Elias' wife‼️

Pantalone's kisses are more frequent, tender and quite lovely. Pantalone likes to kiss you whenever and wherever he can.

At the bank? He's grabbing your cheek. At the hotel? He's already reachinf for your waist. At bed? That's another story.

Whenever Pantalone kisses you, he always kisses you with care, yet with such playfulness that leaves you breathless. Sometimes he likes to dip you down as you kiss, watching in delight how your mouth mumbles nonsense. Your cheeks turn red, reaching your ears. And he apologizes behind a well-meaning smirk.

Pantalone's kisses are more of an habit than anything else. He always gives them to you and Dottore whenever and especially if he's going out.

Pantalone stands at the door with his suitcase in hand. And as always, calls you both like you're some sort of.. puppy.

"Ahhh. What a sight! My darlings, all pretty before me.." He chuckles to himself. His smile dashing before he grabs Dottore's chin, and gently tilts his head.

He presses a kiss to each one of Dottore's cheek. Despite Dottore's stoic expression, you see as Dottore's ear turn red the second Pantalone turns away. The next? He's kissing you.

A brief kiss on your nose, the next one placed on the surface of your forehead. "Be safe, precious." Pantalone pulls away, now both you and Dottore stand beneath the sight of such gorgeous specimen.

When Pantalone shuts the door, you stand in silence along with Dottore. You look torwards him. He's looking at you. And you both nod in aknowledgement.

You're whipped.

While Pantalone's kisses are sweet, Dottore's kisses can be a bit... too much.

He's selective. Where, when, why should he kiss?

Sometimes when you see Pantalone leave Dottore's office, he's flushed from head to toe, resembling the color of Zandik's eyes, as pretty as a ruby.

You don't question it. Because you know exactly what happened. You merely walk to the kitchen, and pour him a glass of water.

"My heart!" Dottore calls out to you from his office. You quickly come rushing, the heels of your shoes clicking with every step. Dottore is a particular, selective, and a very bratty man. It's very rare that he calls you to his office.

Once he sees you at the door, he smiles. You suddenly get the urge to step back, yet retreat from such plan the second he invites you with his hand.

"Come here, come, come..." You stepped closer. He was sitting on his office chair, like usual. He looked up at you, one of his hand came up and brushed against the small of your back. You shuddered at the sudden contact.

"Don't be afraid. I'll bite so little that you won't be able to tell."

In one single moment, you're being pressed up against his lips. Oh no. One of his hands remains pulling at your hair at the back of your hair, while the other rests comfortably at your waist, squeezing your hip bone every now and then. You try to entertain yourself by playing with the hairs at his neck.

Yet his mouth is too intense.

The thing is, everytime Dottore kisses you he's almost sucking out your soul. Tongue, lips, hell, sometimes even teeth. He sucks on your mouth, his tongue nudges lightly against yours as if he wants to get rid of it. It's passionate and distinct, but it's... too much!

You pull away, all flushed and breathing helplessly against his mouth. As much as how attentive Dottore is, he sadly doesn't know when do ypu need to catch your breath.

"Ah. Tired already, my heart? Awh... such a little thing like you. I thought of you better."

It was safe to say, the door slamming behind you was... satisfying.

PAIRING! 𝐋𝐎𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐱 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

AU! 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐔

GENRE! 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐮, 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐜𝐨𝐦, 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐮, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧), 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬-𝐭𝐨-𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲

STATUS! ONGOING

PROFILES! 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐈𝐋 | 𝐓𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐀'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁

ARC I — OH, I'M COOKED!

The Woman With The Megaphone

Future Wife Allegations

???

???

???

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ARC II — THE INVESTIGATION! ARC III — STUDENT COUNCIL EMERGENCY! ARC IV — THE TSARITSA'S STRONGEST SOLDIER! ARC V — OPERATION COURTSHIP! ARC VI — WAIT A MINUTE…! EPILOGUE ARC — THE CAMPUS EVENT!

PRODUCER'S ENDING CREDITS!

i love you, lohen, please come home again and your signature weapon</3. also, guys, comment down if you want to be part of the taglist!

I remembered creating a life in my little dream. Creatures so ethereal, yet dangerous if provoked. Terrain so complex that you have to watch your steps—or even behind if not careful.

But it wasn’t the creatures or the terrain that made me mesmerize beyond my imagination. Rather, it was the ‘humans’ or ‘people’ that made me so happy in my lonely venture.

I wanted to make more.

Especially the stories that these people have. Their destiny—fate.

However, the more I create, the more I become weak. That was when I learned that creating took quite a tool to someone’s mental health.

Yet I yearned to create more—as it filled the loneliness that I live in.”

Note 4: Dreams

“I once asked my mother, ‘Do you dream, mama?’

She told me that there were times, but the majority of the time, she didn’t dream. ‘I feel embarrassed to dream, and that is too childish for a woman my age.’

I respected her opinion, however I would disagree. Because dreams create impossible things that reality may not create. And maybe… with that dream one can have the confidence to recreate it in reality.

And maybe I dream because… I wish to fill up the void. I dream because I wish to see what life would be if it wasn’t so… lonely and… sad.

Ever since that talk with my mother, I often asked others too. And yes, some dreams and some not so often. Yet in the end, people still dream at one point in our lives.

Though I wish to make my dream truly come true than just dreams. I wish I was just like the others, to recreate the dreams they had.”

Note 8: To be… love

“Though I know I am loved by many—as they always showed and spoke to me whenever I felt down.

But I can not help but feel I am… not so loved as I had believed to be.

If I was truly loved by many. Why do I bring so much… pain to those I love? Why do I only see eyes that are opposite to the words they spoke to me? Eyes that pain me so much more than the love that they give.

Perhaps—- Never—-- ….”

—------------------------------------------------

“So these are the True Divine’s unfiltered thoughts?”

A young man spoke to himself as he evaluated the ancient text before him. Though it was incomplete, it was still worth salvaging as it was the True Creator’s wisdom on text. At least he believed it was worth it.

“It seems that the old folktales that those elders’ would tell children were quite…” the young man pondered for his next words, “Intertwined to the real thing.”

His ruby eyes scanned the text again. “These are more of… someone’s personal journal than actual knowledge.”

And here he thought learning the forgotten language was going to be valuable once he got scattered text from the Creator.

“But all I got were just words of vulnerability from someone who was supposed to be… Superior,” he said loudly to no one. 

He was about to discard the text, but his eyes landed on one particular sentence in the text.

‘Why do I bring so much… pain to those I love?’

He looked at it for a moment.

…

Then he stuffed the ancient text inside his bag. He tsked and stumped out from the ruined temple within the deserted and abandoned area in Sumeru.

‘I am only bringing it for… research.’

================================================

I pray that all is going well for you and you’re responding positively to your treatment. Enclosed with this letter is the payment I received from last month’s salary. Seeing as I am currently unable to leave this place and have nowhere to spend any of it, I’ve sent all of my wages to you so that you might pay the hospital whatever they need. Please hold onto the rest and keep it safe for me, mama. I think we will need it once my work here has concluded. 

I do not mean to push but haven’t you had the time to write me back? I was so looking forward to hearing from you and when I never received any sort of reply it left me so badly wishing to return home just to see you again. Or I haven’t received anything as of yet, at least. I suppose the post might run a bit behind all the way out here in the countryside. But if it is simply a matter of the nurses not supplying you with a pen and paper, then please use some of the mora I sent to have them buy you your own. 

Oh, but don’t think me selfish for writing to you this way. I just miss you very much, mama. It makes me feel silly to say it, as if I’m still a child clinging to her mothers apron strings, but it is the truth. It’s unsettlingly lonely here. 

And it isn’t just the simple remoteness of this place. I’m sure I’d feel isolated and cut off from the rest of the world even if this manor was nestled right in the heart of Snezhnograd, seeing as I can neither come nor go. I am just stuck here. It’s something much more than that, something that I almost feel inclined to call insidious. 

Most days it really is just Master Zandik and I roaming the grounds together. There are no other members of staff in this drafty place. No friends or acquaintances come to pay visits or house calls, unless I were to consider Lord Regrator’s appearance at the start of the month something as quaint as a friendly house call. I hesitate to label it that though. 

The only other person I’ve seen with any amount of regularity, although he seems to appear and disappear as suddenly as an unpredictable wisp of the wind, is the man in the mask. He isn’t cruel to me, exactly, so please don’t fret over what I am going to write next. It’s just … he frightens me a little bit. I’m not sure what to make of him, even after having dealt with his strange behavior all this time. I much prefer the company of Master Zandik, and even Lord Regrator over his. 

Do you remember that awful noise I told you about last time, mama? I don’t think it actually has anything to do with the masked man, but I’ve found myself wanting to lump them both into the same category of disconcerting happenings that linger within these old walls. 

To that end, I hope you are not disappointed or think me a fool for doing something so hasty, but recently I decided to ignore Master Zandik’s warnings not to stray from where he’s permitted me to go, so that I might try to investigate the source. It wasn’t just my curiosity urging me along this time though. I’d started to grow increasingly concerned the more Master Zandik insisted he could not hear it like I did, and I certainly was not going to ask the man in the mask for his input. 

So I snuck out after dark to explore the rest of the house against his wishes and against my better sense. Unfortunately this campaign netted me little result other than scaring myself half to death once all was said and done. It wasn’t that anything happened or I stumbled upon some great, terrible secret per se, but … 

Oh, I know how strange this is going to sound, mama, please don’t think any less of me for it. I feel like a proper twit even thinking it, let alone writing the words out for anyone else to read. I can’t shake it though, and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

I think this place is haunted. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The rush of water splashing back into itself sounds loud, nearly deafening when it bounces off of the paneled walls to reverberate in the space between. It seems to fill your ears as if you’d dunked your head under the surface, making them feel clogged and stuffed while you finish dumping out the steaming pitcher into the porcelain tub. 

Silence washes in to replace the sound once you’re finished, and you step away to set the hot-to-the touch flagon aside on a low table next to the bath. Heaving a deeply contented sigh, Zandik reclines back to rest his head along the edge of the tub. His eyes are closed in relaxation and what you think just might be relief, which means he doesn’t see the way that you surreptitiously glance down into the water. 

He lays sprawled out in the claw footed basin without a single ounce of shame or concern for his nudity, which you sorely wished you could attribute to his level of comfort with you. Unfortunately it’s always been this way since the very first time you helped him into the bath, even when he would only look at you to glare and getting more than a single word out of him was like pulling teeth. You could only guess, then, that he viewed this as one of those things which was simply a natural part of life and so there was no reason to feel embarrassed about it. 

Sadly you were not of the same mind as him, and you feel your cheeks flood with heat when you quickly look away from the indecent sight. 

“Is the water hot enough, Master Zandik?” 

A slight shift of movement but, still, his eyes remain shut. “Mm. Acceptable.” 

You make a face at yourself yet you wisely choose to keep any remarks on that zipped. He’d nearly bitten your head off once before after you’d expressed mild concern over his preferred bathing temperature and suggested that it might be a good idea to tone it down a little bit. You didn’t want to have another argument with him. Moreover, even though he would likely never admit to it, you also harbored some suspicions that it made his joints feel at least marginally better. As long as he was comfortable you supposed that was all that really mattered. 

Leaving him to soak, you bustle back and forth between bedroom and bathroom, disposing of the clothes he’d worn today for washing and replacing them with a clean set of pajamas for when he was done. You liked to give the water enough time to cool so that it wasn’t scalding your skin off by the time you needed to submerge your hands in it, so you keep busy with little tasks that don’t take you too far from his side. But every time you pop your head back in to check on him, Zandik is still sitting right where you’d left him as if he hadn’t even moved so much as a single finger. 

If you didn’t know any better you might have thought he was dozing off in there. 

He wasn’t overly prone to falling asleep at random intervals though, even in spite of his age, so you really don’t worry all that much about leaving him to his own devices for a few minutes. And you’re certainly quite glad for that. 

Because try as you might, you just can’t seem to stop thinking about what happened between you and him in the library earlier that day. The whole thing felt like some inexplicable fever dream from the deepest, darkest corners of your subconscious mind, not something you’d actually lived. Between Zandik dotingly rubbing your cunt to blissful relief and that damnable Doctor forcing his fingers up inside you, it was nearly impossible to make any sense of what had even transpired. 

You’d known the old man sometimes got a bit handsy with you even prior to this, so that wasn’t really the confounding part. Rather it was the fact you’d let him touch you. There. In that manner. You’d permitted it. All of it. Not only that, you had even asked for it. 

You must have been out of your goddamn mind. 

By and far the worst part, though, was how thinking about what had already happened and picturing him putting his hands on you like that again did not inspire the roiling cringe of revulsion you wished it did. He was many years your senior, well past any age that would have made him an at all acceptable suitor, and yet here you were. Getting fidgety with excitement every time you thought of the way he’d plucked your vibrating quim to a shuddering fever pitch. 

It was inconceivable. It was mad. 

You hear him call your name then, and your head snaps up with a sudden jerk. Quickly abandoning the pair of socks you’d been folding, unfolding and refolding for the last some odd minutes, you rise to your feet and flit back into the bathroom. 

“Yes, Master Zandik? Did you need something?” 

“Of course.” He says, looking at you as if that much should have been obvious. And, in truth, you supposed it kind of was. “I would like to get out of this bathtub at some point today, if you don’t mind. Did you really forget about me? I’m starting to prune, stupid girl! Hurry it up. I haven’t got all night.” 

Seeing as he never leaves the house any more than you do, and he never entertains any guests either, you know that’s not true. He has all the time in the world so sit and soak up the heat from the bath water. 

But you don’t tell him that, biting your tongue to stop yourself from snarking at him as you step across the room to come up next to the tub, already rolling your sleeves to your elbows. This somewhat uncomfortable ritual had taken some getting used to at first, when you were not overly accustomed to touching naked strangers, and yet efficient, clinical detachment had settled in quickly enough. Hopefully the day's events hadn’t completely reversed that small progress though. 

You start off simple enough. Taking your time, you gently wash his hair while taking care not to rip the thinning strands out or to scratch his scalp too vigorously. It had looked a little rough in a few patches, a bit bedraggled, when you first arrived which you took to mean that whoever had been seeing to his care before you hadn’t done a very good job. If such a person even existed at all. There was every possibility he’d been completely independent and seeing to his own needs prior to you coming here, and given the selfish attitude of the man in the bird mask … you were fairly inclined to believe that was the case. Doubly so when you considered how he’d initially shirked away from your hands, as if a gentle touch was a completely foreign concept to him. 

It was looking and feeling much better now though, even if you couldn’t restore what had already started to thin out and turn brittle. But Zandik’s hair still manages to maintain some small amount of its former softness thanks to your efforts, and after thoroughly rinsing it you take up a wash rag and a bar of spritzy evergreen soap. 

You scrub his arms, his neck, his back and then his front, which is precisely where you start to lose some of your nerve. It’s nearly impossible not to let your mind wander, however, when you’re feeling across his narrow chest to make sure he’s clean. The gesture was just a little too intimate not to remind you of something else that was also embarrassingly intimate, and not to mention highly inappropriate given your station here. Even having crossed that line with him once before isn’t quite enough to dissuade your deeply felt shame when you catch yourself looking at him with anything other than detached impartiality. 

As your palms slide over Zandik’s tiny nipples, wetting the sparse hairs around them, you shoot a nervous glance down at the water but it’s far too murky with soap suds for you to make out much of anything underneath. You’re not so sure you can do this without having a complete and total mental breakdown over the awful conundrum you’ve stumbled into, but you force yourself to keep going. Praying you could just get it done and over with, without incident. 

Further down you go to scrub the cloth over his soft stomach. It looked to you like he may have had a fairly tight physique in his youth, perhaps not hard and muscular, but it isn’t difficult to imagine him having some toned definition at one point. If it had ever existed it's completely gone now, replaced with a small pouch over his belly and squeezable lovehandles on his sides. You thought it rather cute in the way a chubby baby was cute, which was so at odds with the heated thoughts racing through your mind that you can hardly make heads or tails of it. 

Forcibly swallowing down your nerves, you slide your hand lower still with every intention of giving his genitals a quick, perfunctory cleaning before immediately moving on to his legs. 

But what you find there startles a quiet yelp out of you, your cheeks lighting up like a firecracker when you’re greeted by something decidedly stiff. Something hard and seeking. Something that twitches faintly at the brush of your knuckles. 

Stirring out of his light doze at the sound more than the touch, Zandik sends you a strange look. It’s only then, seeing the deeply frazzled expression on your face, that he seems to realize what’s happened. 

“Oh.” Is all he says. 

Screwing your eyes shut in an attempt to block it all out, you blindly shove your hand past that dangerous forbidden zone to clean over his thigh instead. “Please don’t apologize, Master Zandik. I’m sure that was my fault.”

He outright scoffs. “I wasn’t going to.” 

Realizing you were just continuously humiliating yourself, again and again, you clamp your mouth into a warbling line and focus instead on getting him washed. Down the length of his leg to clean first the left foot before switching over to the right. You’re moving at record speeds now, but you still don’t quite manage to finish up before he deigns to speak again. 

“You really are a strange one, you know that? I wouldn’t call it timid, exactly, but … easy to rile? If you have no interest in my cock then you shouldn’t have any problem cleaning it like any other part of my body.” 

You outright choke at that, freezing mid motion to bring your head up with a sharp jerk. Just staring at him in what might be wide eyed panic. Him, staring back, even when his grumpy brows slowly start to knit in confusion. 

And then a surprised, almost disbelieving laugh punches out of him. Harsh and abrupt. 

“So that’s what your problem is. You can’t stop thinking about it and wondering what it’s like, can you? I’m sure that’s why you forgot about me, too. I just bet you were in the other room zoning out over some ridiculous fantasy.” 

“N - n - no! I was not!”  

The wrinkles around his mouth shift, deepening into harsher creases when he fixes you with a pointed barb smirk. “Well then you should have no problem at all washing me down just like usual, right? Back before I showed you what your body is capable of feeling. Before you were curious.”

You gape at him in mute disbelief. The fact Zandik could read you so easily, and so accurately too, comes very close to sending you running from the room in hysterics. How were you supposed to navigate this without losing what little still remained of your resolve to keep things between you and him proper, respectful? 

“It … it wasn’t like — that before.” You stammer at last, finding your voice. 

“Hm?” Shifting slightly to make the water in the tub ripple around him, Zandik glances down at himself in question. And when understanding dawns he gives a sharp click of his tongue and a roll of his eyes. “You think that’s something to get so worked up about? Stupid girl. I’m not even full hard yet.” 

You start to reel back in abject shock. “H - huh?” 

But you don’t make it very far, his hand shooting out to snag your wrist with a fleshy wet slap. The stiff, bony ridges of his fingers tighten to the point of making reflexive tears spring up in your eyes, refusing to let you skuttle away as he directs your hand back up to his groin. You lose the submerged rag at some point in the shuffle, or perhaps you drop it in your alarm, you can’t be sure which. 

Rougher than you ever would have thought to do it, Zandik shoves your recoiling fingers into his waiting cock. It stirs again, even at that indelicate contact, and then immediately settles against your palm to rest there while he forces your hand to cup around its slight weight. 

Your heart jackhammers so violently you think you might really throw up right then and there; leaning over the tub like that, forced to hold the old man’s length entirely against your will. 

“See?” He says, unexpectedly gentle, patient, given the punishing hold he’s got on your arm. “It’s not even halfway there, is it? Hardly anything to warrant all this fuss.” 

“I - I don’t see.” You gulp, swallowing down your nerves and almost gagging. “I’ve never seen one before at all … remember? I just know it’s … usually it’s — softer. Smaller. Than this.” 

“Ah. That’s right. I almost forgot you’re a virgin pure, the way you’ve been all but wetting yourself over me since the incident in the library.” 

“M - Master Zandik?!” You wail in dismay as you give your captured arm a frantic tug now. 

He still won’t let you go, however, and you quickly find that you are completely at his mercy like this when he manually starts to close your trembling fingers around him. 

“Then let me do the honors of giving you your first crash course.” Exhaling a vaguely anticipatory breath through his nose, Zandik brings his opposite hand close under the water to assist the first in placing your hand. “This is a cock. And a rather agreeable one at that, if you’ll permit me to boast. You’ve already seen it soft plenty of times before, but it looks like I’m still feeling a bit eager from earlier. After getting to play with your sweet little cunt, I can’t say I’m particularly surprised by this discovery.” 

With that, he finishes closing your fist around himself, keeping his own hands wrapped around yours so that you cannot pull away. Left with no other choice, you’re forced to acknowledge all that soft, silken skin under your palm and you realize he’s telling the truth. He really wasn’t fully filled out yet. The flesh still retained the same spongy quality you were accustomed to while washing him, still malleable in your hold. It was just a little bigger than usual. 

You’re suddenly struck by just how foolish you were being. To have such a flustered response over a cock that didn’t even pose any kind of threat to you was the very definition of silly. Your inexperience was showing. Badly. 

Even so, he’d been right about your curiosity and now that you were actually grasping him in your hand it rapidly starts to get the better of you. This was always what got you into trouble. 

“You mean it’s not … ready?” 

Zandik flicks his gaze up at you at that question, studying your face with an inscrutable look. “No, silly girl. It’s not ready, as you put it. If that’s your goal here then you will have to do more than run your hands over my body to accomplish it. I’m sure if it had been one of my younger selves I’d be standing at full attention just from being naked in front of you, but …” 

Breathing out a rough sound, he carefully squeezes down on your fingers to in turn make you squeeze him. The fleshy weight in your grip twitches faintly under the exerted pressure as if it were a serpent slowly coming out of a deep sleep, and your brows shoot straight up to your hairline when you feel it slowly start to thicken. 

“Unfortunately an old man’s body is not nearly as easy to excite as it was in his youth.” He continues, the register of his voice dropping to a lower grumble than normal. “It might take some time, but I’m sure with your … particular talents you can manage it.”

You can’t help the breathless little laugh that shudders out of you at that. “That’s funny. Lord Regrator told me I had no talent to speak of.”

He snorts an odd noise in response. “And I’m sure he’ll feel so inclined to change his estimation of you soon enough.” 

Your ears prick at that, wondering what that was possibly supposed to mean, but you don’t get the opportunity to question it. Zandik’s hands, still clasped over yours, begin to carefully manipulate your extended arm into a stilted pumping motion. Barely moving at first, just a simple nudge up. And then another nudge back down. Testing the give of your fist, perhaps. Or your reception to it. 

