast from the top of the lighthouse, or be content with watching him repair the complicated mechanisms integrated into the tower.

Against all odds, your additional source of “entertainment” was him.

You didn’t want to muse too much about whether he was a human or not, and you didn’t dare ask him. That would be rude, wouldn’t it? No, don’t think about that.

Thus, you pushed those inferences to the deepest nooks of your mind and tried to find a pastime with what you had available.

You stared at the bookshelf.

It’s not much.

Fingertips grazed along the book’s spines, searching for a title that would pique your interest, if any.

Civilian Observation Records.

Right. The first time you found yourself in this exact position, you avoided that one. You also remembered that day you found the book you took the night prior back in its place. When you woke up, you had left it on the bed. That meant Flins picked it up and returned it to the bookshelf.

He knew you were snooping around his books. Yet, he didn’t reprimand you for it. Maybe he didn’t mind?

Because technical manuals filled the rest of the shelf. You were bored out of your mind, Flins was asleep, and you, on the other hand, couldn’t—you reasoned that it wouldn’t hurt to peek.

Log #345

Weather: Overcast, light snow

Visibility: Moderate

Civilian Presence: Two individuals

Subjects crossed the shoreline path heading west. No deviation from established routes was observed. No signs of distress.

Operational impact: None

Action taken: None

Log #357

Weather: Windy

Visibility: Reduced after dusk

Civilian presence: Three individuals

Unfamiliar with terrain. Adjusted course after environmental exposure increased.

Operational Impact: None

Action taken: Provided directions. No further contact.

Well, you hoped you’d find something interesting here, but so far, everything was innocuous. You felt a bit silly. What were you expecting to read here?

Log #483

Weather: Calm

Visibility: High

Civilian presence: One individual

Subject remained within the perimeter longer than average. Behavior is consistent with previous observation. No approach deemed necessary.

Operational impact: None

Action taken: Continued observation

You pushed the book back into its place. It was as boring as the others.

The good news was that you were drowsy enough to go back to sleep. First, though, you needed a quick trip to the bathroom.

It has been two weeks since Flins has taken the responsibility of aiding your recovery, and you were still to getting used to how hollow the hallway was at night. During the day, it wasn’t as long and desolate as it is at these hours. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume it was the mind’s ploy at work, the human brain masters the art of filling in the blanks with information that clouds the rationale. While you walked to the bathroom, you hugged yourself, seeking a sliver of warmth amidst the low temperature.

Your breath hitched when a metallic sound reverberated from a room down the hallway. A hard lump you swallowed, both intrigued to investigate and ready to run back to the room at the slightest out-of-place occurrence.

When you peeked through the ajar door, you discovered it was Flins. His back to the door. Wasn’t he supposed to be asleep?

You strained your sight more, fighting to discern the figure shrouded in the dimly lit room. Unable to distinguish the details of what was on the table, you squinted more. A sudden purplish light emerged from the front, which you couldn’t tell its source, given Flins blocked out the view without knowing.

That should’ve been your cue to leave. To turn back and move on.

Stretching your neck a little, you unearthed the reason Flins didn’t share a meal with you. He never sat down to eat with you during the morning, the afternoon, or the night.

The bluish purple light emerged from the lamp Flins never failed to carry around with him. It formed a consistent path of light from its core to the plate on the table. What was on the plate, you didn’t bother with the details, too entranced with what he was doing instead.

This answered your questions about whether he was a human being or not.

You should feel unnerved at such a bizarre display. What kind of creature consumed sustenance in this manner? Notwithstanding the unsettling exhibition, you couldn’t find it in yourself to disregard his kindheartedness and the time he has invested in helping you solely because of this. However, your stomach formed a pit at this discovery. It was a rather conflictive clash of emotions.

For the remaining two days before you could make a safer trip, cohabitating with Flins took on a more bittersweet feeling for you. You did treat him as you had been doing before you saw him do that the previous night, still chatted…but looking him straight in the eyes became strenuous. Once again, you’d grown vigilant whenever in his presence and realized the reason for some of his habits. Why he didn’t eat with you, didn’t ask you for help even if the task was minimal, why he waited for you to step aside before entering a room… Those were things aligned with what you’ve heard and read about fae.

The day of your departure arrived at last.

“I see you’re ready to leave.”

Flins offered one of his usual tranquil smiles. When he found you tying your shoelaces, supporting your foot on a stool because your injury wouldn’t allow you to kneel yet, he wasn’t shaken or surprised.