And although your face certainly feels like it’s hot enough to fry an egg now, you can’t quite seem to bring yourself to fight it. Not only because you were undeniably interested in what he was showing you, even though you would have been remiss to ever, ever admit it out loud. But also because you could feel a curious heat starting to curl in your gut, reminding you of the molten, drippy state of your cunt when he’d rubbed it for you. 

That slow budding sensation is enough to have you biting down on your bottom lip, growing hazy and a bit hot under the collar. Stiltedly pumping him like this, it’s not exactly difficult to imagine that same smooth shaft gliding deep inside the farthest reaches of your body. 

Gods, you really were going to be sick at this rate. 

“How … how big does it get?” You finally dare to ask, when you can keep that seemingly urgent question held at bay no longer. 

His eyes slide shut again as Zandik leans his head back against the rim of the tub with a faltering sigh. “Do you wish to find out? You’ll have to keep stroking me, then.” 

You’re almost a bit chagrined at his response, but the curling tendril of arousal deep within your gut quickly overrides the impulse to be annoyed with him. In a way you probably should have seen this coming, and yet … somehow you just can’t be mad about it. You’d wanted to return the favor earlier in the library, after all, but he wouldn’t let you, even when you’d been so sure it was expected of you. A duty as much as an obligation. 

Did your hand feel anywhere near as good on his cock as his did on your pussy? Were you giving him even half of the same rush of sensation, the tight, squirming, knotted build up of pressure that had left you seeing stars, reeling and dazed? 

It doesn’t really look like it from where you’re sitting, the way he remains sprawled out and at ease along the interior of the porcelain bath. Neither twitching or shuddering as you’d been unable to stop yourself from doing, nor does he become antsy with the same fast pumping excitement. 

You realize, then, in a far off, dreamy sort of way, what he’d meant about it taking some time and effort on your part to get him up to full strength. Zandik’s body was not even close to being as easily riled as yours was. The difference in your age and your experience suddenly seems more stark than ever before, but rather than finding this discouraging you instead feel your chest tighten with a hot spark of challenge. 

Brows knitting in stubborn determination, you lift your hand under your own power on the next upward pull and then bring it back down again. A low rumble of acknowledgment slips out of him, appreciative and encouraging in equal measure. His bony fingers stay wrapped around yours for another moment longer, lightly guiding you through the motion a few more times until they start to loosen and then, finally, drop away. 

Left to your own compulsions, you give the cock in your grip a harder tug while he shifts inside the basin, scooting a little lower until the water ripples up around his chest. His arms lift to brace along the sides as he hums a thready sound at the ceiling overhead. 

“There. That’s it.” He murmurs, keeping his head tipped back to give you a good look at how the apple bobs inside his wrinkled throat. “You’re starting to get the hang of it now, aren’t you? You’ll be a pro in no time.” 

“Is that really something I should aspire towards?” You mumble, intending to come off rueful, but somehow the slightly husky intonation of your voice makes it sound sultry. Rather self consciously, you work to clear your throat. 

“Mmm. I don’t see why not. Something tells me you’ve got the natural aptitude for it.” Hesitating, Zandik slowly sucks in a tight breath that makes his narrow chest expand dramatically before letting it out on a softly shuddering exhale. “You’ve almost got me there. What does it feel like now, girl? Tell me.” 

Your fingers squeeze down a little tighter at the sharp inflection in that command. You were starting to grow damp between the legs again … dammit. 

“It feels like … skin, smoother and softer than anything I’ve ever held before. It’s surprisingly nice to have in my hand. I didn’t think — w - well, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite like this. But it moves with my fingers and I can squeeze it. Sometimes I can feel it pulsing back. And it’s firm now. Not s - so … squishy? And thick, too. Standing … straight up, in - … instead of …” 

Tongue lolling uselessly in your mouth, you wheeze a pained little groan in the back of your throat that makes Zandik’s cock eagerly flex against the fingers wrapped around him. He seethes a quiet sound into the static charged air and, to your slackjawed surprise, executes a slow motion thrust up into your hand. It’s shallow and weak. Tentative. But it’s still enough to send his rigid length skirting along your fingers through the water. You start to feel well and truly faint then, as you watch his stomach flex, hips rolling up off the floor of the tub to almost lazily fuck himself into your grip. 

You suddenly feel very close to passing out. 

“Is it making you wet, getting to play with me like this? You’re starting to sound rather distracted.” Finally bringing his head back around, he pins you there with what you can only think to describe as a smoldering look of desire. His eyes narrowed slightly, tension pinching his expression, while he continues to sedately grind into your trembling hold. Exactly the same way he might also grind into your —

“Mmngh. Are you thinking about taking it deep inside your little cunt, right now? Is that what’s got you making that needy face at me? Huh?”  

“… n - no.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing, girl. There’s no need for all this skirting around the topic, you know. I’ll fuck you if that’s what you want.”

Struggling just to pull in a full breath to fill your aching lungs, you give your head a numb shake. “I … I can’t do it. It’s too much.”

Zandik quirks a sardonic brow at that. “And this isn’t?” 

You shake your head again, with more feeling this time. “I just can’t. That’s going way too far. Even this is already … b - but you did it for me earlier, so it only seems right if I …” 

He regards you for another moment longer, with his cock still in your hand, before heaving a rather irritable sigh. “Alright. Have it your way. Then let’s just skip the pretense, shall we? Help me out of the tub.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

 “I said get me out of this bath! Quickly, before I change my mind!” 

Jolting at the sudden bark, you release him and stand up in a rush. Grumbling something indecipherable under his breath while you bend to pull the drain plug, Zandik uses his grip along the sides to begin pushing himself upright with no amount of difficulty but you’re quick to swoop in and help him, your hands anxious and fluttering. Luckily he accepts your aid instead of slapping you away, which comes as quite a relief, given his abrupt mood swing. 

In relatively short order you’ve got him standing on the rug in the center of the bathroom where you hastily work to dry him off while at the same time keeping your eyes averted from what was between his legs. You weren’t sure if you could handle looking directly at it. But a surprised little flutter still makes itself known when you inevitably reach around him with the towel only to find him hard and sticking straight out from his body. 

Standing as tall as his hunched spine will allow, Zandik patently ignores you now while you work to dry his groin off using only shy, fleeting pats around the area for fear of upsetting him any further should you make another grab at him. You’re not sure if he’s more bothered by your flighty indecision — he’d been right to call you that, as it turns out — or his own inability to act on his urges the way he clearly wants to. It makes for an altogether terrible feeling in the pit of your gut though. Especially when you had no idea how to explain to him that you would have had the same reservations even if he was one of your like-aged peers and not many, many years your senior. 

You can’t help but fear the unknown of what taking that final plunge might mean for you. Unfortunately you don’t get the chance to explain any of that to him, and you soon find yourself nervously flitting after him when he abruptly deems himself dry enough and pushes into motion to grab his cane from the wall. 

Following in the wake of his shuffling footsteps, the two of you step back into the bedroom together. But your confusion only grows, however, when you watch him completely bypass the clean pajamas you’d set out for him at the end of the bed in favor of getting himself spun around and then perching on the edge of the mattress. Utterly naked. Cock still standing erect to jut up from the soft v of his lap. 

The room dizzily starts to spin around you. 

“M - Master Zandik? What are you doing?” 

“Sit.” He snaps, indicating the spot next to him. But a frightful chill instantly races up your spine at that all too familiar bite in his voice and it freezes you to the spot. 

He really did sound just like the Doctor, when he’d barked at you to sit down in Lord Regrator’s office. 

So stunned by disbelief, you don’t immediately jump to heed his summons. And yet when the old man draws a purposeful breath, clearly readying to really lay into you, you jolt out of it and quickly hurry to obey. 

Practically leaping into place, you use your hands to smooth your skirt underneath you and then neatly fold them in your lap once you’re settled. And you wait. 

Next to your utterly naked employer while you remained fully clothed. 

Something was starting to seem a bit backwards again. 

For a long stretch of seconds, minutes, maybe even hours for all that you were aware, a tension filled silence blankets the room until, at last, Zandik blows out a slightly less huffy breath. 

“Listen. I’m — sorry I became so short with you. It was not my intention to frighten you, or make you feel bad for something I suspect you have little control over.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. He’d never apologized to you before, not for anything, and it was clearly costing him quite a bit of his pride to admit to his mistakes. How very strange and unexpected. 

“There’s no need to apologize, Master Zandik.” You murmur, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. “I’m probably the one who should be saying that right now, for … taking such liberties.”

“Nonsense. I invited you to do so, and there was no harm done. Don’t look so nervous.” He tells you, unexpectedly gentle. Or whatever counted for gentle in his world. “As I said before, I have neither the desire or the ability to force you to do something you don’t want to do. It might be for the best anyway, as much as it does pain me to say that. I very much doubt I could really fuck you the same way I could have even twenty years ago. A pretty young thing like you might be too much for this old man.” 

Slowly lifting your head, you send him a careful glance. Pretty? Was that the first real compliment he’d given you that wasn’t dripped in sarcasm and impatience? 

“But -“

“But,” he goes on. “As you can see my cock still works, despite what that high and mighty prick tried to suggest, even if it does take a bit longer to get going than it used to. Or, at the very least, it works for you. So I don’t see any reason why we can’t find a satisfactory middle ground between us. I’m not so ambitious at this stage in my life that I’d demand you give me every little part of you. I wouldn’t even know what to do with it if you did. But you’re already here and you’re already taking care of me in other ways, aren’t you? This wouldn’t be so different from that.” 

That he would even try to find a compromise in the first place comes as nothing short of a great shock to you, and you turn to peer over at him with wide eyes now. 

“Are you trying to say … you want me to take care of you in that way? As part of my — duties?” 

He snorts a quiet sound. “It doesn’t need to sound so obligatory. And besides, I’m happy to continue rewarding you to make it worth your time too. You seemed to rather like my fingers playing in your little cunt, didn’t you?” 

You give a small start at that, feeling your face start to heat up again. “I - I - -“ 

“Oh, stop that. There’s no shame in it, girl. It’s just a normal part of human biology. Now, do be a pet and spread your legs for me, hm? Before I go completely soft waiting for you to stop being embarrassed about it.” 

Stammering pure gibberish, you shoot your horrified attention from his face to his lap, realizing that Zandik’s erection has indeed started to flag. But that doesn’t seem to stop your pussy from squeezing tight at your first real good look at it, the first you’ve allowed yourself to have, and you promptly snap your legs together with a sharp gasp. 

The fleshy, slightly wrinkled hood that meets over the tip in a loose pucker. The broad shaft, its length interspersed here or there with a prominent vein, which leads straight down to the wiry patch of sparse, tangled curls at the base. The soft pudge of his lower belly. The weight of his scrotum, half cradled between the press of his thighs. 

It’s somehow scary and exhilarating, all at the same time, to send your pounding heartbeat galloping completely out of control. You’d never seen one before. You really had no idea what to do with it. Even if you wanted to tend to him (and at this point you’re not quite convinced you don’t) where did you begin? Should you just … reach out and take him in hand? 

For better or worse, though, you must take too long to make your decision, because his arm strikes out and he makes it for you. 

The sharp jut of his fingers digs into the meat of your leg, hard, when he wraps his hand over the knee closest to him and tugs. A faint yelp slips out of you in your surprise, finally tearing your attention away from his cock to peer down at yourself instead. 

And you watch, torn equally between horror and elation, as he unceremoniously shoves that hand up underneath your skirt to leave the bulk of it a bunched mess between the two of you. He finds the seat of your panties — clean, having switched out the other pair at the first opportunity to do so — and he quickly presses in along the seam to find your clit with knowing precision. 

A faltering mewl slips out, completely unbidden, as you somewhat awkwardly spread your thighs further out for him and nudge your pelvis up into his hand. It’s almost like an instinctual reaction now, how readily you present your cunt to him without even stopping long enough to give it a second thought. And little by little, what he’d said in the library starts to click into place and make sense. 

‘Like you didn’t know how to ask for it, or even what you were asking for.’ 

Well, you certainly knew how to ask for it now, didn’t you? 

“Gods, just look at you. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Zandik rumbles beside you, as if in direct response to that flustered thought tripping through your head right at that very moment. And when you just nudge your pussy at him again, eager and seeking, he snorts a knowing laugh. 

“Hah! That’s what I thought. You really have no sense in that empty head of yours, do you, girl? You’re so focused on being embarrassed that you don’t even realize how bad you really want it. You’d better get to work then, if you don’t want me to stop.” 

Trying and failing to blink through the sudden daze that’s fallen over your head, you slowly turn your attention towards Zandik. He watches you for a drawn out stretch of moments, while you watch him trace coaxing gestures over your cunt, encouraging a warm tingle to start up deep within your loins. But when you still can’t quite seem to make your limbs cooperate, he gives a harsh click of his tongue and starts to pull his hand out from under your dress. 

Your cunt immediately twinges at the threat of loss, and you snap back into your own body with a jolt. “W - wait! Not … not yet.”

Much to your relief he pauses there, with his fingertips still well within reach. Just looking at you. Just waiting. 

Forcing your constricting throat to work around a swallow, you hesitantly reach over to take his half softened cock in hand again. It responds immediately to your touch, however, stirring faintly with renewed interest. Hopefully that was a good sign. Perhaps since you’d tugged him to full strength once already, it wouldn’t take so long the second time? 

But, still …

“I don’t really know how, Master Zandik. Do I truly just need to stroke it?” 

He gives a faint nod, a new tension thrumming through his body now. So subtle you almost miss it. “More or less. You’ve got the right idea, at least. Here, I’ll show you.” 

His opposite hand comes up then to curl around your knuckles, much like he did back in the bath. Under his relatively steady guidance, the two of you start to squeeze and drag at his length, pulling on the malleable flesh together. At the same time the one under your skirt returns to the gusset of your panties where he proceeds to caress over the faint outline of your lips. Just teasing you with it for the moment. Taunting you with the suggestion. 

And it’s really no wonder why. He clearly wanted the brunt of your attention to stay fixed on his cock and the way he’s demonstrating how to best manipulate it, evidently having already picked up on how easily distracted you were when it came to your needy cunt. 

How very like him, you think. 

“You can alternate between fast and slow,” he’s telling you, showing an uncharacteristic amount of patience for the task. “Or sometimes tight and loose, however the former is usually preferable. Unlike this delicate little pussy of yours, I’m not nearly as sensitive here.” 

Zandik gives your clit a brief tap for emphasis, making you really wish he’d rub you like he did before, in earnest, but you force yourself to stay focused on what he’s saying. 

“It isn’t? Not at all?” 

Humming a low sound of consideration, he flicks his thumb up to press the worn pad just underneath his wrinkled hood, which he then starts to pull back on the next downward stroke. It almost shocks you, how easy the glide is, and you’re suddenly left staring at the ruddy pink head, wet with a faint sheen of moisture. 

“This is the most sensitive spot on the cock itself.” He goes on, sounding like he was giving an official lecture on the matter of his own anatomy. 

One by one, he lists off the different components by name, informing you rather curtly about the receptivity of the glans, the heightened sensation around the frenulum, the biological function of the foreskin and why it had been so easy for him to peel it back. It’s fascinating, in a way, getting to sit there just listening to him rattle off all this information with the practiced succinctness of a professor. 

So fascinating, in fact, that if it had not been for the rough finger pads lightly petting over your cunt, you very likely would have forgotten what the point of this lesson was even supposed to be. 

“With that being said,” he goes on now, guiding your fist down on the next plunge, except this time he doesn’t stop at the base. Dragging your tense fingers lower still to brush over the delicate weight of his scrotum before making you cup around it. Ensuring you feel how delicate to the touch his fleshy ballsac is. “These are by far the most sensitive place on my body. Remember this well, girl, because I will not be repeating myself. You can be as enthusiastic with my cock as you want, but you must never handle this part too roughly. Do you understand me?” 

You squirm slightly where you’re half leant up against him, your cheek resting against his bare shoulder now. As if you were slowly melting into the side of him, quite without even realizing it. 

“Yes, sir …”

“Good girl.” Zandik murmurs at you, rewarding you for being such an attentive student by increasing the pressure with which he rubs over your slit to make you quietly groan. 

Then, hesitating as if he isn’t entirely sure he wants to do it or not, he dips his face close to press his mouth to the crown of your head. 

An inexplicably warm flutter curls through your chest at the gesture, and it somehow manages to both embarrass and please you in the same fell swoop. For him to be so soft with you … 

“Would you like to try it on your own?” He asks a long beat later, speaking into your hair. 

At your stilted nod, he draws a rattling breath as if to ground himself before carefully redirecting your hand back up to the waiting shaft. Once he’s sure you’ve got a good grip on it, he lets his hand slide away so he can watch you fumble slightly through the first few, awkward tugs. You quickly start to find a steady rhythm though, falling into your own pace. 

At length, he issues a rumbling grunt of approval. “There. You’ve got it now. Just keep doing exactly that. And if you’re feeling bold enough, you might even use your thumb to stimulate the glans while you pump. Should you want to see me really come apart, that is.” 

“What if my arm starts to get tired?” You tease, sending him a quick smile. 

“Well, in that case you could always use your mouth instead.” He volleys right back, startling you so much with that crass suggestion the tempo of your hand falters. 

“Wha — you! You’re having a laugh at me, aren’t you, Master Zandik?” 

“Oh, no. Rest assured that I am, in fact, quite serious about it.” He tells you solemnly. “But we can save that lesson for another day. You don’t need to know everything all at once. Or even half of it, for that matter. Focus on the task I’ve already given you instead.”

You allow yourself another eager squirm, wriggling your hips to press down a little harder on the fingers between your legs. “If I do that … if I use my thumb, will you touch me directly too?”

He sends you a slow look at that. “I’m touching you already, aren’t I?” 

“Mmm. But … skin to skin? Please, Master? J - just like before?” 

He pulls in a short breath, as though hearing you voice it had caught him off guard, but you get no other outward response for your troubles. For what seems to you a small eternity, you and him simply look at one another while your hands stay individually busy in each other's lap. Your arm was indeed starting to get tired, though, and you were antsy to reach that thrilling peak again, so you do the only thing you can think that might persuade him. 

Curling your thumb up from the shaft, you carefully bring it down just on the edge of the glans’ flared head. This allows you to, on the next upward pull of your fist, glide the pad of that finger over the ruddy flesh to eventually drag across the delicate slit in the center. You’re greeted by a sticky discharge that smears and clings to your skin, and you watch as a sensitive little shudder works through Zandik’s body at the contact. He almost seems to wince at the potency of the sensation, or perhaps it’s because of the way you’re looking up at him that inspires the response. Hopeful. Needy. Guileless. 

Regardless of the reason, he gives a pained grunt of acknowledgement for your efforts, allowing his eyes to close in savory bliss even as his faltering digits start to fumble for the edge of your panties. 

“Damned minx. You’re going to learn quite quickly how to manipulate sex in your favor to get your way with me, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only learning from the best.” You murmur, an excited tremor in your voice now. But it’s distant. Dreamy. Distracted. 

And it’s hardly any wonder why, when Zandik is somewhat ruthlessly yanking the cotton of your panties aside to once again expose your weeping slit to the world. You let out a harried sound at the feeling of your cunt so puffy, so swollen, so very inundated with slick that you can feel it gathering along that meaty crease to slowly ooze out into the waiting gusset. In truth, you almost couldn’t believe that had really worked and he’d given in to your precocious little pleas, just like that. Zandik was usually much more stalwart in his objectivity. 

You could only surmise, then, that he must be particularly weak to this sort of stimulation, just as he’d said. And you’re sure having his masculinity appealed to had certainly helped matters as well.

Delighting at the first rough swipe of his fingers along the pudge of your labia, testing the height of your arousal through touch, you respond with an unfiltered groan of pleasure. It almost seems to make your eyes rattle around inside their sockets from how hard you shake at the touch of his cool hand on your molten sex. 

In return he groans a low noise of wanting as he feels over you, smearing the byproduct of your youth as he goes, before finally directing those astute fingertips up to the apex of your cunt. There he finds your clit, just as swollen as the rest of you, and he sets in to rub over it, much like before. 

That immediate rush of pinprick pleasure has you trembling fitfully and the hand wrapped around his cock briefly stalls out mid stoke while you shudder through it. Your head lolls back, boneless, as if in doped out bliss even as you struggle to make your limbs cooperate. You didn’t want him to stop but it’s such an overwhelming rush. So potent that it steals your ability to think about much of anything other than how his sharp, bony fingers feel petting over your pussy. 

It really was pure madness. 

“M - Master Zandik … it feels — good.”

“I can tell.” He grumbles back, sounding like he meant it to come off rueful, chiding even. But somehow that gravelly intonation sounds almost … doting, in your ringing ears. Tinged with some amount of fondness for you. “Such a sensitive little thing. So easily overwhelmed at the slightest touch. Do you really like having my hand on your cunt that much?” 

“Y- … yes. Sir.”

“Mmm. Then come here, girl. Let me show you something even better.” 

That’s the only warning you get before his fingers drift away from your thrumming pussy, starting to withdraw from under your skirt. You issue a fussy whine at the loss and squeeze your eyes shut, gripping his cock so hard the knuckles start to ache. Desperate and not knowing what else to do to bring the pleasure of his hand back, you force your arm to start moving again. To fist and to jerk at him with renewed urgency. 

You’re so caught up in this that it very nearly startles you when you feel his arm snake around your back where it comes up on the other side to reach around for your chest. His hand abruptly latches onto a tit to give you a great start. But you don’t even get the chance to act shy or embarrassed about it (which you most certainly are!) before he’s pulling you in tight, crushing you against him. 

Giving your captured breast an almost aggressive squeeze, Zandik reaches across himself to bring his other hand down where it slips between your legs and he impatiently shoves the material of your housekeeping uniform out of the way. Suddenly finding yourself trapped in the clutch of his thin arms, unable to do anything other than squirm in place, you come very close to panicking. It is not at all unlike how the Doctor had accosted you in the library.  

But that spark of uncertainty quickly fizzles out and dies when he finds the top of your panties where he slips inside, stretching the material to make room for his hand. All at once he’s palming at you, gently pinching your labia, smoothing over the slit to feel just how soaked you really are and not-so subtly grinding the heel of his palm into the throbbing little pearl at the top. 

Giving a full bodied, utterly helpless twitch at that intoxicating surge of sensation, you full on writhe against him, clutching his stiff length in a frozen death grip. Holding onto that part of him seems like the only thing that keeps you truly grounded to reality in that moment as you mindlessly twist, bucking into his hand without an ounce of shame to show for it. 

“There. That’s it. Be a good girl for me, now. Let me take care of this needy cunt for you.” He rumbles, practically growling the words out over your shuddering head. 

You can’t quite hold it back any longer and you keen a harried little sound as you tip your face up towards the ceiling, leaning back against the arm behind you. In doing so you catch a glimpse of Zandik where he looms over your slouched position, his expression pinched and darkened with desire. Just watching you, observing and filing it all away for later, while the simmering heat in his cold eyes seems to burn right through to your very soul. 

And then, to your reeling surprise, he leans down to close that gap, sealing his mouth over yours in a hard, demanding kiss. 

But you don’t fight it, not truly. You can’t. Not when you felt so plump, so fertile pressed up tight against an old man who has come alive for you despite the aches and pains in his aged body. His presence there next to you is full of sharp points and contours, his bones a nearly uncomfortable reminder of who you were giving yourself over to where they dig into your skin. It’s unavoidable and it’s mildly alarming somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of your swimming brain, but it’s also exciting. Thrilling, in its own strange way. 

Moaning into his coarse lips, you let him kiss you while one hand expertly plucks at your clit and the other kneads your breast to heightened sensitivity. You’re distantly aware of the nipple underneath his palm responding even through the layers of your clothes, coiling and tightening, and swelling up to meet the touch. 

You’re not sure when, exactly, it happened, but at some point you seem to have curled your legs up to better brace on the edge of the bed. Now you have more leverage with which to angle your pelvis at him in open surrender, inviting him to help himself to your leaking cunt. And he does, without hesitation. Without needing to be asked twice. 

The narrow jut of one finger slips and slides away from your aching clit, spearing through the meat of your inner lips to locate your entrance. He hovers there for just a split second, only enough time for you to realize what he was about to do, and then he slowly starts to push in. Your pussy gives, readily and eagerly, allowing him to slip inside one tortuous fraction at a time. 

Even this, too, is different from how the Doctor had handled you so indelicately, so selfishly. Zandik’s probing digit is demanding in its own right, not entirely dissimilar, and yet he does not force you to take it. He encourages it, coaxes it out of you, and you have no choice but to give in under that careful pressure. 

It feels wonderful. So much better than the last time your pussy had been invaded by seeking hands, and your eyes start to roll back as he sinks fully inside you down to the knuckle. 

Your cunt positively thrums around the intrusion, squeezing, slicking, throbbing as if with a heartbeat of its own. Zandik only lingers there for a moment though before slowly withdrawing, making sure you feel the drag against your guts and the way your tight inner walls try desperately to cling to him. But he soon slips free of that wet grip to slide back up where he proceeds to circle your clit again, nudging that fattened little button back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. 

“Mmnghnn nnghhn!” You groan into his mouth, with a great deal of feeling. 

Zandik’s tongue comes up to greet yours then, wetly sliding past parted lips to tangle and vaguely suck. At the same time the fingers on your chest have located the sharp point of the nipple sticking up through your top and he pinches it, tweaking the pebbled peak through two layers of clothing. The sharp burst of friction induced delight that it sparks has you gushing obscenely while you judder ever closer towards the drop off into oblivion. 

You’re completely at his mercy like this, in fact, and you can do nothing to stop it when he once again abandons your clit to find your entrance. Same as before, he slowly works one long digit inside of you until it’s wedged deep within, gripped around your clenching guts. Then he pulls back out, every bit as sedately, hovers just outside of you for the span of a single heartbeat and steadily pushes right back in. It has your cunt spasming and pulsing hotly, begging to be stretched more, filled more. Anything to soothe this terrible ache. 

And your entire body lurches, cramping in on itself, when he soon slides out again to return to your clit, so engorged you can feel the way it fleshily grinds under his attention. Giving you one last, lingering kiss then, Zandik pulls back to look at you through the heavy droop of his eyelashes, his pale cheeks flushed with some amount of color now. 

“Just look at you, girl. Look at what you’re letting a filthy old man do to you.” He hisses, teeth gnashing slightly even while he looks you over. Drinking in your hazy, stupefied expression, the shameless spread of your legs. Just for him. All for him. 

Issuing another low, grating sound, almost reminiscent of a snarl, he goes on. “And to think you came here so innocent and unassuming, but you hardly even look like the same respectable young lady I was first introduced to. Do you like how my fingers feel in your cunt? Do you?” 

You nod, too doped out to do much of anything else. “Yes … ooohhn, yes, sir. I - I do.” 

“Mmnnggh. Then show me your appreciation. Show me how much you love having me toy with this needy pussy.” 

Suddenly remembering you still had his cock gripped in your fist, you groan a thready mewl and turn your face away, eyes slipping shut. It takes a great deal of concentration and willpower on your part, but you at last manage to get your arm moving again. Weakly, at first. Executing a few awkward pumps to tug at him while he continues to caress his trembling, wizened fingertips over your clit. The hand on your chest still flicking, squeezing, pulling on your nipple. 

But even that much seems to please him a great deal, clutching you even more fervently against the side of him so he can tuck your head under his chin. A deep felt shudder abruptly tears through him to make his fingers jerk and then tighten on your body. The blinding pressure inside you just keeps swelling, soaring, steadily reaching its boiling point the more he crushes you to his side, feeling the stark difference in his rigid frame. You felt so very soft compared to him, full and voluptuous. Fertile.

Panting so hard you can’t seem to catch your breath now, you blearily crack your eyes open and peer down at his lap, taking in the sight of your hand wrapped around him. The length, the girth. The heat that radiates off of him. The pulse of a vein under your palm, the way the aged foreskin smoothly nudges back and forth with each pull of your wrist. The thin, wrinkled skin of his scrotum where it loosely quivers in time with the pumping motion. 

You just stare at it, completely transfixed. Unable to breathe, unable to think. 

And that is the exact moment Zandik curls his finger down to find your sopping wet entrance again and push in, invading you once more on a slippery smooth glide. Your pussy clenches immediately, violently, to sucker punch what little air still remained in your lungs right out of you. That deep, deep squeeze of your guts sends you careening right over the edge before you even realize it’s happening. You’re just suddenly cumming, riding an almost frantic spasm that shakes you straight down to your core. 

In response Zandik noises a heavy, guttural sound into your hair, holding himself rigidly beside you now while you wail your pleasure into the otherwise silent room. Tense and halting, shuddering faintly. Then more vigorously. 

Then you feel it. The slow pulse under the skin of his shaft, the bone deep contraction. You’re much too busy quaking through your own release to watch or observe, although you think you would really rather like to, some day, but you’re sure he’s found his release too. Whether that was because he’d simply reached his limit, one that even his old cock couldn’t deny, or if it was because of the way your pussy works wildly around his finger, you couldn’t be certain. 

All you really know is that you’re stricken by the most intense, suffocating, mind numbing rush of relief you’ve ever experienced. It feels so good it makes your back molars ache something fierce, and you can only helplessly shudder through it until you finally start to come down from that rosy, red hot high some moments later. 

You’re utterly spent. You realize that as soon as you begin to slip back into your body again, still thrumming warmly with lingering pleasure but so very, very satiated. It was somehow even better than the orgasm you’d been wracked with in the library. You wouldn’t have thought it even possible if you had not just experienced it for yourself. 

Slowly rousing from your slumped sprawl, you turn your head to find that you are still holding onto Zandik’s cock, even though it has started to swiftly deflate. Withering until it turns soft and spongy again, leaving you grasping nothing more than a perfectly malleable piece of flesh in your palm. Evidently just one round was more than enough to tend to his needs. Of course you were glad for that, admittedly. But you also can’t help feeling a bit proud of yourself at the same time. Accomplished in your ability to see his needs sufficiently met even in spite of your glaring lack of experience. 

Perhaps he had been right, then, that it was possible for the two of you to find a satisfactory middle ground after all. The deep, lingering throb in your cunt would seem to suggest that you wouldn’t have need to complain about it, at least.  

The evidence of his release now coats your fingers where it must have dripped and oozed from the glans, and you carefully reach down with the opposite hand to slip into a rumpled pocket on your apron. It takes you a moment to locate it when your clothes are all bunched and torn askew but, finally pulling out a white handkerchief, you reach out to mop up the mess — only to have him suddenly snatch the square of cloth away. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, still trying to even out his breathing. And although his tone is a bit sharp, you can’t quite overlook how relaxed he seems in the afterglow. Like you’d given him some small amount of respite from whatever nipped at his heels, be they physical or mental anguishes. 

Giving the hankie a smart snap, Zandik carefully wipes away the sticky discharge from your hand even when his fingers falter unevenly. He’s entirely one track minded though, and once he has the majority of the mess cleaned away he lifts your wrist and uses an unsoiled corner of the cloth to dry each individual digit, one at a time. 

Somehow you just can’t help but laugh at the image he presents in front of you. 

“What?” He demands, sending you a sharp look of warning where you remain tucked in the crook of his body. 

“Sorry, Master Zandik. It’s nothing, really. Just … you almost look like a kind grandfather cleaning a child’s hand of a sticky treat right now. It’s sweet.” 

“Bah! Such foolishness. I’m nothing of the sort, girl, and neither are you a child. That much, at least, has been made abundantly clear.” Trailing off into almost thoughtful silence for a moment, he finishes wiping the proof of his indiscretions from your skin before gently setting your hand aside in your lap. 

He seems to not know what to say now that the heat of the moment has passed and the carnal rush was beginning to settle into a comfortable lull. You, too, are soon struck by the stark reality of what you’d just done with him, what you’d allowed the old man to do to you, and you hurry upright to begin awkwardly straightening out your clothes. Even pleased as you are with the outcome of your explosive release, you still can’t stop yourself from feeling a bit embarrassed about all of it. 

At length, though, Zandik turns to regard you there beside him. A bit roughly, he clears his throat. “You did well, girl. Especially for your first time handling a cock. It will get easier with experience. More intuitive.” 

Your cheeks positively flame with the implication that this was to be a regular occurrence from now on, but you can’t quite decide if the sharp tug on your gut is thrill or dread at the prospect. 

“I understand, Master Zandik. Thank you for … showing such kind consideration to my lack of expertise in this area. Your instruction was — helpful.” Unable to look at him now, you quickly stand and run your hands over your uniform in a blithe attempt to make yourself presentable. “Shall I help you get ready for bed now, Master? Would you like me to prepare your tea?” 

It was usually customary for him to have one cup of relaxing chamomile as part of his nightly routine — the only time he would ever drink the stuff, when he much preferred coffee — but to your mild surprise he signals you not to bother. 

“I don’t think I need it tonight. You’ve left me utterly drained, girl, so I very much doubt I’ll have any trouble sleeping. I’m afraid I simply can’t keep up with you as I would have been able to in my younger years.” 

You let slip a tiny little sound of fluster, earning yourself a not unkind bark of amussement, but you quickly turn away to retrieve his pajamas so you can hide your pinched expression from him. Oh, this really was just plain wrong. What business did you possibly have getting involved with an eighty year old man? Your mother would have been even more aghast at your behavior than you were with yourself if she were to ever learn of what has taken place in this old mansion. 

It is much too late for your common sense and better judgment to save you now, however, and you make short work of helping him into his night clothes and then getting him tucked into bed. But Zandik seems to have told you the truth about the state you’d left him in, and it looks like he’s drifting off with his head on the pillow before you even finish arranging the blankets over him. 

You'd never seen him so at ease in all the short time you’ve been here and strangely enough that also seems to please you a great deal. Even putting aside the physical gratification of this tentative arrangement, perhaps your tending to him in this manner will also make it a bit easier to deal with some of his more difficult moods. 

You just start to pull away, satisfied that he will be nice and snug for the duration of the long Snezhnayan night, when he reaches up with one hand to circle your wrist. The gesture is as gentle as his stiff bones can seem to manage, and you peer down at him in question. 

“Forgive me for my impropriety today, will you?” He says, startling you more than if he’d snapped at you to stop all your fussing over the arrangement of the bedclothes already. “If you do not wish to carry on with me in this manner any further, I couldn’t exactly fault you for that. It’s probably not ideal to offer up your innocence to an old man with one foot in the grave, is it?” 

Swallowing an uncertain gulp, you offer him a slow shake of your head. “Although that is true, that doesn’t necessarily mean I dislike it. I know I should and I also know how inappropriate this is, but I really have learned a lot from you, Master Zandik. You’re a good teacher. Honestly, I would much rather it be you than … the one in the mask.” 

His pale eyes sharpen slightly, hardening out of the comfortable lull they’d slipped into. “Does he frighten you, girl?” 

You almost hesitate to say, and yet …

“Yes. He does. More than I would like. I knew his behavior at the bank was disconcerting but I wasn’t expecting — this.” 

What happened in the library today still has you feeling on edge about everything, and doubly so when you recall the mysterious young man you’d glimpsed through the window. It had looked to you like he’d been leaving the house but that didn’t make any sense. The only time you saw another person was when the squadron of masked Fatuus dropped off their crates of weekly supplies in the back of the kitchen, but they never came in any further than that or lingered about. They barely even spoke more than a single word to you. 

So where had he come from? And who was he? 

Anxiously licking your lips, you lean a little closer to Zandik as if imploring him to be truthful with you. “Master, do you … have any children?” 

He pins you with a sour glare. “That bastard is not my son, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

Just as the Doctor had said in the bank then. “But did you ever have any? At all?” 

“No.” He heaves out, shutting his eyes now as if to indicate that this topic was being put to rest for good. “Stupid girl. Do I look like someone who had the time or the desire to run around spreading my seed all across Teyvat in my youth? For most of my life I barely even had the capacity to foster friendly relations, let alone romantic ones. Why do you think I’m — no, that doesn’t matter. The point is simply that I am a decrepit old man living out the end of my time in an isolated mansion in the countryside. If I’d had any children, do you truly believe I’d have needed you to take care of me?” 

You recoil, appropriately cowed by that. “I’m so sorry, Master Zandik. I did not mean it like that. Please don’t be upset with me.” 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he slides his eyes open to look up at you once again. “I’m not. But hear me well, girl. You ask far too many questions. Do not let your curiosity get you into even greater trouble than you’re already in. Sometimes it is better to … simply accept what your eyes see without giving it any greater thought than that. Some secrets are better left uncovered. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes, sir.” You murmur in a quaking little voice. 

Nodding once, Zandik finally releases his hold on your wrist and settles deeper into the bed, getting comfortable. “Good. Then that will be the end of this foolish discussion. I’ll see you in the morning, and don’t be late. Everything must be ready and in order for Feofan’s arrival.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Hm? Ah. That’s right. I almost forgot. You probably know him better by Pantalone or Regrator, don’t you?” 

“He’s coming … tomorrow?” You’d almost completely forgotten about what the Doctor said about the Lord Harbinger’s impending visit. 

“Yes, and I expect you to be on your best behavior for him. He’s an old friend of mine. Now let me get some sleep before then, you silly little girl. That’s all for tonight.” 

Feeling more than just a bit discomfited now, you tell him a quiet goodnight and retreat from the bedroom, turning off the gas lamps on your way out. 

The room you’d been given is directly next to his, much smaller and simpler servants quarters, and it remains a largely barren space even after having occupied it for over a month now. But you hadn’t had much in the way of personal belongings to bring with you, just a few basic necessities and your small trunk of clothes, which the Doctor had turned his nose up at before instructing you to utilize what you would find in the simple dresser instead. You’d been mildly surprised to find the housekeeping uniform at first, almost balking at the idea of wearing something so flouncy to do your work in.

Although you’d gotten used to the restrictive garment quickly enough, you’re now immensely glad to strip it off and you breathe a sigh of relief. You go through your usual bedtime routine with a detached efficiency that soon has you clean and swimming in a white diaphanous nightgown — also compliments of the Doctor, who you were starting to suspect had a flair for the dramatics. 

After brushing your hair and fitting the matching frill edged sleep cap over your head, you move to climb under the blankets. 

But then you hear it. 

That awful, grating, metal on metal sound. 

It instantly lodges your heart in your throat, and you stand there nervously wringing your hands while you listen to it shrill somewhere off in the distance. As always it seemed to you like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, not even giving you a feasible option to flee from its vicinity. 

And suddenly your thoughts return to the mysterious stranger you’d glimpsed through the window. Was it perhaps his doing? Had he been coming and going in this house with you and the old man none the wiser this entire time, and you simply hadn’t realized it until now? Was that truly even possible?

Throwing your caution and better sense aside, you quickly take up the little hand lamp from your bedside table and get it lit. The flickering flame casts a sufficient enough glow when you step back out into the hallway that you don’t need to blindly grope around and feel your way down to Zandik’s door. Cracking it open just a sliver, you put your ear close to listen. 

The unmistakable sound of an old man softly snoring immediately greets you, ensuring that he was both fast asleep and just as comfortably satiated as he’d seemed when you left him. Fooling around with you must have taken a lot out of him. 

You almost feel a little self conscious about that, wondering if perhaps it was not normal for someone of your age and health to be this insatiable to need two orgasms in a single day, but you quickly push that aside in your mind. This was not the time to be questioning yourself like that. Not when you needed to finally do something you should have done a long time ago, even if it did mean going directly against Zandik’s orders not to go wandering about. 

Gently shutting the door to his room, you hold the small lamp out in front of you and start to make your way down the corridor. 

The house is just as still and silent as it always is, other than that terrible grating sound wherever it might be coming from. But something about the oppressive darkness soon has you sweating bullets. In truth you actually didn’t think it was very likely that someone else was living here with the two of you, because surely you would have seen the evidence of that by now. Either trash refuse or missing food, or mysterious footprints that were not accounted for. Even something as simple as an item that had been moved out of place that neither you or Zandik had touched. You’d noticed nothing of the sort though. Not even once had you caught so much as an errant sneeze that had not come from you or the old man. 

But once the thought formed inside your head it’s like you couldn’t get rid of it, and you cautiously round each corner half expecting to find someone looming up out of the shadows at you. 

There is nothing at all amiss or out of place on the second floor though, and you seem to be no further or closer to the source of that disconcerting noise. 

Realizing you have no other choice, you bravely gather your resolve and start to make your way down the staircase to the front landing. The wood creaks rather ominously in a few spots but you quietly reassure yourself that it always does that and, no, someone isn’t sneaking up behind you with a deadly garrote in hand. 

On the ground floor now, you check the ornate double doors to find them locked. Somewhat surreptitiously, you check the nearest windows as well but they, too, are sealed shut.

You continue to creep along, moving from one room to the next, making sure that everything is closed up the way it should be. And still you find nothing that would seem to suggest the two of you were anything but alone no matter where you look. The parlor, the drawing room, the dining room, the kitchen, the lab, the den that as far as you could tell had only ever been used to collect dust. Even the tall windowed sitting patio. Everything was empty and quiet, just as you’d left it. 

Feeling truly chagrined by it all, you finally accept that there is only one last place you could possibly check. 

The cellar. 

Your flowing nightgown brushes your bare legs as you tip toe towards the back of the house where the door to the basement level resided. Despite your conviction, you can’t help but feel well and truly nervous now, especially when the house softly sighs around you, settling into the night. You’d never been down into this area before and as such had no idea what to expect or what you might find. The only thing you knew was that this was one of the areas Zandik had expressly prohibited you from venturing into, citing that it was just full of old abandoned equipment and rats. 

Which was a little funny, now that you really stopped to think about it. You’d never once seen a rat in this place. 

Finally, you locate the door where it sits tucked back in an unassuming corner of the floorplan. It would have been laughably easy to disregard it as a mere storage closet and nothing more, so little does it stick out or draw any attention to itself. 

Gulping down your nerves, you reach out with trembling fingers to grasp the doorknob. You almost don’t do it, frightened of what you might find on the other side, but … was it your imagination or did it seem like you were marginally closer to that scraping metal sound now? Could it really be coming from down there? 

Frantically cobbling together a brave face, you turn the handle. Push it open to a low creak. You step inside, then, holding the small lamp up high to illuminate as much as the room as possible. 

And you find absolutely nothing. 

Just a tiny room, even smaller than yours, crammed with dusty shelves full of even more old books that looked like they’d been bound centuries ago. At just a glance they seemed to be noticeably different from the ones in the library, although you can’t seem to put your finger on why. You start to take a step towards one of the bookcases to investigate further but you don’t make it that far. 

Abruptly, the noise stops. 

And your head snaps down to stare at the floor in cold prickling horror as you listen to the dying shreeee slowly fade away to nothing. Right under your feet. 

For a long stretch of seconds you just stand there, dumbly staring at your slippers while you try to make any sense out of this discovery. 

Then, realizing that there should be another staircase leading down, you slowly bring your attention back up. In the flicker from the lamp you notice that there is another door along the right wall, tucked so securely between the shelves that you hadn’t spotted it at first. So this must just be a landing for the stairwell. 

Determined to get to the bottom of this, you turn towards the door. 

In the shuddering cast of the fire something leaps out at you from the darkness where it was evidently stood right inside the entranceway you’d just come in from. 

Sharp angles thrown in stark relief, harsh shadows cutting a jagged series of lines. A pair of red eyes housed inside a mask. 

You drop the lamp in your great, wheezing startlement and run. 

You’re back through the door before the sound of the glass shattering even has enough time to obliterate the heavy hanging silence, but you don’t stop long enough to give a second thought to the fire you may have just inadvertently started. Terror grips you in such a tight, smothering chokehold, in fact, that you can’t even find the presence of mind to scream. You just dart, blind and panicky, through the twisting hallways, the rooms, up the stairs and straight into your own bedchamber where you nearly trip over your feet in your great haste to get the door closed. 

Standing with your back pressed against it while you struggle and fail to catch your breath, you disbelievingly play that scene over and over again in your mind. 

That had been another person. 

You were very certain of that, even though you hadn’t gotten a good look at them at all. The eyes were unmistakably human even if they’d been a strange, unnatural shade of red. They’d looked almost like blood in the light of your lamp. Like some sort of demon. A monster. 

And that’s when you notice you’d lost a slipper.

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taking a polite, well mannered sip from the delicate china in his hand, Pantalone hums a soft sound of approval for your benefit and then gently sets the cup back on its saucer with a faint clink. 

“You know, my dear, I must admit that you continue to surprise me. This is a most agreeable cup of coffee if I do say so myself.” 

Beside you, Zandik grunts a brief sound of agreement. Almost as if to say ‘of course, I wouldn’t have kept her if that were not the case.’

You can’t seem to find the grace to be truly flattered by any of it though, merely offering the banker a weak little smile. “Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you like it.” 