“I can’t stay here any longer. I don’t think it’s fair. I’ve taken too much of your time and…resources,” you switched onto your other foot. Even though the stool was a great help, a slight discomfort was present.

“That was never a problem for me.”

There it was again. You were thankful for his unending kindness.

That’s why you couldn’t take advantage of it—of him.

“I’d feel more at ease if you could, perchance, wait another week? That way…”

“I can’t.” You knew where it was going. Done tying your shoelaces, you straightened your posture to face him. “Flins, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. I promised I would treat you to something nice. Wait for me, please. I promise I’ll be back.”

He was silent for a heartbeat longer than you expected, and that catapulted yours into a frenzy.

“I understand. Then I’ll be anticipating your return soon.”

You weren’t lying when you said you would come back, but it wasn’t in your plans for it to be soon. Regardless, you didn’t bother making that correction and said your farewell to him.

As you walked away, the lighthouse cast a shadow that fell over the path you followed. Its towering presence sent a swarm of memories, even if you weren’t looking at it. The sea salt, which had been present in the air since the first day, diminished the further you made it until its existence turned into mere recollection.

You made it back home. Your reunion with family and friends is buoyant, cheering your return, safe and sound. Routines, schedules, everything that represented your life fell back into place.

It was miserable how unfulfilled you felt, however.

Two weeks have passed since you returned, but you itched to go back to that island. To the lighthouse. To Flins. You couldn’t shake him off your mind, no matter how you fought to do it.

You missed him.

Three simple words that burdened your heart with an indescribable weight.

It didn’t take long for you to retrace your path back to Flins.

He was outside, performing his daily sweep of petals, twigs, and blades of grass that found their way to the tombstones.

“Where are you taking me to eat?”

Flins’s back was towards you, yet you could hear the upward tilt of his smile seeping through his voice.

“You did something to me, didn’t you?”

“Perchance, you mean acting as a medical staff and healing your wounds?”

“Way beyond that,” with decided endeavor, you stepped closer to him. You didn’t shy away from his gaze this time, you faced him straight on. The one that made you alert the first time you saw them now unleashed butterflies in your stomach. “You’re a fae. You enchanted me, and now I can’t shake you off my head.”

With this, Flins stopped what he was doing and came closer to you, standing right before you. His gloved hand found your cheek, his thumb on your cheekbone, as he tilted your face upwards.

“Does this frighten you?”

Did he mean how close he was, how he held your face like a lover would, the catastrophe he sat loose, or what he did to you if your suspicions were correct?

You shook your head no and leaned into his touch.

When the flutter in your insides turned from a pit to a warm sensation that spread through your heart, you didn’t know. It didn’t matter anymore, following Flin’s steps to the privacy of his bedroom, where he held your face with those gloved hands and kissed you until breathless. You were yet to discover if his body exuded any warmth at all, but did those lips and tongue of his set yours ablaze. His lips subdued yours lovingly, hands not abandoning your cheeks and seeking more of you. He would scarf everything down until there was nothing left for anybody else.

Unfamiliar with having someone caress you this way, you did what you thought was natural to do in this situation by roaming your hands across his back, albeit the rest of your body was stiff. Not from rejection, but hesitation in your own actions. Was it alright if you touched his hair? What if he didn’t like it? Would it be too soon if you wrapped your legs around his hips?

His wet tongue abandoned yours, sensing the tension present in your actions. Not with the intention of impelling you or to complain. Flins was being attentive.

“It’s the first time I’m doing this,” you beat him to it. You saw the question regarding the tautness of your body coming.

A hand abandoned its place on your cheek and sought yours instead, gripping it with tenderness.

“To entrust me with something this vulnerable…I’m most honored.” His lips fluttered over your knuckles.

After he shrugged off the outer, heavy layers of his upper clothes and went back to his position on top of you to undo your pants. Once he slipped the article off, he slid a hand beneath your underwear, fingers nudging your hole. Until today, you were familiar with using your hand for this, and now that you felt what it was like to be stretched by something bigger, his touch ignited feelings, unlike another.

“Does this feel right to you, or am I going too fast?”

Too slow, if anything.

You trapped his wrist before he pulled away.

“More.”

Both endeared and amused by your demand, and with a chuckle, Flins heeded your words.

“Flins,” you moaned and spread your arms open, signaling for him to embrace you. “You’re far.”