The three of you have settled in the drawing room together, where the late morning light could stream in through the big bay windows to cast the interior in a faint, warm glow. To your mild pang of surprise the Lord Harbinger had arrived right on time, exactly when Zandik said he would. You could only surmise, then, that as a banker punctuality was an important virtue in his world, which you’d quietly filed away for later reference. Even you were not nearly so naive as to trust his congenial manners at face value and you were therefore of the opinion that it would be in your best interests not to displease him. 

Idly tapping a finger against one of the rings on his other hand now, Pantalone curiously tips his head to one side with no shortage of interest. The ever present curl of his mouth remains in place even when he slowly flicks his attention from you to Zandik and then back again. You could only imagine, then, that if he saw anything he found at all worrisome it was not enough to make him drop that always pleasant facade. If he was even capable of dropping it in the first place, that is. 

“Things are going well then, I take it?” He says at length, seemingly directing that question at Zandik. “You look to be in good health and in even better spirits. Don’t tell me all you needed to start feeling a bit more like yourself was the gentle hand of our dear little ragamuffin here? Be careful what you say. I might start to get my feelings hurt.” 

The old man snorts an unamused scoff at that, taking another gulp of his coffee. If either of the two men see the curious side eye you send them, they certainly don’t acknowledge it. You recalled Zandik saying they were friends but you hadn’t expected to see such an affable rapport between them. 

In truth you’d started to suspect he wasn’t even capable of making or maintaining such a relationship with anyone. Even his softest moments with you thus far had been framed by impatient demand and an exceedingly short, grumpy temper. 

“Don’t even try to play that jilted card with me. It doesn’t suit you, for starters, and you’re not very good at it for another.” Zandik grumbles. Then, much more softly, he adds, “You’re too old for that anyway, Feofan.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly got me there. I suppose both of us are more than a bit past the age where jealousy can be considered cute, aren’t we?” 

Although Pantalone doesn’t say it, you can practically hear the unvoiced ‘but is she?’ as it hangs heavy in the air like an invisible, lung-clogging waft of smoke. Quite without meaning to, you find yourself full on staring at the both of them in abject confusion. Just what in the world was going on here? 

You’d thought Pantalone was only coming to pay a house call and to check that the terms of the agreed upon arrangement were being upheld, to ensure that your charge was still alive and kicking. Not — whatever this is. 

“And you, my dear?” He goes on, turning his sights on you now. “How have you been holding up? The work isn’t too difficult for you, is it? I know my demanding friend might pose some unique challenges, but …” 

Standing up a bit straighter where you’re stood at Zandik’s elbow, you give your head a slow shake. “No, my lord. Everything has been just fine so far.”

“Really?” Pantalone prods you with an accompanying quirk of one finely arched brow. “I only ask because you seem a bit tired today. This old fool isn’t running you ragged all hours of the night is he?” 

You can tell he’s only teasing Zandik by proxy of teasing you and he doesn’t actually care, but you still can’t seem to control the fluster that creeps into your face. “O - oh. That. I just had trouble sleeping last night. That’s all it is, my lord. Really.” 

Never mind the fact you hadn’t slept at all. And really, how could you when thoughts of that masked face looming up out of the shadows had haunted your troubled mind well into the morning light almost as much as the threat of a fire consuming the house had? But in the end nothing at all had come of either. The manor was still standing and decidedly in one piece, and there had been no fiends knocking at your door. 

If you didn’t know any better you might have believed you’d dreamt the whole thing. 

But your missing slipper provided all the convincing you needed, and you were now more determined than ever to figure out what exactly was going on here. Or would be, once you got your bearings straightened out. 

Because it was one thing for Zandik to claim he didn’t hear that strange noise but another entirely for him to not know that there was someone potentially living down in the basement. You couldn’t confront him about it just yet though, not until you had more evidence. Something he wouldn’t be able to disregard and wave away with an impatient flick of his wrinkled hand. He could insist that awful scraping of metal on metal was your imagination all he wanted but physical proof couldn’t be attributed to an overactive, flighty mind. 

You need to worry about that later and focus instead on the here and now though, and you somewhat nervously clutch your apron in your hands when Pantalone sends a slow look between the two of you again. Was he suspicious that something was going on with you and the old man? You couldn’t even begin to guess what might have tipped him off though. He’d only just arrived a short while ago, so what would have possibly caught his attention in such a short period? 

“Why don’t you tell me a little about your time here so far.” He says at length, steepling his fingers almost thoughtfully. 

Your palms rapidly start to grow clammy as you shoot a veiled glance at Zandik, hoping he will save you from this situation. 

Unfortunately he only gives his head a curt shake. “Go on, girl. Answer the question. But be warned; if you lie to him I’ll take you straight over my knee right here and now, so make sure you choose your words wisely.”

All of your fatigue is suddenly gone in the blink of an eye and you outright gape at him as your cheeks positively flood with molten heat. “M - M - Master Zandik!?”

Pantalone, to his credit, merely laughs a good natured chuckle. “My, isn’t that just precious? It’s good to see the two of you getting on so well. I admit, I was a bit worried when Dottore first got the idea but I suppose I have to give him credit where it is due. It seems one’s tastes never change all that much no matter how old they get.” 

You’re too overwhelmed to process what’s even happening, let alone to puzzle out how strange that remark actually is, and you just stand there, head bowed, while you twist your apron into a wrinkled mess. To have both of them fix their attentions on you at the same time was already awkward enough as it was, especially when Pantalone’s always seemed mildly condescending. But for Zandik to say something like that in front of him? Oh, you were sure you could just wither away and die. 

Unfortunately the old man forces your hand when he reaches out to slip his fingers just under the hem of the skirt, giving the back of your thigh a sharp little pinch. “Speak up, girl! I can’t get you to shut up any other time and now here you are pretending to be mute.”

Squeaking at that punishing bite to your skin, you stumble forward half a step to stand even with the armrest of his chair. It suddenly feels like there’s a blazing spotlight trained on you. 

But you bravely forge ahead, understanding full and well that you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. You tell him all about the variety of foods you’ve prepared for Zandik, the time you regularly spend together in the lab and the library respectively, the afternoon tea you sit and sip with him while he drinks from a freshly brewed pot of coffee. For the most part it’s just daily mundanities that you wouldn’t have thought he’d have much interest in but, to your growing surprise, he seems to be giving you his full attention. So you go on, telling him of the largely comfortable routine you’ve fallen into here. How you wake Zandik at the first light of dawn (at his request, not your initiative) and how you help him around the house throughout the day until it is time to make the slow climb back upstairs to get ready for bed. 

By the end of it you tell Pantalone almost everything just short of giving him an itemized, step by step list of your daily hygiene rituals — and of course, the exact nature of your relationship with Zandik. Somehow you got the sense that those were not the kind of details he was looking for, surely. And moreover you feared him sending you away should he learn of the inappropriate way you’ve conducted yourself here. Even if there was something fishy going on you still had your mother to think about. 

“I see.” He finally says, once you’ve finished recounting anything you could possibly think of to sate his curiosity. “It sounds to me like you’ve not only met our expectations but even far surpassed them. I must say, dear, that I find myself rather impressed with your commitment to this assignment. I thought … well, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but that day in my office I had some doubts about your ability to adapt. My fear was that you would only last a week or two, perhaps three, and then send word that you could no longer handle the demands of the job. At the time you did not seem the most reliable candidate in my estimation, and for that you have my sincerest apologies.” 

“O - oh. Please don’t apologize, Lord Regrator. I can hardly blame you for thinking that of me.” 

“Even so, you do have my thanks for devoting so much of your time and energy to Zandik’s care. I admittedly feel much better now that I know he’s in such capable hands.” Pausing then, Pantalone seems to consideringly regard you through the delicate lenses of his glasses for a long, drawn out moment. Almost as if he was taking stock of you, weighing the investment and the potential for loss in his mind. 

You quickly find yourself tensing up, bracing for the worst. Was this the moment he would question how close, exactly, you’d come to be with Zandik over the last month? Would he scream at you and send you from the manor house in shame? You were already frantically piecing together a shoddy excuse to justify your behavior, and a tearful, heartfelt plea for another chance in case the first didn’t work.

But, to your reeling surprise, the next words out of his mouth are the very last thing you could have ever expected or even guessed them to be. 

“This might seem an odd question to ask, and I do hope you’ll excuse me for it, but … have you had any more dealings with Dottore since you arrived here?”

Your stomach feels like it crashes into the ground at your feet. The Doctor? Why would he inquire about him? 

“I … yes, my lord. On occasion. He sometimes stops in to check on things here. Or at least I think that’s what he’s doing. And quite unannounced, I might add.”

“Mm. That does sound like him.” Chuckling softly, Pantalone shifts in his chair to pull out a small, lovingly engraved silver tin from a pocket in his expensively sleek trousers. You aren’t sure what to make of it at first, but then you watch him draw from inside a perfectly crisp, clean white cigarette. 

Brows taking a very expeditious trip up to your hairline, you turn your head to regard Zandik but he isn’t paying much attention to you at the moment. Evidently far more interested in his cup of coffee than in what was being discussed. You’re sure he must be listening in quite attentively though. 

Bringing your face back around, your mouth pops open just as Pantalone fishes out an ornate, matching silver lighter from somewhere on his person, already poised to slip the stick between his waiting lips. 

“I’m so sorry, my lord.” You rush to say before he can light it. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but do you suppose it’s a good idea to smoke in here?” 

The bespectacled man sends you a plainly amused look while Zandik scoffs a quiet sound just at your back, confirming your suspicions. 

“Leave him be.” He grumbles. “If I haven’t been able to get him to stop smoking in all this time then you certainly won’t fare any better. I’m not that fragile, regardless. I think I’ll live to see another day, at any rate.” 

“And thank you for permitting me my bad habits.” Pantalone says with a vaguely sly inflection coloring his voice. As if the two of them were sharing an inside secret between them. 

Your face grows unbearably warm when he follows through on the gesture, taking the cigarette between the practiced press of his lips and lighting the end of it. A brief inhale gets the cherry burning, and a spectral curl of wispy smoke starts to billow from the tip before he takes a much deeper pull on the end. You observe the way his shoulders shift with the inhale, chest expanding and then slowly deflating when he exhales to send a pale plume shuddering up towards the ceiling. 

Breathing a very pleased sigh, Pantalone then leans back in his chair with the cigarette rather elegantly pinched between the joints of his first two fingers, elbow bracing on the arm rest. 

“Now, to return to the matter of Dottore. I must admit to a certain amount of curiosity. What have your dealings with him been like since that day at the bank?” 

“W - well …” 

“Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. You won’t be in any trouble.” Zandik chimes in then, unexpectedly gentle, to which Pantalone nods his agreement. 

“That’s right, my dear. It’s just the three of us, after all. You may speak freely without any fear of consequence.” 

You do have to wonder if this isn’t some trap, of course, but sadly you just don’t have much in the way of options. It was either tell the truth or risk having your bottom spanked, if Zandik had truly been serious about that. And something told you he rarely if ever made idle threats. 

“Alright. Then in that case, I … I suppose I should start by saying the Doctor frightens me a little bit. It’s hard not to be though, when his behavior is so unpredictable more often than it’s not. The other day he — accosted me in the library. Right in front of Master Zandik.” 

Pantalone slowly blinks his eyes at that, but he also doesn’t seem particularly surprised to hear of it. Almost like he’d half expected such an answer. “Did he hurt you, dear?” 

“N - no. Not really, anyway. I was a bit sore afterward, but I can only guess he was more interested in … toying with me than he was in hurting me. Usually he just appears without any warning at all from some dark shadow or behind a corner. He scares me half to death, laughs about it and then leaves. That was the first time he put his hands on me like that.”

“I see. I am terribly sorry you had to endure such unwarranted treatment. But if I may ask you one more thing?” Pantalone softly hedges, distractedly caressing the butt of the cigarette with a gloved thumb. “In all of your dealings with him thus far, has he ever seemed different to you? Somehow not the same as you’re used to?” 

You frown at that. “I don’t believe so, my lord. Of course I’m not overly familiar with him or his, uh. Unique eccentricities. But so far his demeanor has been consistent from what I can tell.”

The banker only noises a vague, noncommittal sound, but it is Zandik who punctuates the quiet with an ironic bark of laughter. 

“A consistent pain in the ass.” 

Pantalone shoots him a fond little smile at that. “And yet it sounds like he is indeed behaving himself, in as much as he can anyway. I have to say that surprises me as well. I was almost expecting to hear horror stories of his … rapidly changing moods.” 

Slowly, your frown starts to deepen. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was exactly, but it seemed as if there were two separate conversations taking place here. Clearly you’d missed something. 

“That one,” Zandik goes on, oblivious to the whirlwind of confusion kicking up dust inside your head. “Has enough personalities for all of us combined. He’s also the only one who seems to have any real interest in circling me like a hungry vulture, just waiting for me to hurry up and die so he can start picking me apart. The others are, for the most part, content to simply stay away.” 

“Well, he does like to gloat about his victories, as you know.” 

You start to feel increasingly dizzy the more you listen to them talk, struggling to connect the pieces and make any sense of it. But you’re completely out of the loop and out of your element here, and after that terrifying encounter with some unknown person last night you can’t help wondering if the two weren’t somehow related. 

“Master Zandik … I’m sorry, what does that mean? What others?” 

Pantalone slides his attention back to you again. “You really haven’t met them yet?” 

“No? I’m not even sure who - -“

“Let’s change the subject.” The Lord Harbinger abruptly announces, offering you a not unkind smile when you look at him in utter bewilderment. “Oh, but don’t fret over it, dear. I’m sure you will someday, when they decide they’re ready. For now, though, let’s talk more about you. I’ve already heard much about your daily workload and how you occupy your time, but how do you feel now that you’ve been here for a full month? Are you enjoying Zandik’s company?” 

“I …” Hesitating, you send a surreptitious glance at the old man but he, once again, does not seem to want to look at you. How odd. 

How suspicious. 

Bringing your attention back up to the handsome banker sitting on the opposite side of the table, you anxiously swallow your nerves. What were you possibly supposed to say if you’d been prohibited from lying? Surely Zandik didn’t want you announcing to the whole entire world that he’d set his intentions upon a maid servant who was young enough to be his granddaughter any more than you wanted it to get out. And yet, even if it was only a slim chance that he’d been serious about spanking you … no, you simply couldn’t risk it. You’d never recover from the humiliation. It looked like your only option was to tell the truth by choosing your words very carefully. 

“Yes, my lord. I am. Master Zandik has taken rather good care of me so far. He’s been — kind. To me. I - in his own way, of course.” 

You can hear the old man grumbling something inaudible behind you but you just can’t bring yourself to turn and look at him now. 

Pantalone seems to find it funny, however, his smile taking on a faintly sharper edge as he sends the man in question an inscrutable look. “Kind, eh? Somehow that wasn’t quite what I’d expected to hear. It looks to me like our little ragamuffin knows at least something of the art of discernment. Did you teach her that, Zandik?” 

“Enough with the games, Feofan. Just get to your point already.” 

Chuckling, the Lord Harbinger lifts the burning cigarette to his mouth again and takes a quick drag, eyeing you over the rim of his glasses and through the haze of smoke that rises up in front of his face. Then, as he sedately exhales the resulting puff, he leans forward to neatly flick the ash onto the saucer on which his cup was sat. 

Only when he settles fully back into his chair once more does he deign to speak. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say I have a point, exactly, but … how far have you gone with him?” 

It takes you a prolonged beat to realize that question had been directed at you and another after that to figure out what he was even asking. The blood in your veins promptly freezes over when the first startings of understanding begin to settle over your tripping, stumbling mind. Surely he didn’t mean … he couldn’t be insinuating … 

“M - my lord?” 

“Oh, there’s no reason to be shy.” Pantalone tells you graciously. “After all, my position isn’t actually that much different from yours, is it? So I do understand it, dear. Believe me. I do. Ah, but if I had to take a guess …” 

He gives you a blatantly appraising once over, from the top of your head down to the toes of your smartly buckled shoes, as if he could see right through all the layers of clothing and look directly upon every single place you’d been touched by arthritic, bony hands. Each individual pinch, caress and squeeze, as if they had been branded into your skin. 

You suddenly felt inexplicably bare naked despite standing fully clothed. 

“Don’t bother.” Zandik cuts in then, his customary impatience once again rearing its ugly head. “It’ll be quicker if I just tell you. This one came to me an untouched virgin, as pure as the driven snow. She has no real concept of what you’re asking. I’ve only used my fingers on her excitable cunt so far, although that’s not for a lack of trying.” 

Pantalone murmurs a quiet little ‘oh’, clearly surprised by that information, but you’re too busy rounding on the old man to pay the other much mind right now. You’re almost too shocked to speak. Why would he say that?! 

“Y - y - you! Master Zandik! What is wrong with you? Have you completely lost your mind? You can’t go around telling people that!” 

He finally glances up at you, entirely unperturbed. “And why the hell not? It’s true, isn’t it?” 

“Ugh — aghh — t - that’s not the point! And you know it! Oh! I - I can’t believe you would do something like that!” 

The tears are coming before you even fully comprehend them, neither the sting in your tired eyes nor the rush of cool tracks escaping over your lashes to drip down furious cheeks. It really was too much. This place, this man, the way you’d been thrown head first into a strange new world you didn’t even begin to understand but needed to somehow successfully navigate if you hoped to keep your head afloat. 

To his credit, though, Zandik has the grace to look at least slightly caught off guard by the sudden waterworks. It clearly makes him uncomfortable more than remorseful, though, and you watch him sink back into his chair with a vaguely uncertain scowl tugging at his wizened mouth. Like he didn’t know how to deal with the end result of his careless words or how to fix it. As if he could have ever expected your reaction to be anything less! 

Never in your life had you ever, ever felt even half as embarrassed or ashamed as you do in that moment. Letting the impulse take you, you blindly pivot on your heel with every intention of fleeing from the room.

But all you succeed in doing is slamming smack dab into the unexpectedly hard planes of Pantalone’s front where he must have come up behind you. Squeaking a tiny little sound of hurt, you stumble back a step but he gently takes your shoulders in his gloved hands to stop your momentum. And when you tip your head back to look at him and his magnanimous smiles, the dam further cracks and crumbles. 

“I - I’m so sorry, Lord Regrator! Please don’t send me away! Please! I’m begging you, I swear I won’t do it ever again! I promise I won’t!” 

His dark brows lifting in an expression of exaggerated, put upon pity, he ever so softly coos at you even as he removes one hand from your person to dig into a back pocket from which he soon produces a darkly colored hankie. “There, there. Come now. There’s no need for all of this, is there? Why, by the Tsaritsa’s crown, do you think you’re in any danger of being dismissed, dear?” 

“B - but — it isn't proper, my lord. I’m not … I can’t - -“

He cuts you off when he carefully presses the handkerchief over your nose and mouth, instructing you to blow. Ever so sadly, you obey. 

“There. That’s a little better, isn’t it? Come. Sit down.” 

It’s only then that you realize why he was suddenly on this side of the table as he drags one of the unoccupied chairs closer — of course he would respond and move much more quickly than Zandik could with his cane and bad joints. But the old man still didn’t seem to know what to do in the face of your tears, watching you cautiously from his seat just as one might watch a mangy, half starved dog on the side of the road. Miserably, you take the offered seat with Regrator’s handkerchief clutched in your trembling hands. 

If they really sent you away …

“Take a deep breath for me now. That’s it. Such a good dear. Just relax.” Pantalone softly croons at you as he lightly pets a gloved hand over your head. He clearly meant it to be comforting but even in your spiraling anguish you don’t miss the lilting note of humor dancing just below the surface. It was funny to him. 

“Rest assured, I do understand why you would react this way,” he goes on. “But there really is nothing at all for you to worry your pretty little head about. That much, at least, I can promise you. Knowing Zandik and Dottore as I do, I can’t say I didn’t expect this outcome on some level. However, what does surprise me is how little progress he’s actually made with you over a full month's time. His charms, when he chooses to employ them, are usually a bit more effective than that.” 

Slowly lifting your head to peer up at the man standing over you, you implore him with a stuttering sniffle. “Wh - … what does that mean, my lord? You … you really aren’t upset with me?”

“I already told you. Didn’t I, girl?” Zandik mutters then. “You don’t have to watch what you say here. Not with this particular company. You’re not in trouble.” 

You have a very hard time believing that. It just didn’t make sense. If you were expected not to hide the truth and the Lord Harbinger was not appalled or even really all that surprised to learn of your indiscretions, then did that in turn mean — he already knew? 

The dawning horror of that realization must flash across your face in broad sweeping brushstrokes, because Pantalone croons a rather doting laugh in response, idly toying with a strand of your hair now. 

“Oh, how sweet. I think she’s starting to understand now. But really, Zandik, I would have thought you’d better prepare her for this meeting today. She really doesn’t know anything?” 

The old man scoffs. “Not a damn thing. Not even how to ask for her cunt to be played with.” 

“I see.” With a thoughtful hum, Pantalone carefully drags his fingers down from the top of your head, brushing your cheek and your neck, before coming up under your chin to tilt your face towards him. He puts his own head to one side, inspecting you, to send the delicate glasses chain into a faint shudder. “I take it that’s why you’ve only gotten to use your fingers thus far? And what about you, dear? Have you done anything for him in return?” 

You start to feel well and truly faint. Why would he even think to ask you something like that? And for this to be discussed right out in the open with all the nonchalance of a passing comment over the weather? No, something was undoubtedly, terribly wrong here. You really had walked straight into a trap. 

Not today, though. Or even the day before when you’d not only invited Zandik to tease your aching quim to vibrating fever pitch but had even reveled in it and foolishly come back for more. It wasn’t even when you’d first stepped foot inside this isolated manor home in the countryside either. 

The noose had been expertly knotted over your neck that day in the bank. 

Stamping down the swelling urge to sob where it was making your chest feel unbearably tight, you nervously flick your gaze between the two of them again. They were waiting for a response, and even Zandik did not seem willing to interject and answer on your behalf. It looked like he was interested in hearing what you would decide to say as well. The truth or a lie? 

You force yourself to pull in a thick, faltering breath even when your constricting lungs try to reject it. 

“M - my lord … must I really answer that?” 

“I’d certainly appreciate it if you did.” Pantalone coos back, soft and coaxing. As if he were trying to win over a small, skittish animal. 

It doesn’t exactly work, however, and you find you’re just as much a mess of nerves and deep cutting shame as you were before he’d spoken. 

“Understood. Sir. I — I used my hand on him too. Last night. In the bath. And … and in bed.”

Despite the recoiling cringe of your skin trying to part ways with your bones, you’re still painfully aware of the faint, pulsing clench that triggers low in your gut as you speak the words aloud. As if you were not already mortified enough. 

But the strangest part is how that feeling only strengthens, becoming more difficult to ignore, when Pantalone pretends to be shocked by that admittance. Feigning startlement even when the pleasant curve of his mouth gives him away. 

“Only your hands, my dear? Not even your mouth? Oh, I just don’t know if that will do.” 

Zandik noises a gruff sound of agreement from the other side of the banker. “I made the suggestion last night and she acted as if she’s never heard of anything more scandalous.”

Vaguely squinting at you now, Pantalone leans a little closer to hunch over the chair he’s got you trapped in. Putting his face mere inches from yours. Studying you up close now. 

For a painfully long stretch of seconds you seem to forget how to draw a full breath. 

“You really don’t know anything about carnal pleasures then? Nothing at all? I might have expected as much from a finely bred lady but … frankly, my dear, I was under the impression that little street urchins didn’t live such comfortable lives.”

You physically flinch as if he’d struck you with his hand, but your reaction doesn’t even appear to give him pause. 

“Oh, please don’t think me rude for saying that though. It’s just that you simply must understand my position here, darling. I have my own stakes in this game, you see, and after playing the part of Zandik’s collaborator and personal friend for as long as I have, it’s just a little difficult for me to accept that all of his needs might not be getting met. And as much as it does pain me to say it, Her Majesty has been keeping me much too busy as of late and I no longer have the freedom to play the role of dutiful companion as much as I used to. That would be why Dottore struck upon you quite immediately when he realized that you might be just the solution to our troubles that we’ve been searching for. Although, of course, I’m sure it goes without saying that his motivations were not quite as magnanimous as mine.” 

He chuckles a faint laugh at that, as if it really was something so amusing, but your head is spinning much too fast for you to see any humor in it. Was he really suggesting that you were only here to … replace him? 

Unable to accept that explanation, not even a little bit, you glance past him to fix upon Zandik. “Is that true? Am I only meant to play the role of substitute for Lord Regrator in your bed, Master?”

The old man’s expression softens slightly, catching you wholly off guard when you’d never seen him look even slightly remorseful in all the time you’d known him. But it is not he who responds to that faltering plea. 

“Come, now. There’s no need to think of it like that, is there?” Pantalone says to you, his voice lilting ever so slightly as he brushes the back of his hand over your cheek. The unexpected tenderness in that gesture makes you shudder fiercely, whimpering a helpless sound. “As you have already seen with your own two eyes, he really is getting on in his later years and the need for a caretaker of sorts was indeed an unfortunate inevitability. But between you and me, dear, I can tell you that what he really needs is the sort of human comforts only another person can offer him. Sadly he hasn’t had much experience being on the receiving end of kindness from others over these many long years.”

“That’s enough, Feofan.” 

You can’t help the way you jolt at the unexpected sound of Zandik’s voice, rough as if with gravel, and you quickly tear your attention from Pantalone to look at him instead. 

“As always you talk far too much.” The old man sighs, now fidgeting with the cane leant up against the side of his leg. “And you, girl. You talk far too little when it actually counts. As much as I’m sure this will come as only a small consolation to you right now, I want you to understand that I meant what I said to you last night. I really am in no condition to make you do something you don’t wish to do, physically or otherwise. Even if I wanted more than that from this arrangement — and I can’t say that I don’t. You’re such a pretty, sweet little thing, after all, — the decision still ultimately rests entirely with you. I admit I did … enjoy myself, yesterday. So if that is all you ever wish to do with me then I will be happy to accept even that much from you. It’s probably more than I deserve anyway.” 

You positively hate the way your heart wrenches sympathetically at that. What he was saying as much as the dejected, crestfallen dip of his head. It was undeniably heartbreaking to see him looking like that, to hear him talking about himself like that, but try as you might you just couldn’t figure out what to say in response to any of it. 

On one hand you felt understandably betrayed and stupid for walking straight into the snare they’d laid down with nary a second thought to the matter. But on the other … you did very much like Zandik and you liked even more how he made you feel. Even if it was ill advised and improper, shameful and arguably disgusting to want it, you weren’t feeling overly inclined to deny him the small indulgence he was asking of you. Worse still, you even understood it on some deeply perplexing level. A last hurrah of sorts, a chance for him to make up lost time and missed opportunities before he no longer had the ability to do so. It was not lost on you that Zandik’s loneliness cut deeper than what could be attributed only to old age. 

But Pantalone’s involvement in this made things so much more complicated and offputting, and you nervously tense up when he shifts next to the chair, bending down to level you with a not unkind smile. 

“What’s wrong, dear? Are you really that frightened of your own desires?” He says, laughing at the flustered shock that washes over your face. “There’s no need to be so shy. I can see it in your eyes, you know. And I’m well acquainted enough with what Zandik can do with his fingers that I can’t even say I blame you for it. So if you wish to continue carrying on with him in this manner then you shouldn’t hesitate to do just that. Everybody gets what they want this way, right?” 

You have to try once, twice and a third time to clear your horribly pinched throat before you can manage to find your voice and speak. “But … but Lord Regrator, I really don’t know what I’m doing. What if — what if I accidentally hurt him?” 

Zandik snorts a mirthless laugh at that, while Pantalone’s responding chuckle seems to be utterly sincere. 

“That’s very sweet of you to worry about something like that, but I’m sure Zandik will let you know if anything is not to his liking or he starts to feel unwell. And quite loudly at that, based on my own personal experiences with him. With that being said, though … if it will make you feel any better, shall I give you a quick demonstration of what he usually likes?” 

Despite your best attempts to stop being surprised by everything, you still find yourself gaping up at him in plain faced disbelief. You were starting to doubt whether or not any of this was even real anymore, half convinced that you were just dreaming the whole thing up. Surely he didn’t mean to …

A sly twinkle in his eye is all the answer you need and you outright stare at him as he stands up to full height before casually sauntering the few steps to move behind Zandik’s chair. The old man likewise straightens from his slouch in as much as the hunch of his spine will allow, evidently roused to attention, just in time for Pantalone to come up along the other side of him. 

Stunned into mute silence, you watch, utterly transfixed, while the banker smooths one hand along the back of Zandik’s neck before lifting to cradle his skull. The older of the two readily leans back into the gesture, his eyes open and peering up at Pantalone with an expression that is almost uncomfortably familiar to you. 

He’d looked at you much the same way, in the bath and on the bed. Even in the library he’d had that nearly identical, hooded look of wanting etched into his wrinkled face. It’s also a bit different too, though. Somehow even more heated, unguarded. Less carefully shuttered. Almost like … in knowing with absolute certainty that Pantalone would not turn from him in rejection he was able to permit himself more freedoms than he otherwise would. To welcome it and succumb to that liberating opportunity to truly get caught up in the moment. 

It had not seemed like it at the time, that he was exercising any amount of restraint with you, given his demanding nature and penchant for losing his temper. But you can see now that that’s exactly what he’d been showing you up til’ now as you watch Pantalone lean down to capture that wizened mouth in an unexpectedly passionate kiss. 

You immediately feel more than just a bit scandalized, hand flying up to your lips in pure shock. But it is not the startled aversion you may have otherwise expected that prompts this reaction, and that is certainly not the reason you squeeze your thighs together in an almost painfully tight press. You’d never seen anything like it before. And you know you should cover your eyes, hide from the flagrant impropriety of it all, but you just can’t seem to find the wherewithal to follow through. 

Not when Pantalone looks so good kissing Zandik, almost as good as he looks being kissed by him. Even the stark difference in age, one man’s skin soft and smooth while the other's was rougher, razed by wrinkles, is not anywhere near enough to detract from how good they looked together. And the way Zandik breathes out a thin, groaning sigh of appreciation, his eyes slowly slipping shut, seems to attest to the fact that Pantalone had been telling you the truth. 

He really had been the old man’s trusted companion and confidant until he could no longer visit him as regularly he used to, a lack of time and pressing obligations dragging him ever away from his paramour. 

And then he’d sent you into the wolf’s den, knowing full and well that Zandik’s lonely isolation would lead him to seek his comforts in you instead. Knowing that you would have no choice but to either give yourself over to his intentions or throw in the towel. 

No wonder he’d thought you would only last a few weeks and why Zandik’s lack of progress where you were concerned had come as such a surprise to him. Of course it was only natural that he would assume your continued presence here meant you’d risen to the challenge instead of letting it scare you off. 

His housecall today suddenly made much more sense. 

Your mind is absolutely awash with an urgent whirlwind of questions but you don’t dare give voice to any of them, much too focused on the way Pantalone’s gloved hand gently pets over Zandik’s neck before moving lower to stroke his narrow chest. You know a little too well exactly how delicate that old ribcage feels to the touch from bathing him but, to your surprise, Pantalone doesn’t even seem to give the way he kneads one side of his breast a second thought. It’s riveting to watch, especially when you realize how much it looks like he’s squeezing at a small, malleable tit. Not at all unlike how Zandik had groped and pinched yours. 

The older man sucks in a rough breath though, trying to pull away as his brows knit into a grumpy line, but Pantalone just follows after him to keep kissing his mouth. Even from where you’re seated you can see his lips are curled in a pleased little smile while he does it and then continues to do it, even after that halfhearted protest had been issued. Almost like he found the reaction cute. 

Without even fully realizing you’re doing it, you start to wonder if Pantalone would be similarly arduous if it had been you he was kissing and who’s tit he’s teasing with light, playful pinches. Would he even want to kiss you in the first place? 

In the next heartbeat you realize how dangerous that thought actually is and a cold shudder of embarrassment immediately rushes in to douse some of that flickering ember in your loins. 

But then Zandik finally manages to pull away — or perhaps Pantalone merely allows him to retreat — and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the sight of the old man tucking his face into the crook of the younger's neck with a low grumble. You hadn’t expected to see such a curious role reversal. 

And yet Pantalone does indeed seem to have all of the control right now, bending his mouth close to murmur something into Zandik’s ear. His eyes come up to find yours over the rim of his glasses at the same time, holding your gaze with almost seductive interest even as his hand starts to travel further south. 

Did he … like having you watch them together? 

That doesn’t seem like such a far stretch, and you attentively track the motion of Pantalone’s nimble hand when he traces a fluttering path over the soft pudge of Zandik’s lower stomach to press that palm into the front of his slacks. You’re once again surprised by how indelicately both men handle his cock, thinking back on what he’d told you the night before about the different sensitivities, while you observe the tight squeeze Pantalone gives it through the material. Some small part of you hadn’t truly believed it when Zandik told you you didn’t need to hold back when taking that part of him in hand, inclined to show it the same gentle care your vulnerable cunt needed. It looked like another man knew exactly the right amount of attention that was needed to net the desired results though. 

Grunting a vibrating sound into the room, Zandik tips his head back against the chair even while his narrow hips give a weak swivel up into that touch. Finally dragging his gaze from yours, Pantalone leans in to press soft, encouraging kisses across the exposed column on his wrinkled neck, encouraging his lover to continue vocalizing his pleasure into the otherwise still and silent drawing room. And he does. Low, masculine grunts issued through tightly clenched teeth that seem to set your guts to quiver. The soft sigh of tremulous little exhales through his flared nose when his breathing deepens, coming quicker now. 

It’s hardly any wonder that he should succumb to it though when the hand on his cock seems to know precisely what to do to coax him up to full strength — both innately as someone who also had a cock of their own and by virtue of the intimate familiarity they quite clearly shared with each other. For all that you can tell Pantalone appears to be playing him like a fiddle. Squeezing, caressing, slow, slow strokes over the growing bulge in tightening pants, grinding his heel down to exert even more pressure. 

It is not lost on you in the slightest that the banker seems to work Zandik’s length into some approximation of being stiff and rigid much faster than you’d been able to. Your lack of experience as much as your halting uncertainty and shyness had slowed the process down by a fair amount, but Pantalone clearly doesn’t have any of those same hang ups. 

In what feels like no time at all, Zandik’s hands are furiously gripping the armrests, the skin over his thin knuckles pulled taut to highlight the sharp jut of bone underneath. Evidently satisfied with the current state of his cock, Pantalone directs his keen fingers just a pinch higher to give the belt around the old man’s waist a steady, rather sensual tug. 

Simultaneously, his attention comes up to once again fix on you and his ever present smile turns just a shade more wicked at what he sees. 

“My, you look to be enjoying the show. A virgin pure but a voyeur at the same time? That seems a little contradictory if you ask me.”

You self consciously hunch your shoulders up to your ringing ears, trying to make yourself as small and unobtrusive as possible. But that’s not really possible when you were sitting center stage right next to them, well within arms reach if either decided to stretch their fingers out towards you. And Pantalone just laughs a liltingly melodic sound of amusement in response. 

“How precious you are. But do try to pay attention now, dear. I might just decide to quiz you on this myself later, if I have reason to suspect you’re not being a good little student for me.” 

Even with your best efforts, you just can’t seem to squeeze your thighs together any tighter to alleviate the pressure building up between them. Would he really … have you himself? 

Before you can examine that unexpectedly eager thought any further, Pantalone gets the belt loosened and, still using only the one hand, works to unfasten the front of Zandik’s pants. He reaches inside as soon as he is able to, turning his face back towards the other man now with a knowing confidence that almost makes you green with envy. But you can see the exact moment he finds Zandik’s cock because the old man seethes a hissed sound through his teeth, faintly grimacing when Pantalone starts to feed him through the gaping opening of his slacks. 

The banker’s hand soon reemerges with that fleshy length cradled gently in the sumptuous embrace of a black as night glove, and you immediately ascertain that it was still not full hard despite the obvious signs of excitement in Zandik’s posture. His expression. His body language. Perhaps if you had not held it in your own hand and felt the warm pulse of excitement thrumming through the shaft you might not have been able to spot the difference quite so easily. 

But it is still half soft and malleable in Pantalone’s hold, and the Lord Harbinger gives it a few perfunctory tugs to manipulate the semi loose skin. Giving it a vigorous squeeze and then dragging that tight fist up to the head where he takes a moment to just rotate his wrist, stimulating the glans within, while he angles his lips to kiss Zandik again. The gesture is deep and savory, luxuriating in the hot tangle of tongues that you can see even from here. 

Then, slowly pulling away, Pantalone starts to lean down, bending at the waist as his other hand comes up to rather flirtatiously brush the longer piece of hair back from his face. 

And he takes that still fleshy, still growing cock straight into his mouth. 

You can’t help the sharp gasp that catches in your throat, the rest of you going cold and chilly when all of the blood in your body seems to rush between your legs. It makes your cunt pulse a tense, throbbing clench as you almost subconsciously rock forward to center as much of your weight on your core as you possibly can. You suddenly have no idea what to do with yourself while Pantalone hums a carnal sound of wanting around the girth stretching his lips in a curious ‘o’ that looks unfairly good on him — and Zandik viciously hisses, tossing his head back against the chair as if stricken. 

Holding his glasses in place with the same fingers keeping his hair held back, Pantalone begins to sedately work his mouth over the cock he still holds, gripped down at the base. You can see his cheeks hollow slightly when he sucks on it and you can see the quick flick of a pink tongue when it darts out to lash at the stiffening shaft, the glans, the pucker of foreskin on the tip. It makes Zandik sink deeper into his chair, heaving an almost oversensitized sound up at the ceiling while he otherwise holds himself as stiff as a board. Like he was too busy bracing against that blinding rush of sensation to grind himself into the source as he otherwise might want to. 

You soon find yourself starting to squirm, wondering if it really felt as good to have someone’s mouth on you as it looked. The thought had never even so much as crossed your mind until now, but getting to watch it happen in real time like this … you were quite certain you were never going to be able to stop revisiting it in the safe seclusion of your bed at night. 

Seconds, minutes, hours, perhaps even days go by in this manner until, at last, Pantalone finally comes back up with a small, wet pop and a satisfied sigh. He looks really quite pleased with himself, in fact, as he turns his face towards Zandik’s where he presses an unexpectedly tender kiss to the jut of his chin where he lingers for a long moment. 

Then, he turns his attention to you. 

“Come here, dear. I’ve already got him ready for you so don’t be frightened. That’s it. I’ll help you.” 

In truth you have no idea why you move to heed his summons — the Lord Harbinger was not your master even if he did technically hold authority over you just by simple virtue of his title. But it’s like your pussy has taken control of your body, and you obediently slide off the chair to wander over to the two men without really understanding your own intentions in doing so. You even catch a glimpse of Zandik lifting his face to peer up at you when you draw near and yet you just can’t seem to bring yourself to look at him then. 

You only have eyes for the now galvanized length jutting up from his lap as Pantalone kindly waves you closer. Once you’re standing just at the edge of the chairs armrest, he reaches out to rather politely take your hand in his so he can then pull you into place directly in front of the seated old man. His hands come up to gently slide over your shoulders reassuringly and, at his murmured instruction, you ever so slowly sink down to your knees there on the floor. 

Suddenly finding yourself kneeling there between the masculine spread of Zandik’s feet almost shocks you out of your trance, but it’s not quite enough. You have no idea why you’re doing this. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. 

And yet, when Pantalone ever so carefully cradles the back of your head, you let him guide you forward to lean over Zandik’s lap. 

All at once you have a rigid cock in your face and you trace over it with your eyes as if you were in a hazy, intoxicated daze. None of your previous encounters with it had been nearly this close up. Now, though, you can clearly see the texture of the skin, the press of thick veins just under the surface, the small divots and contours that make up the total shape of him. Your gaze lingers briefly on the glistening wet, partially exposed glans where the hood of the foreskin was only half retracted, and you feel something you’ve never felt once before in your life. 

The urge, the yearning to have that hard shaft bullied up inside of you. To feel the stretch, the deep, deep reach, the drag of flesh moving, gliding, grinding against yet more flesh. It’s nearly enough to bowl you over right on the spot. Quite without meaning to, you let loose a faltering, needy mewl of a groan that is so very sweet even to your own ears that your bubbling excitement ratchets up another notch. 

And Zandik responds with a painfully sharp, wheezing inhale as his fingers tighten on the armrests, gripping hard enough to make the wood creak. 

“Gods, girl!”

“There, that’s a good dear. Yes, that’s it.” Pantalone croons at you while his fingers lightly pet across your cheek, encouraging you and taunting you in equal measure. “Open up wide for me. What a very good girl you are. Just like that, now.”

He begins to push on the back of your head and a low, whining mewl starts up in the pit of your throat but it’s quickly cut off, muffled by the hot, salty flesh that invades your mouth. The sensation as much as the taste startles you enough that you instinctively try to pull back but Pantalone firmly keeps you trapped in place. 

You almost start to panic when your retreat is not only stopped but he also exerts a bit more pressure to force you down another inch, taking even more of that enthusiastically twitching length into your mouth. Somewhere far above you, you hear Zandik let out a guttural, toe curling groan of immense pleasure as your mouth seals around him, his thin frame giving a stiff little jerk. Almost like, even knowing it was coming and what it would feel like, the sight of you taking him in like that had come dangerously close to undoing him right then and there. 

But now that you’re actually doing it you start to have some buyer's remorse, and a fresh flood of tears quickly rushes up to sting your eyes. You couldn’t believe you were letting them do this to you. Touching with fingers and hands was one thing. This was something else entirely. 

“Oh my, doesn’t she just look adorable with her mouth stuffed full like this?” Pantalone all but purrs then, either the words themselves or the sultry intonation inspiring another low rumbling groan out of Zandik. 

“Mmmnnggh. This is certainly a nice view where I’m sitting. You’re doing well, girl. Oughn. Don’t get scared now. Almost there. Take a little more for me? Yes. Aaghhn. That’s it!” 

Even if you didn’t want to oblige the request, Pantalone’s heavy palm remains pressed to the back of your head, entirely unrelenting. When he nudges you further down you have no choice but to sink a little lower, where he then holds you in place so you can’t back up. You’re utterly trapped between the two of them. 

Hands balling into the slack material of Zandik’s pants, you awkwardly roll your eyes upward to look at him through the hazy sheen of unshed tears. He’s got his face tipped back though, panting rather laboriously as if your tight, hot mouth was almost too much for him to bear. A muffled sound of weak, halfhearted protest slips out of you then, but neither of them seem to hear you. Or maybe they simply don’t care. 

But the worst part of it by far is how your cunt positively drools at the sensation of having him in your mouth like this. That fleshy crease between your thighs feels like it’s turning molten, dripping, oozing into the gusset of your panties to leave them damp with arousal. The shame is almost enough to make you sick. What kind of person got this excited over putting their mouth on an elderly man’s genitals? Certainly no one with any amount of propriety in their conscience. 

It’s not just the sensation of thick, warm flesh wedging your lips apart in an unseemly spread, nor is it even the simple act itself of prostrating yourself over his lap like this — although you are quite certain that neither of these things are helping to abate your shameful arousal either. Even the taste, while not outright bad, makes your stomach uneasily roil with a confusing mix of disgust and hot, hot carnal need. It’s somehow cloying and intoxicating at the same time, sparking something deep inside your baser animal brain that makes you start to obscenely salivate around him. 

You desperately want someone to reach down and play with your cunt, silently begging for it with your watery eyes, but both of them appear to be much too focused on other things to take notice. Zandik, haltingly basking in the pleasing sensation as much as the victory of watching you break yet another one of your boundaries for him, and Pantalone, in his crooning instruction of your technique — or lack thereof. 

“Goodness, dear, is that really as far as you can go? I’m afraid we’ll have to work on that.” He’s saying now, tutting over you as if it was something as benign as your handwriting that needed to be improved upon and you weren’t currently struggling to pull in enough air through your nose. “For now, though, just focus on relaxing your throat. You’re going to get yourself all worked up at this rate if you keep tensing like that and we don’t want you to start gagging, do we? Of course not. There. That’s better, isn’t it? What a little darling you are. I can see why Zandik likes you so much.” 

You noise a harried, drunken sound at that last bit, earning yourself another one of his slow drawling chuckles for your effort. The ones that make you feel so infinitesimally small. 

“Stop talking, Feofan. Let her concentrate.” Zandik cuts in before the other man can keep teasing you, wheezing another breathless, urgent groan. “I don’t think I can last much longer. Nnghhn. You hear that, girl? Your mouth feels wonderful on my cock. You’re so good for me. Yes. Now move your head. Just a little bit. Aghhn.” 

Squirming there on your knees, you feel the pressure of Pantalone’s oppressive hand lighten up just enough for you to ease back almost to the glans. The fleshy hood is unmistakable in your mouth as you wetly gasp and swallow around it, desperately taking advantage of this chance to pull in a full, aching lungful of air. 