Whether you were confusing your own body’s temperature or you had unveiled Flin’s warmth when he leaned down to wrap an arm around you, you took delight in it, regardless. His chest snug against yours, and you longed to remove more of your clothing, but the intensity of his measured movements into your insides and thumb stroking your clit made you forget about it fast.

In no time, Flins had you thrashing from pleasure on his bed as he worked your pussy open, making the insides of your thighs sticky from how much arousal dripped. You held him tight, your breath quick against his shoulder.

“Look at me, my dear. No need to be so bashful,” Flins’s thumb grazed your chin, prompting you to look up. Those pale-yellow irises that startled you at first didn’t feel as empty as they did back then; they brimmed with adoration instead. You lacked the clarity to take in every detail of Flin’s expression when your eyes met, since small droplets of tears clouded part of your sight. At that, he kissed them away. “There we go. To ensure that this is as enjoyable for you as it is for me, I need to see you.”

The more he rubbed your clit, even if it wasn’t hasty, the more you melted into him. With measured movements, it was enough for you to feel closer to finishing.

With a moan, you came undone. Your heat squeezed him, along with your hips seeking more of him when you did. Flins kissed you, muffling your sounds, far from stalling so you could ride your orgasm to completion.

By the time Flins pulled away to let you breathe, your surroundings seemed to spin from the intensity of your release. It took you a moment to regain your bearings, that desire not yet quenched. Desire to which you answered by hugging Flin’s hips with your legs, spurring him into giving you more.

You could tell Flins found your disposition endearing, abiding by your demand.

Once he unzipped his trousers...it was rude to stare, and you really didn’t want to, but you couldn’t help sneaking some glances at his cock. You lacked the experience to compare him with others, but you didn’t need to be an expert to know he was above average, in girth too. However, you weren’t afraid to take him in, given he had prepared you for it.

…Well, maybe you were a little nervous. When the warmth nudged your entrance, the contrast in size became more evident for you.

“No need to fret, love,” Flins intertwined your hand with his, providing a sense of security with how it enclosed yours. “If you sense the need to stop, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Although your heart thumped fast, you didn’t want to stop.

He eased the tip in, a slick sound following it when he did. You could feel the way your walls opened to adjust to his size, and when he pressed forward to fill your pussy with more of him, it became even more apparent. The pressure was far from painful, which allowed him to thrust another couple of inches without causing you discomfort. When more than half was in, though, you did feel a bit of tension on your part. You didn’t back away, though. Not even when Flins halted for a second, your immediate response was to tighten your legs around him.

His pelvis met yours, and the overwhelming fullness let you know that the entirety of him was inside. Flins massaged your hip, coaxing your body into relaxing. With the other, he brought your still interlaced hand to brush a kiss on your knuckles; thrusts rhythmic and controlled. Every now and then, you would catch a soft, pleasured sigh from him, and it affected you. Maybe a little too much.

Something beyond the visages you’ve seen on him prior to this day, you unraveled a new type of gleam in his eyes—desire. They were half-lidded, an obvious craving. Thinly veiled in how he absorbed the sight in front of him.

“I see you’ve adjusted.” It tickled you when he skimmed his kisses from your hand to your wrist. “Shall I take that as permission to move a little faster?”

“Yes—”

At your approval, Flins brought you closer by the hips, angling them in a position where they weren’t touching the bed anymore. You arched your back to accommodate the position. The change made it impossible to ignore how deeper his cock went, the sheer size jabbing at a spot inside that drove you closer to the edge. You weren’t sure how much longer you’d be able to go, the vehemence with which he thrust to the point the bed creaked. Despite it being faster, the pace wasn’t sloppy, as Flins controlled his pace.

You tried to vocalize your impending orgasm. That was your intention, but the constant waves of pleasure impeded you from it. In no time, a strong shudder took hold of your senses when you came, squeezing Flins’s dick. At the realization of his own approaching orgasm too, he captured your mouth with a kiss. His tongue slid against yours mid-thrust, and soon after, he spilled inside. He lingered there as it ended, ropes after ropes of cum brimming your hole.

Thoughts muddled and drowsy, you couldn’t quite catch what Flins whispered against your skin. He didn’t pull away; instead, preferred to hold you for a while longer. Living in an isolated place like this made it easy to forget someone’s warmth. Warmth, which was incomparable because it came from you.

You drifted off to sleep, lulled into rest thanks to Flins brushing your disheveled locks of hair away from your face.