That brief respite is quickly taken away when the banker carefully pushes you back down, showing just enough care to ensure you don’t choke on it. The one good thing is that neither of them push you any further than that, either innately understanding that you were already at your limit or perhaps they were simply conscious of the fact that any greater effort than that was not needed. You can already feel the thrumming tension in Zandik’s body starting to reach its boiling point, and you sadly allow yourself to fall into an easy rhythm against him under Pantalone’s guidance. 

Up. Down. Up and back down again. Right up to the glans and then half of the way down the shaft. He fills your mouth again and again, and again, until your jaw starts to hurt and your tongue feels vaguely like it’s being rubbed raw. And through it all you just continue to squeeze your thighs together, desperately rubbing them in a blithe attempt to ease the throbbing tension between them. 

A prolonged, drawn out moment later, while Pantalone is still cooing soft, mildly belittling reassurances at you, Zandik’s faintly trembling hand comes down to join the Harbinger’s gloved one on top of your head. His hips begin to twitch under your face, signaling his impending end almost as clearly as the increasingly desperate sounds that slip from his mouth, and he fervently clutches you to him, babbling utter nonsense. 

He tells you how good you are. How pretty you look sucking his cock like this. How nice you feel around him, how he’s going to give you a special treat, keep that lovely, troublesome mouth open for him, that’s it, that’s my girl, here it comes, gods, get ready - -

And that first searingly hot, bitter spurt into the back of your throat somehow manages to startle you, squealing a smothered sound while Zandik holds you tight to his front, grunting his immense pleasure without restraint. It makes your eyes water anew, some of the tears breaking free to escape over your lashline when you choke on it, struggling not to gag. But it’s difficult to swallow down, especially when another thin jet quickly joins the first, threatening to clog up your throat, and then another. 

Despite your best efforts, you don’t quite manage to work it all down your constricting esophagus and some of it dribbles out past your lips while you gasp, heaving around him. But Pantalone is quick to use his finger to swipe up the mess and he rather rudely shoves that viscous concoction of frothing spit and semen back into your mouth even as you cough around the flexing length still wedging your lips apart. 

“No messes now, dear. We do expect you to be at least somewhat neat and tidy even when we’re making a mess of you, you know.” He teases, the sharp twinkle in his eye unmistakable. “It would be such a shame if we had to put a bib on you every time Zandik needs his cock serviced, wouldn’t it?” 

“Oouuugh, don’t even mention that right now.” The old man groans as he slumps boneless into his chair. Still trying to catch his breath, trying to recover. Just like the night before, it seems to take quite a toll on his already limited stamina and you can’t help feeling a little grateful for that. At least you would not need to worry about satisfying him over the course of multiple rounds. 

Pantalone, though … 

Noticing the wary look you send him, the banker offers up another one of his kind little smiles, hiding that mean streak of his behind a perfectly polite and cordial mask of his own making. And that’s exactly what had compelled him to force your head down and keep it there, even when you’d squeaked in protest. A particular sort of maliciousness that, somehow, does not make him any less beautiful to look at. If anything it almost seems to highlight how pretty he really is. Defining the smooth planes of his face and the curious violet of his eyes in a starker, contrasting relief. 

“My, that’s quite a look you’re giving me, isn’t it?” He murmurs, clearly not the least bit perturbed by it. “Come now. There’s no need to fuss, is there? Let’s hurry and get you cleaned up then. Yes, that’s a dear.” 

Allowing him to ease you back from Zandik’s lap, you sway unsteadily there on your knees as you’re finally allowed to come up for air. The sudden rush of oxygen to your deprived lungs has you wetly gasping, much like a beached fish, while the bitter taste of Zandik’s passions linger a thick coating on your tongue. Pantalone tugs you closer to him, tucking you into the crook of his body as if to offer you comfort, while his other hand lifts to swipe a leather encased thumb over your chin. 

“I know you’re probably a bit sore with me right now, but I hope you’ll accept my words of praise for what they are. You did exceptionally well, especially for your first time. I don’t imagine I should have anything at all to worry about from here, will I?” He’s telling you softly, dotingly. Peering down at you with that deceptively gentle look. But even knowing it is nothing more than a farcical impression, a deadly disguise, somehow you just can’t seem to find it in yourself to truly fight it. 

Awkwardly clearing your razed throat, you drop your attention so you won’t have to look at him any longer. It was already much too late to help you now, though, when your fate has long been signed, sealed and dotted, from the very moment you first stepped foot into his office. 

You’d been a fool to think you could barter with a Fatui Harbinger and come out the other side unscathed. 

“T - thank you … my lord. You flatter me.” 

And ever so faintly, your cunt gives a slow, muted throb at the prospect of what was still yet to come.

⭐

But even though the tone of voice still remained as pleasant as ever, you couldn’t quite shake the sense that he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have you standing before him like this. Not that you could really blame him. The wealthy so rarely had any reason to cohort directly with the poor, after all. You were as good as a stray mongrel that had wandered in off the streets without first having been invited to do so. An unwanted and unnecessary guest that he would sooner be rid of than anything else. 

You didn’t have much left in the way of options, however, and you bravely gather your resolve as you lift your head just a fraction of an inch to steal a quick, split second peek at him. Handsome, but decidedly dangerous. Very much so. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could have realized that much at just a glance. 

“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry if it didn’t seem like I was.”

Drawing a slow, calculated breath that makes his narrow shoulders subtly rise and then fall, Regrator pins you in place with a pityingly sardonic smile. “Well, I suppose I do have to give you credit for one thing. Your manners are quite agreeable, aren’t they? That is not always the case with someone who is so very … lowborn. And you even had the courage to come here just to entreat me directly. That makes two things, then.”

You stamp down the urge to squirm in place, trying very hard not to think about how inconsequential you felt standing there in front of the Lord Harbinger like that. It wasn’t just the expensive room with its expensive furniture, excess and frivolity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, shoved into every corner and on every shelf. It’s the way he watches you like a bug through a microscope. 

Something to observe, not something to touch or make nice with, and certainly not something to invite to have a seat in one of the finely upholstered chairs that stand guard in front of his stately mahogany desk. There was no telling what you might have dragged in with you, what unsightly stains you might leave behind. So you continue to stand, and you don’t even dare to ask for anything more than that.  

“With that being said,” he goes on; slow, thoughtful. Considering. “I have to admit I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to do with you. If it is a paycheck you need, then you should seek out one of the recruitment centers or intake officers, not me. Her Majesty is always happy to welcome young, plucky soldiers to her army’s ranks though. I’m sure you’d find much warmer reception there.”

As opposed to his frozen cold, bitter reception? 

“My lord, I’ve already tried that. Many times, in fact. But they always tell me I’m not fit for service before they send me on my way again. The last man I spoke to said I wouldn’t even make good cannon fodder. Just a … another mouth for them to feed.”

“The medical division, then. Nurses are needed just as much as soldiers are.”

The sting of unshed tears creeps into your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You’d already humiliated yourself enough just by marching into the Northland Bank and demanding an audience with its owner, you really didn’t want to add dramatics on top of that. It’s hard though, so hard. 

“I - I’m terrified of blood, sir. I can’t stand the sight of it. Honest. I’m lucky if I don’t pass out on the spot but then I run the risk of spitting up my lunch. I’m no good as a medic either.”

Softly clicking his tongue, Regrator tips his head ever so slightly to one side and vaguely purses his lips at you. “In that case, allow me to ask you again: what am I supposed to do with you when you have no talent, no strengths to offer? I’d like to remind you that nothing is free in this world and I cannot simply give you a salary for no services rendered. So, tell me. What are you going to give me in exchange?” 

“… I’m not sure, my lord. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you think that’s something you should have considered before you came calling on me in my office?” 

You flush hot at that, embarrassed by your tragic lack of foresight. But it was already much too late to remedy any of it, neither your uselessness nor the impulsive decision to come here, and you grope for an appropriate answer to the question. There had to be something. 

“Forgive me, but … could you be in need of a maid, my lord? Someone to clean and tidy up for you, or - or perhaps to take care of other mundane tasks that are far beneath someone of your — impressive and noble bearing?” 

That manages to earn you a scoff of a laugh as Regrator slowly shakes his head, looking almost rueful now. 

“So you’re also well versed in the art of brown nosing too, I see.” 

You’re almost startled to hear such crass language come out of his mouth, sounding all the more wrong in that dulcet, well cultured drawl of his. 

But before either of you can make another move — you, to decide how you should respond to that unexpected drop of the mask and him, to dismiss you from his sight — the door to the office abruptly swings open with a sudden wrench. 

“Pantalone!” The new man, this one utterly unknown to you, barks as he sweeps into the room, a whirlwind of dark, lifeless feathers that shudder at the slightest movement. “Did you approve my request for the research funding as I asked you to? I need to get started on the next phase soon. This is a highly time sensitive matter, you know.”

The door bangs shut behind him and, letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Regrator sedately leans back in his comfortable chair to glance up at the newcomer. Completely disengaging himself from the fact that you were still standing there, waiting for an answer, you can’t help but notice. Talk about awkward. 

“Yes, I saw it. And I’m well aware just how impatient you are, Doctor. That really is a bad habit of yours, if you ask me. I always approve your projects before anyone else’s, don’t I?” 

Grumbling a low sound, the man in the vaguely bird-like mask steps up next to you and then bypasses you completely, not even sparing you so much as a glance when he goes by. Much more interested in his bespectacled colleague sitting on the other side of the desk than he was in you, evidently. 

And you got the sense that this was likely for the best. 

“Then where is my mora, Pantalone? When might I expect it to reach my hand, hm? Today? In the next hour?” 

“Relax. I’ve already got someone downstairs divvying up what you asked me for. Such large amounts can take time to procure and verify, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But really now, what’s got you in such a deplorable mood today? I very much doubt it has only to do with the funding.” 

“No.” He bites out, through gnashing teeth by the sounds of it. Even you, someone who was not at all familiar with this person, could tell just from looking at his stiff back that he was indeed upset about something. 

But somehow Regrator’s placcid guise remains steadily in place even when his acquaintance begins to slowly pace, back and forth, in front of the desk. Not at all unlike a caged animal. 

“It’s that damn Columbina. Again! She’s been avoiding me lately, I’m sure of it. And we’d been having such a splendid time in each other's company too. I was even on my best behavior, if you can believe it.”

“I can’t.” Regrator helpfully supplies, even though he sounded to you just as unaffected by this information as he was by everything else. Amused, even. 

Snorting a derisive laugh, the man starts to broaden the circumference of his pacing, refusing to stay confined to the area in front of the desk any longer. As if he simply couldn’t stand to remain in one spot while he relayed the full scope of his frustrations to the other man. 

Rather surreptitiously, you start to back up and inch your way towards the door with every intention of making a silent, sneaky escape from the room. 

“I really don’t get it, you know. One moment I’m giving her the tour of my lab and the next, poof. She’s disappeared. Spirited away, never to be seen again, except in fleeting glances while she haunts the corridors of the palace like a singing wraith. That seems to be all she ever does, don’t you think?”

At Regrator’s vague lilt of a hum, the man in the bird mask makes a sharp about-face and starts to retrace the wide half moon arc he’d already stomped. 

“It really is ridiculous. I do nothing short of welcoming her in with open arms and this is the thanks I get.” He shakes his head, snorting a humorless laugh under his breath. “And don’t even get me started on that old, dying coot.”

“Now, Dottore,” the banker lightly admonishes. “That’s hardly a nice thing to say, is it?” 

“Pah! Who cares for niceties when the topic is but a plain and simple truth? Death comes for every mortal, eventually, and that ancient relic is no exception. It is the one great equalizer in this world, after all. Ah, but I suppose not all of us have to worry about that, do we?”   

You’re almost to the door now, your fingers itching with the overpowering urge to reach out and snatch the handle. It is only your curiosity at what was being discussed that makes you hesitate to take the chance while you have it, but you quickly come to regret that decision when this so-called Doctor aggressively turns on his heel again. 

And this time he comes up short when he finds himself standing face to face with you. The noticeable jump of tension in his posture tells you he really hadn’t noticed you earlier, and your presence there in the office comes as something of a shock to him. Oh, you really should have gotten out of there instead of being nosy. 

“And who is this?” He sharply emphasizes each individual word, punching the syllables out one by one as if they’ve personally wronged him. 

“Mm? You’re still here? My dear, I thought you’d already left some time ago.” 

You don’t think you believe that but you still find yourself growing uncomfortably warm under the Regrator’s archly inflected drawl. How embarrassing. 

“I’m so sorry, my … my lords.” You stammer in a rush. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just trying to excuse myself without interrupting your conversation.”

As if to prove that, you snatch your arm out to grab blindly at the door handle. It swings open with your jerky tug and you move to step out into the lobby, but Dottore is quicker than you expect. His gloved hand flies up to smack against the finely crafted wood, slamming it shut again, and you give a startled yelp of surprise when you snag your fingers back as if you’d been scalded. 

“Oh, but let’s not be so hasty,” he croons at you, all solicitation now. In the blink of an eye every bit of that simmering, bubbling temper from a moment ago is completely gone, as if a switch in him had been flipped, and your bone dry throat works a nervous swallow as you watch him politely fold his arms behind the small of his back. “Stay and chat for a moment, won’t you? And what is your name, little mouse?” 

You tell him with no shortage of apprehension or difficulty when your vocal chords almost refuse to cooperate. 

“I see. How interesting. I didn’t even notice you standing there. Has anyone ever told you that you are very good at going unnoticed and hiding in plain sight?” 

“Uh - uhm …”

“Our dear guest was just on her way.” Pantalone cuts in then. And although his tone of voice still remains as pleasantly accommodating as ever, there is now the prick of a pointed barb somewhere just underneath the surface to put you on even higher alert. Was he displeased with you? 

“Is that so?” His mouth tugging into a rather bemused smirk, the Doctor tips his head to one side, studying you from a slightly different angle. He does not look at all unlike a curious carrion bird in the execution of that gesture. 

“Oh, but what a pity that is. We could have had coffee brought in. I must admit, I’m quite curious to know what brought you before my esteemed colleague today. Judging by your attire, I’d say … you must be a commoner, is that right? And not a very well off one, if I had to guess. Then what business could you possibly have with the owner of the Northland Bank, hm?” 

“Dottore.” 

Wide eyes flickering in Regrator’s direction, you expect to see a disapproving frown upon his face or a bothered crease between his brows. Instead, you find him still smiling from his spot behind the desk, looking only mildly uncertain of his friend’s game. How curious. 

How frightening. 

You snap your gaze back up at the Doctor. “It — it was nothing, really. Just … wishful thinking, is all. I only wanted to try my luck here but I guess that was silly of me.” 

“With what?” 

“Oh. Um, a job. Work that I might be able to do for the Lord Harbinger in exchange for a few mora. I thought maybe he’d need extra hands here at the bank, or … or something.” 

“Or something.” The Doctor echoes you, sounding hardly impressed and yet not exactly disinterested in your pathetic little sob story either, prompting Regrator to quietly clear his throat. 

“Seeing as the bank is currently fully staffed and I have no need at the present time for any sort of housekeeping personnel, I’m afraid I’ve had to decline her well intentioned offer. While it does pain me to say it, I have a feeling that our little guest doesn’t have much to offer from an employer's perspective.” 

Your cheeks positively blaze, hot enough to fry an egg on. Of course you’d known coming here was likely the most foolish thing you could possibly do, well aware of your own shortcomings as you were, but to hear him say it out loud and in so many words? It feels like you could just whither away and die on the spot. 

“I - I’m so — s - so sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for my impudence today. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll just - -“ 

You’re already halfway through the motion of reaching for the door again when the masked man standing next to you abruptly grabs at your elbow, pinching and squeezing to once again halt your escape. Jumping at the contact, you jerk your head down to disbelievingly take in his gloved hand on your person. You’re so perplexed by this confounding turn of events that you don’t even think to pull away when he starts to nudge you in the direction of the two chairs situated in front of the desk. 

“Come, come. There’s no need for that now, is there? We are all adults, after all.” The Doctor cooes saccharinely. It was obvious he found something funny here but you couldn’t even begin to guess at what that might be or what it had to do with you as you stiffly let him pull you where he wants. It’s not as if you had much of a choice in the matter. “Surely something can be arranged if we just put our heads together and think. Three minds are always more effective than one when it comes to problem solving, wouldn’t you agree?”  

“I suppose so - -“

“Sit.” He commands, giving you a pointed shove in the direction of the nearest chair. The gravelly resonance in that one single word does more to convince you that it would be in your best interests to obey him than the insistence of his hands on you does, and you quickly drop into the indicated seat. 

You’re admittedly glad for it, too, because you feel dangerously close to fainting dead away from fright as you nervously peer up at the Doctor. What did he want with you to make you stay like this? And were you even allowed to be sitting on any of the furniture in the first place? Something in the way Regrator not so idly taps his fingers against the mahogany grain of his desk leads you to believe that you were not. 

How humiliating! You felt like a dog that was only being permitted to continue breaking the rules because there was company over, but that leniency would quickly disappear once you were alone with your master again. 

“There. That’s much better, isn’t it? Try not to look so nervous though. I merely want to talk.” Looking really quite pleased with himself, the Doctor eases his body into the chair next to yours where he proceeds to get comfortable, crossing his legs and then resting his neatly folded hands atop the bend of his knee. “Well then, little mouse. Tell me. How old are you?” 

You answer him truthfully, unsure why he would want to know, but it earns you a brief nod of approval all the same. 

“Well, that’s not too bad, is it? In fact, I might dare to say that you’re in the prime of your life and you don’t even realize it. Have you any family?” 

Something about that particular question strikes you as truly odd, and you shoot a helpless look at Regrator behind his desk. He is of absolutely no help to you though. 

Evidently perfectly content to simply watch the scene unfold before him, he just sits there, smiling, alternating between rapping at the wood and fiddling with one of the rings on his right hand. He neither rushes to your rescue nor does he join in on his friend’s impromptu interrogation of you. An utterly neutral party, if you didn’t have your creeping suspicion to the contrary. 

Turning back to the Doctor again, you sheepishly nod your head. “A mother and a father, but he’s … he hasn’t been home in nearly ten years. He was deployed with a regiment of Her Majesty’s forces to a foreign land when I was younger.”

Your answer seems to rouse Pantalone from his role of simple spectator, peering over at you now through the delicate lenses of his eyeglasses. “Deceased, then? Or …” 

“Not to our knowledge. Not officially, anyway.”

“There’s no one else?” Dottore tacks on this time. 

“No, my lord. It’s just us.” 

“Then is a soldier's salary not enough to see two people sufficiently fed and clothed? If that is the case then we shall have to direct any further queries on this matter to Pantalone instead.” He says, grinning over at the man in question, who gives no indication of having even heard him, other than the faintest tightening of the muscles around his mouth. 

It’s not hard to see that something about this situation is irritating him quite a bit. Whether that was you or his friend’s overly chatty persistence, you couldn’t be sure; but you self consciously rush to absolve him of any mistaken culpability before his mood can sour any further. 

“No, t - that isn’t quite it. Truth be told, the payments we receive from the palace used to be more than enough to cover our living expenses but … recently my mother has taken ill and she can no longer do odd jobs here or there to supplement our income. Our savings lasted for a little while, and then all of the medicine and doctors visits quickly depleted whatever we had. That’s why I thought …”

“You thought?” The masked man presses when you hesitate to go on. 

“Well, I — I guess my assumption was that working under one of Her Majesty’s Harbinger’s would earn me enough money to take care of her in her old age. Even if she doesn’t get better, I’d at least like her to be comfortable in her remaining time here. I need a reliable income for that, and plenty of it.” 

The Doctor huffs an amused laugh under his breath, not even bothering to try and conceal it. “That’s very noble of you, isn’t it? The perfect, martyred daughter playing her role right to the last. They have a word for that, you know.” 

You lift your head, curiosity once again getting the better of you. “They do?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s called being a fool.” 

Regrator heaves a quiet exhale at your startled jolt of surprise, giving his head a solemn shake now. “Dottore, that is no way to incline someone to your side when you plan on asking them for a fair exchange of services. I can guess at what you’re thinking, but … are you quite certain that it’s a good idea?” 

“I don’t see why not. It sounds to me like she already has experience in caring for the sick and the elderly. It will just be replacing one with another. That seems like a reasonable trade off for a plenty sizable check, if you ask me.” 

Slowly blinking away the sting of tears that have risen in the backs of your eyes, unbidden, you glance between the two of them with ever growing uncertainty. “What do you mean? Are you asking me to …” 

Eagerly, the Doctor unfolds his legs and sits forward in his chair, leaning across to invade your space. You shirk back, frightened by his close proximity as much as the leering smirk you can see under the hooked beak of his featureless mask. But even then, even in the face of your skittish, nervous reaction, he remains ever undaunted in pursuit of his goal. 

“That’s right. It might not be Pantalone pulling your purse strings, but if any old Harbinger would do then why not come work for me instead? I’ll certainly make it worth your while, little mouse. You see, I have an invalid of my own that needs tending to and I’m afraid I just don’t have the time or the patience to deal with it myself. In exchange, I will be happy to supply you with room and board, three meals a day and, of course, a hefty sum of mora to send back home to your mother. Doesn’t that sound perfectly agreeable to you? Hm?” 

Sitting there in the exquisitely made wing backed chair that was singularly nicer than anything you’d ever owned in your life, you can hardly believe what it is you’re being offered. Surely your ears must have been playing tricks on you. It was too good to be true, and more than you had even dared to hope for when you’d set off on this ill begotten expedition to the Northland Bank. There had to be a catch though. Something he wasn’t telling you. Fortuitous luck like this didn’t come without its pitfalls, you knew that only all too well. 

Your tongue darts out to nervously wet your lips as you search his blank mask for any signs that might point you in the right direction, to help you decide whether or not this was an insidious trap of some sort. It definitely felt like it was. 

“That … is a very generous offer, my lord. Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve your kindness, but — may I ask a question first?” 

He inclines his head rather graciously. “Go on.” 

You steal another brief glance at Regrator, but it’s clear he still has no intention of bailing you out, leaving you to sink or to swim, so you press on. “I’d like to know a bit more about the job I would be doing, if I accepted your proposal. What would you expect of me? Is it … a parent of yours that needs taking care of?” 

“Something like that.” Grumbling under his breath, the Doctor stands from his chair to resume his earlier pacing, but slower this time. An almost thoughtful gait to his step now. “Where to start? The, let’s say, patient in question is an eighty-four year old man with all of the usual problems one would expect at that age. Arthritic to the point of being half lame, he occasionally uses a wheelchair to get around although he isn’t quite to the point of being bed bound yet. Frankly, I hope it doesn’t ever come to that. He’s already cantankerous enough at the best of times.”

His boots thunking softly on the floorboards, he moves behind you and out of sight. 

“And yet he expects us to see to his care just by virtue of our proximity to him. But as I’ve already said, I have other, far more important things to be doing with my time. Research to conduct, experiments to oversee. His soon to be palliative care is the least of my concern, yet he refuses to stop harping on and on about needing this or that at all hours of the day. If you should choose to accept this position then I would expect you to keep him preoccupied and out of our hair indefinitely. That means, little mouse, that you would have to be present and alert at a moment's notice. Any slacking off in these duties would result in very unfortunate consequences for you, indeed.” 

You shudder faintly in your chair, effectively chilled to the bone by the total lack of regard or affection in which he speaks about this individual. He’d said it was something like a parent though, so you could only assume that they did not have a very good relationship. In truth, you almost felt bad for the old man without having even met him yet. 

But then it hits you. The catch. 

That sudden realization makes your stomach twist itself into a tight ball of knots as you spin around to peer back at the masked man, just as he comes up along the other side of you. It was hard to believe he’d ask something like this after you’d already told him about your own situation, your own circumstances. 

“I’m sorry, my lord, but … I can’t leave my mother alone like that. I’m all she has. If I’m not there to take care of her no one else will and I’ll have done all this for nothing.”

“Oh?” He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a raven inspecting a fresh corpse on the side of the road for signs of life. “And whatever is stopping you from hiring someone to see to her in your stead, silly girl?” 

“I - I can’t afford that …” 

“Ah, I see. You doubt the depths of my coffers, then, I take it?” 

“Ahem.” Regrator cuts in at that moment, delicately clearing his throat of some imagined obstruction. “I believe that would be my coffers, Dottore, and you know full well that I at least like to be asked before you start making promises with my mora.”

The Doctor chuckles a faint sound of amusement in response. “Oh, don’t be like that, Pantalone. Can’t you see the poor thing is down on her luck and in need of our charitable assistance?” 

“Yes, well,” the bespectacled man murmurs, shifting his attention to you now. “What my colleague is trying to say is that the question of whether or not something is affordable won’t be of any concern to you if you ultimately decide to work for him. You will be making more than enough to pay for a live-in nurse to move in at your home or to even relocate your mother into a permanent residence at one of the clinics if you would so wish it. To that end I have no problem giving you an advance payment so that you are able to make all the necessary arrangements prior to starting your work, if that is something you need to consider.” 

“… really?” 

“Yes, dear. Really.” Regrator says, holding back a laugh. 

You just stare at him in utter disbelief for a painfully drawn out stretch of seconds before slowly glancing up at the Doctor again. It is not lost on you that something seems to have shifted between them inside this room. But he, too, appears to be completely serious and sincere. And try as you might to wrap your head around it you just don’t understand. Did this even really make any sense when you got right down to it? 

“But — but why me? Why couldn’t you just as easily hire someone more qualified than I am to take care of your fath - -“ 

“That is not what he is.” Dottore cuts across you forcefully enough to make you snap your mouth shut. Then, more quietly, he says, “Not exactly, anyway.”

Breathing out a rather curt exhale, the Doctor moves to step around the back of your chair again, slowly dragging his gloved hand across the top of it this time as he goes by. “I do not expect you to truly get anything out of this explanation, but the fact of the matter is that the situation calls for the utmost discretion and secrecy. Although I cannot tell you the exact details of it right now, what I can say is that this matter concerns a Fatui Harbinger and is, therefore, a delicate topic indeed. We cannot have word of the comings and goings of Her Majesty’s forces leaking to the public.”

“It’s a point of security, my dear.” Regrator helpfully adds on. “You understand.” 

You’re not so sure you do, but then the Doctor plops down in his abandoned seat and leans forward to brace his elbows upon his knees, clasped hands meeting between them. He looks … weary, you think. Like he’d already puzzled out every other possible avenue to resolve this issue as cleanly and neatly as possible only to come up regretfully short, time and time again. It makes you wonder, not for the first, what his relation could possibly be with this mysterious old man then, if he wouldn’t simply wipe his hands of it like he seemed to want. 

“The problem, you see, is that hired nurses generally expect to go home at the end of the day,” he goes on. “Or eventually, at the very least. And they take information with them, intentionally or not. They talk and they gossip, letting things slip. But we can’t just sequester someone like that away from the rest of the world, because they would invariably have people looking for them. Either family or employers, coworkers. Someone who might start asking questions. If the tracks then lead any subsequent investigations directly to the doorstep of a Harbinger …” 

The Doctor solemnly shakes his head, and you finally start to understand. 

“So you figured I was your best bet because the only one who might question my whereabouts is my mother, and she’s …” You’re reluctant to say it, but he nods his agreement all the same. “I see. But it sounds like I won’t have much freedom of movement, if you’re that worried about possible leaks getting out. I am sorry, my lord, but I still don’t think I can take on this responsibility.”

“Not even if it could potentially save your mother’s life?” 

You snap your head around to look over at Regrator who pins you in place with a not unkind smile. 

“What?” 

“Forgive me for butting in, it’s just … with the amount of mora you would be making from this position you could easily afford to hire the best physicians Snezhnaya has to offer. Sure, you might lose out on a couple of months with your mother, or even a year or two, depending on how the hands of fate choose to fall. But if she could be cured in that time then you would be free to enjoy each other's company in relative comfort once the job is completed.” 

Your mind positively reels at this information. Was that truly possible? An equivalent trade of some of your time for more of hers? Did you even dare to believe it? 

“I guess I didn’t really think of it like that, but … is the situation really that imperative, my lord? I - I mean, not to be rude, but is your fa - - your patient that much on borrowed time?” 

The Doctor tilts his face towards you, sending you a look that is no less scathing despite the barrier of his mask standing in the way. “He will be eighty-five years old soon. What do you think? I can’t imagine he has all that many more years in him, although I suppose we would only be so lucky if he doesn’t stubbornly cling to life with everything he’s got.” 

You’re more than a little aghast at how he speaks of this man, but even that is not enough to douse the flickering, hopeful flame that ignites in your heart. It wasn’t what you had set out to do, far from it, and yet you couldn’t conceive of a better outcome, especially when Regrator had been so quick to dismiss your entreaty of him. 

It was, of course, hard to believe that this prickly individual in the bird mask would be your savior over the arguably polite, handsome banker, and yet that seems to be exactly how things have turned out for you. Even if it was only a slim chance at extending your mothers life, perhaps just long enough for you to find some closure for her regarding the disappearance of your father, you knew that this was an opportunity you couldn’t afford to pass up. And besides that, if the Doctor was half as unsympathetic towards the old man as he was when talking about him in front of a complete stranger, then you could only surmise that your presence might be the single source of kindness allotted to him in his final days. You weren’t making this decision because of that, but it is something you take into consideration. 

“Alright, then,” you say at last, shocked at yourself for even considering going through with it. “I’m listening. How much are you going to pay me, so that I know what sort of arrangements to make for my mother? And when would you like me to start?” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear mama,

Today, I met old man Zandik for the first time. He is quite the interesting character! I cannot tell you much of my current situation or my employer, of course, and I’m sure this and any future letters to you will be thoroughly inspected before delivery to ensure that nothing of import slips through. I don’t think this much should hurt anything though, or at least I hope it doesn’t. 

But I don’t want you to worry about me or wonder how I’m doing, so I’ve decided it would be in both our best interests to send you periodic updates addressed to your room at the hospital while I’m away. I pray that this, the first of what is sure to be many letters, finds you well. Tell me, are the nurses being kind to you? Has there been any change at all in your health? I know you don’t like to be fussed over but please try not to give the staff there a hard time. They’re only trying to help you, just as I am doing my best to help you in whatever way that I can. 

Once I am finished with this job I promise I’ll come get you and we’ll go on a nice, long trip together!  

Oh, but let me tell you a little about old man Zandik. I suppose I should start calling him ‘Master’ now?

He turned out to be just as advanced in his later years as his associate claimed him to be and, strangely enough, this set any of my lingering doubts regarding his story to rest. I call the man I met at the Northland Bank an associate because … well, it’s a little hard to explain. Actually, I’m not quite sure I even understand it myself. This place is rather disconcerting in that regard, and sometimes it can be exceedingly difficult to make sense of the things I hear or see. 

Luckily, though, Master Zandik is a very grounding presence in his own strange way. To some extent he feels more real than the one in the mask, despite the fact that he did not seem particularly happy to see me standing there with his associate. He even tried to send me away at first, which I am sure you can imagine came as quite the shock! I thought I might pass out right then and there from embarrassment, thinking that there had been some sort of mistake. But the other man insisted that everything was already in order for me to begin my duties and after stressing to him that the advanced payment had already been delivered (and spent!) Zandik reluctantly gave in. I’m not entirely sure what their relation is to cause so much tension between them, but we occupied the rest of the afternoon with him showing me around his laboratory and telling me all about the things inside it. 

Yes, you read that right. A laboratory, mama! I’ve been employed in the service of a real scientist who works for Her Majesty, and who has accomplished quite a lot according to him. It is just as I told you, then, when I had to leave you at the hospital. So you see, there is nothing at all for you to fret about. 

But back to Master Zandik. Although he certainly wasn’t happy with me in the beginning he warmed up quickly enough. Honestly, I think he was just happy to be shown an interest in his work and to spend time around someone other than himself. In another life he might even have been a teacher, a celebrated professor at an equally venerated university. He seemed to rather enjoy explaining things to me despite the fact that I could hardly keep up with much of what he said. 

I suppose that, in a way, this was likely what the man in the mask meant when he said that he didn’t have time to take care of Master Zandik himself. The old man is sharp for his age and far more intelligent than I would have thought it possible for any one person to be, but he also seems a bit lonely. Restless in his advancing age. I’m not sure if my presence here or any amount of interest in his work will be enough to ward off the causal effects of his twilight years, but I’m certainly going to do my best. For your sake as much as his. 

He isn’t nearly as sweet or kindhearted as you are, mama, but I think the two of you would get along splendidly. Something about him almost reminds me of papa. It would have been nice if I’d been able to take care of him in his old age, too. Perhaps, then, Master Zandik will be my temporary substitute in the meantime. I’ll get some good practice in, at least! 

Oh, but I do miss you so. I hope you’ll write me back soon. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it’s a little unnerving being away from home like this. Sometimes I hear strange sounds off in the distance and Master Zandik does not like to let me far out of his sight, so I cannot even investigate the source to put my mind at ease. Her Majesty willing, it is nothing to worry about though. 

Until next time,

With love 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It is undoubtedly something to worry about, you decide with no shortage of fast mounting apprehension. 

In fact, there were a great many things you should be worried about and right at the top of that list was the identity of the mysterious masked person who seemed to come and go with all of the pomp and circumstance of a wandering specter. That strange noise you kept hearing didn’t even crack the top five. 

It was alarming though, causing your blood pressure spike and your heart to race every time you caught it coming from somewhere not that far off in the distance. But you never seemed to get any closer to it no matter where you happened to be standing, nor could you pinpoint which direction it was coming from. And worst of all, Zandik did not seem to even notice it. If anything, your startled reactions appeared to bother him far more than anything else did. 

“And what’s got you so spooked this time?” He grumbles, carefully setting his coffee cup down on its matching saucer with a faint clink from the delicate glass. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghoul passing by, if you ask me.” 

You’re not so sure that’s an entirely inaccurate statement, all things considered, and you nervously turn away from your dusting to face him. “Do you really not hear it? What is that?” 

“Hm?” Tilting his head slightly, Zandik carefully listens for a long moment. The two of you are in his library, perfectly still and silent save for the far off noise that has plagued you since you first arrived here. 

It always sounded off at random intervals throughout the day with no rhyme or reason that you could discern, ensuring it always caught you unawares and ill prepared. Just yesterday you’d nearly dumped boiling water all down your front from jumping so hard at the unexpected shrill. 

At length, he finally gives his head a shake. “I don’t hear anything. You’re imagining it.” 

“I really don’t think I am.” You insist, but it’s weak and unsure. Not exactly convinced of your own convictions when this place was starting to make you feel crazy. 

You’d been here for about a month now and for the most part the work wasn’t anything terrible. You liked Zandik well enough, even if he was occasionally short with you and not quite as easy to please as the letter you’d sent to your mother had implied. Sure, it was wrong to fib or stretch the truth, but you hadn’t wanted her to worry about you when she should have been worrying about herself. 

For the most part you just kept the old man company. Waking him every morning, helping him get dressed and then handing him his cane, when he felt up for it, so you could accompany him down to the lab he so enjoyed dawdling in or, like today, the library. You take your meals together, sit and read together, when time permits, and enjoy the peaceful stillness of the eerily quiet, sprawling mansion together. Sometimes he snaps at you, pinches your thigh to get your attention or chides you for imagined slights against his person, but that was usually the worst of it. 

The one in the bird mask was decidedly much worse and he often appeared without warning, materializing out of some dark nook or cranny to scare you half to death. Even if he were not inclined to such sneaking around, though, you were still likely to have found his presence there with you and the old man disconcerting. 

Because you’d realized quite immediately upon being introduced to Zandik that something was not right here. They were very much alike, those two, with the same hair (although the older’s had started to thin and to dull in color) and their voices were very much the same as well (although the younger’s was more crisp and clear) but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what was off between them. At first you’d thought the masked one had simply lied to you, and they were in fact father and son despite what he’d said to the contrary. And yet …

Watching them interact gave you the impression that this wasn’t likely to be the correct answer either. They were almost like mirror images of one another, in a way, and Zandik was only marginally easier to deal with by simple virtue of the fact that he was reliant on you to take care of many everyday, mundane tasks for him. If he had been even half as spry and independent as his younger counterpart, you were sure you would have been in a world of trouble. 

Anxiously twisting the feather duster in your hands now, you stand there and listen to the distant grating, gnashing, grinding sound that seems as if it is coming from everywhere and somehow nowhere all at once. It gave you the impression of metal biting into metal, tearing and ripping. Crushing. You couldn’t believe he didn’t hear that. 

Eventually lifting his head again, Zandik now peers over at you with a scowl deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. “Is your imagination really that distracting? Those bookshelves aren’t going to dust themselves, you know.” 

“It is not my imagination.” You argue, earning yourself a humorless scoff from him. 

“Then what else could it be? My hearing hasn’t gotten that bad yet. If I can make out the scurrying of rats down in the cellar — and trust me, I most assuredly can — then surely I would also hear this mysterious noise you speak of.”

Grumbling something unkind under his breath, Zandik settles deeper into his chair before going on. “I don’t know where he found you at – some barren street corner, I would imagine. But I feel the need to once again voice my doubts concerning this arrangement. An empty headed, flighty little girl does not seem the best candidate for watching after an old man, if you want my opinion.” 

“I am not a little girl.” You huff, taking great offense to that. 

“Well, you certainly look like one to me.” 

Cheeks growing warm, you have to bite your tongue to stop the impulse to argue any further with him. He was your employer, after all, and he also wasn’t necessarily wrong. To an eighty-four year old you probably did seem not much unlike a child to him. But that didn’t mean you appreciated being talked to like one, and for an uncomfortably long moment terse silence claims the room with only that horrible sound to fill the empty space. 

And then, it stops. 

As suddenly as it started, it recedes back into the void of nothingness and you slowly exhale your great relief. Watching you carefully, Zandik observes the way your shoulders gradually relax and how the tension drains out of your body before he similarly sighs a heavy, world weary breath out through his nose. 

“Come here, silly girl. Let me see you. Don’t be frightened.” 

Still clutching the feather duster, you heed his summons and obediently, albeit anxiously, step across the room to come up beside him. 

He’d felt well enough today to forgo the wheelchair he sometimes needed to get around with when his arthritis was bothering him, relying on only his cane to help him shuffle down to the library with you in tow. As such, he is sitting in a comfortably cushioned, high backed chair in front of a cluttered desk littered with books and papers, a seemingly random pair of forceps and an empty beaker, an assortment of pens and inkwells scattered about the surface. You weren’t sure what he was working on, if he was working on anything at all and not simply wiling away the time. You probably wouldn’t have understood much of it even if you’d asked him, though. Zandik’s mind was something far beyond your scope of comprehension even in his old age. 

Halting a respectful distance from the arm of his chair, you neatly fold your hands in front of you over the white apron that trails down your front. “Yes, Master?” 

Saying nothing, Zandik reaches out to firmly grab hold of your fingers with his mouth pressed in a tight line. You give a small jolt, flushing rather profusely as he tugs, nudging you to step closer to him. The gesture isn’t exactly gentle but it’s not aggressive, either. Just — demanding. And maybe a bit condescending, the way he steers you into place as if you should have innately understood where he wanted you to be. 

Evidently satisfied only when you can feel the bulk of the skirt pushing in on his chair, he releases you and lets his hand drop to the arm rest. Then he turns his attention towards the dusty old book spread open before him, disregarding you completely, and still without uttering so much as a single word in your direction.  

To your surprise it looks like he’s going to ignore you now that you’re standing beside him, his attention fixed on the hefty tome. He neither says or indicates anything to signal what he wants, so you simply stand there, waiting and at attention. 

Then you feel it. 

That same hand almost inconspicuously touches the back of your knee, tickling you ever so faintly when he traces your stockings upward to then slip underneath the hem of your skirt. You go ramrod stiff, shuddering and breaking out into gooseflesh as you stamp down the urge to pull away from him. This was not a unique instance of him putting his hands on you, but you were no more used to it now than the first time it happened. 

“W - what are you doing? Sir?” 

Zandik clicks his tongue, still not even bothering to look up when he responds. “What does it look like I’m doing? Don’t be daft, girl.”

Pursing your lips, you stand there stiff as a board while he slowly works his way higher and higher up the back of your thigh. So grumpy. 

You’d nearly whirled around and slapped him across the face the first time he’d done something like this, mere days after being introduced. At the onset you’d thought he was merely trying to scare you away, hoping to send you packing with complaints of harassment and unfavorable work conditions, but you’d assured yourself that you were made of tougher stuff than that. 

He’d persisted though, even after a few weeks had gone by, and now you weren’t so sure that he wasn’t just taking advantage of his age and his position of authority to feel you up whenever the mood struck him. 

Sometimes it was like this; touching your exposed legs where the housekeeping uniform given to you by the man in the mask didn’t reach down far enough to protect you from his wandering fingers. Other times he’d wait until you were close enough, leaning forward to set his coffee in front of him or picking up a book he’d asked to have taken away, to reach up and innocuously brush his knuckles across your chest. You didn’t like it one bit, but you always thought of your mother in these situations to remind yourself what was at stake here. For her sake, you would put up with just about anything. 

But this time Zandik’s searching fingers are bolder than usual, evidently no longer content with simply touching the parts of you that could be misconstrued as innocent or accidental, if you chose to interpret them that way. This time, he brushes right over the top edge of your stockings, taking a moment to inspect the little metal clasps holding them in place before reaching higher still. 

Your throat suddenly seems to be obstructed with something that feels very much like a boulder, lodged and unbudging, as he now feels along bare skin. His fingers are cold and bony, trembling ever so slightly from the effects of aging, not nerves. He’s perfectly confident, in fact, when he unhesitatingly finds the seam of your panties a moment later and proceeds to almost possessively curl those long, dexterous digits around the pudge of your quim to make you give a great jolt of surprise. 

“M - master Zandik! What - -!” 

“Oh, just hush, you idiot. I’m not hurting you, am I? Eh? No, I didn’t think so. Now stop looking at me like that and focus on this instead of those phantom noises you think you hear.” 

“But … but …” 

Swaying somewhat unsteadily there on your feet, you screw your eyes shut with a low whimper. You’d never had someone touch you like this before and you aren’t sure what to make of any of it. 

On one hand, you try to reason with yourself, he was right in that he wasn’t causing you any harm. It didn’t hurt, at the very least. But on the other it was undoubtedly wrong for him to be helping himself to your body like this. Not only because you were employer and employee, master and servant, and this broke the unspoken understanding between those respective roles, your stations in life. But also because of the great difference in age. 

He was old enough to be your grandfather, for crying out loud! 

You feel more than a smidge bitter about that, and you silently curse him in your head while he nudges the hand between your legs with a deliberate motion that makes his fingers press up into you. The sensation of fleshy lips shifting under the pressure, forced to part for him, quickly has you sucking in a ragged breath that painfully rakes on the way down. 

“W - what do you mean to do, sir?” You warble out, starting to squirm on your feet beside him. Impulsively, you reach behind you with one hand to try and shove the back of your dress down but it is simply no use. His arm remains as uncompromising as ever. “Is this really necessary? I’m s - sorry if I … displeased you.”

“Nonsense. You did nothing of the sort.” He grumbles, the brunt of his focus remaining on the book laid out on the desk while the gesture of his hand seems akin to a mere afterthought. 

“Then why - -“

“Gods, girl. Do you ever stop asking questions? Ever since you came here you’ve been wound tighter than a jack spring, always jumping and scaring at the slightest noise. I’ll have you know that this is precisely why I tried to tell that bastard fool you weren’t needed here.” Snorting a derisive sound, Zandik reaches for the pen sitting next to the book with his right hand. 

Leaving the other to busy between your legs, he jots down some notation or another that you can’t quite decipher when the insistent rubbing of his fingers was beginning to make you feel so very warm. Stuffy, and increasingly stifled. 

“What’s done is already done though, and I suppose you’re here to stay.” He goes on, softening the tone of his voice by only some small margin. “The least you could do is let me tend to you a little bit without all this fuss. If it helps, you can try to think of it as being in exchange for always taking decent enough care of me. You do make a rather agreeable pot of coffee, I have to admit.” 

Blinking back the sting of unshed tears from your eyes, you peer down at him in question but, still, he won’t look up at you. 

Was this supposed to be some sort of reward then? His way of praising you for a month’s worth of hard work rendered, or perhaps as a misguided way of soothing your jittery nerves. That seemed rather backwards to you and you weren’t sure how that could possibly make any sense in his mind, but … 

The growing warmth that slowly settles and spreads across your pussy is frustratingly persuasive. It fogs your brain, making it more and more difficult to think straight even as you somewhat awkwardly shift around on your heels, torn between skittering away from his attentions or nudging into it. In truth you hadn’t given much thought at all to the ways in which a man might someday touch you but this was far too wrong for you to reconcile any of it in your mind. He shouldn’t have been doing this to you. 

And you certainly should not have been enjoying it. Not even a little bit. 

And yet as the seconds continue to tick by, dutifully counted off by the stoic facade of the grandfather clock against the adjacent wall, that’s exactly how your body appears to be responding to him as well as his ministrations. With pleasure, and the eager, excessive slick of your youth. You can feel it gathering along the crease, steadily building up in abundance until it feels like it’s oozing out of you to stick to the cotton of your panties. Dampening, clinging, smearing wetly with every pass of his twitching fingers. Your cunt had never felt as terribly hot as it does now. 

The sensation is overpowering and potent enough that when he finally gives his hand a deliberate twist, locating the outer edge of the gusset and rudely shoving the thin material aside, it very nearly comes as a relief. You can’t help but shudder though, whimpering at the cool brush of wafting air that caresses over your thoroughly swollen sex to make your posture waver. 

Almost unconsciously you find yourself tipping forward, the weight of your upper body too much for your legs to support when your lower half was buzzing, tingling. Turning into molten honey that threatens to drip out onto the floor underneath you. 

Without warning, Zandik’s wizened fingertips slip inside the tight space between flesh and cotton, where he proceeds to drag a harsh line through your weeping slit. You involuntarily jolt at the feeling, and when he chuckles a brief sound in the same heartbeat you can’t be sure if it’s in response to your reaction or the state of arousal he’s found you in. Perhaps it was even both. 

“Interesting. Looks to me like you’re much more eager than you want to let on. Not exactly the pure, innocent maiden you’d have me believe you are, hm?” 

You have a strong mind to correct him on that. To insist that it is only the precise expertise of his fingers and the keen application he applies to your cunt that has made such a mess of you, and not any fault of your own. But you can’t seem to manage it, having neither the oxygen nor the remaining mental capacity to follow through on the impulse. All you can do is stand there, softly panting, while his digits spear through delicate creases and satin inner folds in search of the hidden pearl at the apex of your slit. 

And you know the exact moment he finds it just as well as he does, because you violently twitch so hard your legs almost give out on the spot. One of your hands blindly flies out to slam against the top of the desk in an attempt to restore your balance but it’s no use. Especially not when Zandik sets in to rub over that sensitive spot, drawing tight circles into the pulsing, pinprick nerve cluster. The motion of his hand was at once tender and demanding at the same time. 

Entirely against your will, you let loose a low, faltering sound of rapidly budding ecstasy, unable to hold it back even if you’d tried. The fingers on your pussy give an excited little jump in response to the sound before attacking you with even greater fervor than before. That delicate button, swollen and tender, grinds under the pressure of his attention, dragging against the worn pads of his digits. 

You felt like you were drunkenly spinning through a kaleidoscopic rush of sensation unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Inebriated and loopy, soaring higher and higher towards the culminative end of your own consciousness. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You felt like you were going to cry; great big, gasping sobs that would wrack you straight down to the bone. You were going to die here in this library. You were going to — 

“Aah - aaugghhn! M - master Zandik!” 

A harsh, ragged intake of air is all you manage after that rattling plea, feeling as if you were about to tip right over the precipice into some great, gaping maw of absolution. 

But you don’t quite make it that far, hovering poised and shaking for the pin to drop when the door on the opposite side of the room abruptly wrenches open. 

You hear an unwelcomingly familiar voice call out, “is this where you are?” and you wrench yourself upright so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. 

Zandik, too, reacts with a startled little jerk, quickly withdrawing his hand from the inside of your panties just in time for the man in the bird mask to appear in the doorway. One or both of you must look guilty as hell, though, because he pauses there to consideringly observe the scene he’s just walked in on. 

“Am I interrupting something?” He drawls at length, quiet and pointed with barbed wire. 

“N - no, my lord. I was just — checking if master Zandik needed a refill on his coffee. That’s all.”

Heaving another terse exhale, the old man lifts his hand — the one that had just been between your legs, you realize with a great deal of mortified horror — to idly gesture the other inside. “A top off sounds just fine. What do you want? I hope you’re not bringing me another caretaker I didn’t want or ask for.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that.” The Doctor croons, the switch in him flipping just like that. 

You find this aspect of him perhaps most disconcerting of all, and you gratefully turn away to retrieve the silver carafe you’d left sitting by the window when he moves to step through the door. 

“Just because you haven’t realized it yet, that doesn’t mean you don’t need someone around who can fully devote all of their attention to your long list of needs. You are, after all, getting older with each and every passing day, Zandik. The aches and ailments are only going to continue to accumulate with time. I think you know that just as well as I do.” 

“You have a working pair of hands, don’t you? Or is that mouth of yours the only thing that works?” 

“It’s not my responsibility.” He volleys back, keeping his tone light and airy. Playful, almost, or so you might think if you didn’t already know him better than that. 

Keeping your head down so as not to draw any unwanted attention to yourself, you cautiously make your way back over to Zandik’s side where you lean across his shoulder to refill the cup on the table. He’s back to ignoring your presence though, which is just fine with you, and you quickly skitter away when the Doctor steps up to the other side of the desk without giving you so much as a second glance. And thank Her Majesty for that small mercy! 

Retreating back some distance to one of the tall bookshelves, you settle in to resume your earlier dusting. Or pretend to, anyway.  

You’d picked up very early on that it was best to keep yourself busy and preoccupied while they had their discussions, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to stay well within earshot to listen. It was one of the good things about being able to make yourself so small and unobtrusive that you just sort of blended right in with the scenery, and likely why the Doctor had set his machinations on you that day in the bank. You were easy to overlook when he had far more important things to be dealing with. 

“You say it’s not your responsibility.” Zandik finally grumbles, sounding as if he was still turning that statement over in his head. “As if you should even have the luxury of choice in the matter.” 

“It’s not. It really isn’t.” The Doctor insists. “But let’s put that aside for now. I have some interesting news to share with you, if you’d like to know what that most impulsive segment of yours has been up to recently.” 

Ever so slowly, you turn your head to better angle your ear towards the desk. Segments. You’d heard that word a few times now over the course of your stay here, but you had no idea what it meant or what it might refer to. You were curious though, and as always that curiosity of yours tended to get you into trouble. This was clearly not a conversation you should have been privy to, and yet here you were. 

Perhaps thinking the exact same thing, Zandik uneasily shifts in his chair. “And what might that be? I trust it must be good if you went to the trouble of tracking me down.” 

The Doctor says something about Sumeru, then, something that makes absolutely no sense to you. There’s an eager lilt in his voice when he talks about it though, calling it lost technology and forbidden research, unexpected breakthroughs. You find that a little odd, admittedly, because you were very much under the impression that he worked directly under the Tsaritsa. Why would she forbid something that one of her loyal subjects was working on? 

Unless … it was not she who had forbidden it? 

It’s hard to imagine that anyone or anything’s authority would trump that of Her Majesty’s. Even the other gods in neighboring nations seemed pale in comparison to her splendor, her heavy handed rule of law, but that seemed to be exactly what they were talking about. 

Unfortunately the subject is changed too quickly for you to glean much of anything from it, moving away from those far more interesting tidbits to focus instead on minute details and data, probability statistics of success or failure, resource management and funding arrangements. It’s all very vague in your mind. Amorphous and shapeless without any basis of understanding to contextualize any of it. They may as well have been speaking a different language and it doesn’t take long for you to mentally tune them out in favor of revisiting that bizarre exchange with Zandik. 

It was strange, wasn’t it, for him to overstep like that? Even by his own standards, that had been a bit much. And your pussy was still soaking wet with the evidence of his ambitious intents upon you, reminding you just how sticky and uncomfortably slick you were with every little shift of your body. Against your better judgments, you find that you ache terribly for the unfulfilled thrill of culmination that had been mercilessly ripped from you even as you silently rebuke it in the same breath. 

You felt sick and slimy just thinking about him touching you as he had, angry at your own helplessness to do anything to stop it from happening. But you also couldn’t ignore the tight, wanting knot in your loins, the powerfully compelling urge to offer your cunt up to the perusal of his hands again. It had felt nice, you’re beyond ashamed to realize. Good, in a way that felt like it could all too easily become addicting if you weren’t careful.

Had Zandik been even just thirty years younger you probably would have been wrestling with quite the moral conundrum right now. He is not, though, and so your decision was an easy one to make. You just couldn’t afford to get involved with someone that many decades your senior and whose position in the social hierarchy far outclassed yours. Simply entertaining the notion was in itself craven and perverted. 

But if he were to be the one who initiated it again … it’s not as if you could really tell your employer ‘no’, could you? 

These contradictory and confusing thoughts whirl about inside your head over the next half hour or so while the two of them go back and forth over this or that and the other. They aren’t exactly on friendly terms, given the sharp barbs they regularly exchange between them, apparently unable to stop themselves from taking jabs at pride and ego. They were barely even cordial, in fact. 

But whatever is bubbling beneath the surface does not reach its boiling point today, and your ears prick back into focus when you hear the Doctor start to make the usual indications that he was to take his leave. 

You’re not sure if you should be happy about that or not, hand tightening on the useless feather duster you’d all but forgotten you were holding. You certainly had not used it for its intended purpose at any time since Zandik first called you to his side. 

But between your nosy interest in their discussion and the dripping wet cunt between your legs, you’d been quite distracted from your duties. Now, however, you jump to get back to your dusting while you listen to heavy boots moving across the floor. A shuffling turn, a redistribution of weight, the purposeful thunk of a heel landing squarely on old wood with an accompanying low creak. 

And then gloved hands are looping around you from behind, very nearly making you jump out of your skin when they anchor around your waist without warning. Heart lodging in your throat, you whip your head around to look back at the featureless mask hovering just over your shoulder. 

“M - m - my lord?” You squeak in fright. 

“How adorable. But don’t pretend to be surprised now, little mouse. I know full well that you were listening to our conversation with nothing short of rapt fascination, weren’t you?” The Doctor croons, clearly amused by that simple audacity rather than enraged by it like you otherwise might have thought him to be. 

“You … you knew? But you kept talking anyway?” 

“Why, of course. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do with this information, is there? The strict stipulations of our arrangement were made for a very good reason, you know. And besides … you’ve been standing in this exact spot the entire time, not doing much of anything that I would even begin to call productive. You weren’t exactly trying to hide it.” 

You flinch at his pointed accusation, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat. The Doctor merely chuckles a faint sound at your reaction though, neither chiding you for your indiscretions or punishing you for them. He really couldn’t care about you eavesdropping, then. Clearly quite confident that you would find no easy way to leak what you’ve heard to the outside world for as long as you were trapped here inside this sprawling, resoundingly empty manor home. 

Regrettably for you, he was likely correct about that. 

“I’ll try to be sneakier about it next time.” You promise him, earning another quiet snort of amusement. “In the meantime, was there anything I could help you with, sir? Your hands …” 

He gives your waist a tight squeeze at the reminder, blocky fingers digging deep into lovehandles for a brief moment to make you squirm. You couldn’t figure out what their fascination was with touching you so indecorously like this, and you whimper softly at the sharp little jabs of discomfort that spark through you. 

The Doctor doesn’t release his hold though, not even when you nervously rock forward as if to slip out of his grasp and flee. His fingers are like iron manacles where they hold you to the spot, demanding compliance and promising to take it by force should you get any bright ideas about fighting him. Those hands were not unlike Zandik’s in that sense, but somehow even more ruthless. Unsympathetic. 

“Ooh, don’t be like that. I just thought to check in on you, that’s all.” He coos when he leans closer, hunching over you now as if to swallow you up in a final, damning rustle of black bird feathers. “It’s just as I thought, though. You’ve taken to this assignment exceptionally well by the looks of things. I guess you really were the best candidate for the job after all.” 

“T - … thank you for the compliment, my lord.” 

“Think nothing of it. And there will be plenty more where that came from if you continue to meet my expectations of you.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, somehow sultry as the night and menacing as a bared-fang hiss at the same time, he goes on. “You’ve been taking awfully good care of that decrepit old wretch, haven’t you? And you have my immense thanks for that, of course. I do wonder though how I should show my appreciation for all of your hard work so far …”

With that vaguely ominous murmur, his hands slide low to deliberately smooth over your hips and across your thighs in a sudden rush of contact that makes you gasp. But there’s no time to stop it when everything happens much too fast for you to even comprehend that it’s happening at all. 

One moment he’s taking big, wrenching handfuls of the skirt, gathering it in his fists, and the next he’s got the bulk of the material hiked up around your stomach. You jolt at the abrupt exposure of your lower half, head snapping down to watch the Doctor snake one arm around you and trap the material in place. This allows him to reach back down with the other where he’s now free to palm at your underwear in a too tight squeeze that has you twisting in his hold, biting your tongue to stop the yelp that tries to force its way out. 

You couldn’t believe he would do this when Zandik was still sitting just behind the two of you at the desk. Was he insane? 

“My, my, isn’t this an interesting discovery. Your panties are damp, little mouse. I wonder what could possibly be the cause of that.”

Turning your face away from him to fix upon the opposite wall instead, you blindly reach down and clamp your fingers around the wrist between your legs. But it’s no use. He’s as unbudging as a brick wall against you. Even trying to squeeze him out with your thighs doesn’t do you any good. 

“S - stop that! Let go of me!” You hiss viciously under your breath, practically spitting at him like a viper. 

“What, you’re not interested?” He laughs against your temple to send hot breath dancing across your skin, and you respond by trembling fiercely in his hold. “Well, that seems a little backwards if you ask me. Do you really think that old fool can give you something I can’t? Frankly, my dear, I’m not even sure if he can still get it up.”

You give him a sharp, incredulous look, nearly taking your own eye out on the pointy beak of his mask, but all he does is laugh in response. 

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re welcome to do whatever you want, within reason. I’m certainly not going to stop you, and far be it that I would try to prohibit the pursuit of scientific discovery if you’d like to find out for yourself. I’m just saying that the statistical odds aren’t exactly stacked in your favor. But on the off chance that he isn’t completely impotent … I can still promise you that I would take much better care of you than he ever could.” 

As if in proof of that decree, the Doctor gives his probing hand a purposeful twist, snagging the edge of the fabric with the crook of his fingers. Without a single ounce of regard for how you might feel about it, he peels your underwear aside to once again expose your weeping slit to the cool air in the library. It makes you realize anew just how swollen and slick your pussy is, shaking with a plaintive arch of your spine as you seethe through your teeth. 

Ever unconcerned with silly notions such as time or place, even potential audiences, Dottore delves two of those gloved digits inside the pudgy grip of your labia. He is nothing like Zandik in the way he paws at you now, ignoring your tingling clitoris entirely in favor of locating your dripping opening instead. And when he finds it easily enough by following the source of all that slippery discharge to its wellspring, he doesn’t even hesitate to thrust his fingers inside. 

The sudden breach of your body, this unexpected penetration, has you frantically rising up on your tip toes in a desperate bid to escape it. You’re trapped in his arms though, with nowhere to run, and you frantically drop the feather duster to the sound of a dull clatter against the floor so you can slap that hand over your mouth instead. It takes everything you have not to shriek in distress and rising panic, the sting of fresh, salty tears making your vision blur. 

It wasn’t just the stretch to your hitherto untested passage, the deep ache that it leaves in you. These things alone would have been more than enough to have you sobbing, lamenting your own ruin in this drafty place. But what truly makes your throat cinch shut, making it impossible to breathe, for your stomach to wrench so violently you think you might really faint dead away, is how readily your cunt accepts the violation.  

You’re too wet, too puffy and swollen to keep him out, and the Doctor is able to freely impale you on those long, searching digits straight up to the second joint with hardly any effort at all to show for it. Zandik’s patient, coaxing caresses over that long stretch of minutes had done its job and done it exceptionally well. You sway in the Doctor’s hold, dizzy and reeling, as you throb around the intrusion, wheezing nauseatingly into your palm. 

“Oh? What’s this now?” 

Drawling a slow, reverberating chuckle, he starts to worm deeper into you, forcing your tight inner sleeve to accommodate his presence within. It’s an uncomfortably vice-like fit, to be sure, when your constricting passage squeezes around his fingers as if to strangle them. And yet that does absolutely nothing to daunt his tireless pursuit of reaching as far into your person as he can go, singlemindedly bullying your tender pussy open one malicious inch at a time. 

Finally, he slides the rest of the way home with one last, insidious wriggle of those astute digits, a messy click sounding from your cunt when his knuckles press into you hard. The foreign sensation of being stuffed full like this nearly has your eyes rolling back in their sockets even as you awkwardly shift to lessen some of the pressure. It’s a futile endeavor, though. There’s no escaping his clutches like this, no way to lift yourself off of his hand when he has you stuck in place by your pussy. All you can manage is to stiffly writhe against him, the heels of your little buckled shoes shuffling a disoriented tempo against the floor in your desperate search for balance atop the spear of his fingers. 

“You took that surprisingly well,” he murmurs, directly into your ear, so close that you can feel his coarse lips brushing the outer shell. It comes as a small, distant relief that he sounds so pleased with you, evidently satisfied by the reluctant acquiescence of your body. You could only hope that this meant he wouldn’t try to force you to bend any further than he already had. 

“And you didn’t even scream either. Not that it would have done you any good though. I’m sure you understand perfectly well by now that no one will be coming to your rescue here, hm? But that’s just as well, darling mouse. I do so detest the sound of wailing.” 

The Doctor’s sturdy frame shudders against yours when he issues another low, grinding laugh, chuckling into the side of your head. You blearily come out of your stupor now that what you think must be the worst of it has passed, alertness slowly returning to you as you stir within the confines of his arms. But the one around your waist merely tightens, keeping you securely fastened to him, while the other flexes with the tensing of musculature and chorded sinew. 

In torturous slow motion, the fingers inside your trembling quim begin to retreat. Sliding out from the clinging grip of you one mind numbing fraction at a time until only the first joint remains wedged. Then he pushes back in, at that same staggered pace, gliding through the sticky mess along your guts until you’ve taken both of his first two fingers in their entirety again. The same wet, sloppy squelch as before punctuates the air, sounding unbearably loud in the otherwise still and silent library. 

You almost curse yourself for even considering it right now, given your own predicament, and yet you can’t help but wonder what Zandik must be thinking. Listening to his younger counterpart — because that’s all you can think of him as — patiently working you open with his hand, the muffled gasps and whines that slip out from behind your cupped palm. The bow legged shuffle of your awkwardly splayed feet, its cause unmistakable. The tall tell sound of a drenched, terribly stuffed pussy being worked over, manipulated, and plucked to vibrating fever pitch. 

Was he possibly even watching, having turned around in his chair to observe the spectacle that unfolds before him? 

It was not so different from what he himself had already done to you, in truth, but the Doctor takes a much different approach in his defilement of your body. He is not nearly as doting in his methodology of playing with your cunt as the old man was, nor particularly gentle about the way he crooks his thrusting fingers and jabs at your upper wall, as if to reach all the way through you to come out at your bellybutton. He’s demanding and forceful, merciless. And you positively flood around his thrusting digits, quite against your will. 

The same nearly suffocating pressure from before rapidly swells throughout your loins to leave them knotted and twisted, turning molten within the protective cradle of your internal organs. It feels like your cunt is melting all over again. Liquifying into a mess of warm, sticky mead. It leaves you soaring and panicked, drunk on the potent rush of endorphins that crashes over you and drowns you all at once. This time you really were going to — 

“That’s it, little mouse. Ride my hand. Yesss, just like that. Chase your pleasure for me. There, there. That’s a good girl. Are you going to cum for me? Go on. Don’t be scared. You’ve already ruined my glove with the proof of your innocence, haven’t you? What harm could a bit more do?”

You struggle to make any sense at all of what it is he’s saying, whining a frantic sound in the back of your throat even as your hips pitifully jump in his palm. It’s impossible to think straight, just as it is impossible to breathe like this, but you still find yourself bobbing your head in agreement all the same. Whatever it was that awaited you on the other side, you knew you wanted it. Needed it. Craved it more than anything else right now when he had you wound so terribly tight. 

But that suffocating blanket of relief was not meant to be yours, clearly, because the Doctor waits until you’re teetering right on the edge again before he cruelly rips his fingers away. Wailing behind your hand at the sudden loss, you twist and pathetically buck in his hold while your pussy sadly clenches around nothing. The empty void he’s left in you just makes you want it even more, practically out of your mind with a hitherto unknown ecstasy of the flesh. 

He just doesn’t care though, merely laughing at your flagrant animal display as he carefully moves to withdraw his hand from your underwear. Realizing that he truly intends to leave you like this, worked up and wanting, has you gasping like a beached fish when you tilt your face down to look between your legs in shellshocked disbelief. 

And the shimmering thread of gossamer slick that you find stretching between the rumpled edge of your panties and his glistening fingers promptly sends a fresh thrill of mortification though your system. 

You really were melting. 

“Ah, there’s a good pet.” He purrs, quite pleased with the show you’ve unintentionally put on for him. The bastard. “I think I rather like the face you make when you’re trying not to cry. It’s very becoming on you, if I do say so myself.” 

The Doctor lifts his hand towards you then, aiming on a clear and steady trajectory right for the fingers you have clasped over your mouth. But you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him, squirming in an attempt to free yourself. 

It does you no good, not any more than it did all the other times you’ve tried to reject what he’s doing to you, and after only a brief struggle of clashing wills he finally manages to yank your scrabbling palm away. 

“Here you are. Open up, little mouse.” Murmuring soft condescensions at you, he nudges his sticky fingers at your mouth and persistently follows after you with them each time you try to twist away. “Don’t fuss now. Take your medicine like a big girl. It's doctor's orders. You understand.” 

“Mmmn! N - no - -!” 

You don’t get the chance to say anything more on the matter when the Doctor rudely shoves his digits past your lips, stuffing your mouth full and silencing any other protests you might have had. The taste of leather and oil, and your own cunt floods your tastebuds in an instant, and you squeal a harried sound around the intrusion but it’s already too late. His long fingers settle across your tongue, keeping your jaw wedged open around them to leave you with no other choice than to grudgingly suck him clean. 

It’s hard not to feel humiliatingly infantile in that moment while you work your mouth around the intrusion, especially when your compliance earns you a masculine hum of approval from your assailant. But you don’t like it, not one bit, grimacing at the bitter taste of salt and other secretions even as you dutifully swallow it down. It’s not as if you could do much of anything else in this situation. Not when he has you clasped to the front of him with the reinforced steel of his forearm. 

“There. Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel appropriately coddled now, dear? Certainly much better than whatever that old fossil did for you, I trust.” 

You shoot him a sharp, grumpy scowl from the corner of your eye but the Doctor only snorts a bemused sound, finally pulling his fingers from your mouth once he’s deemed them to be thoroughly serviced. 

“My, that’s quite the look, isn’t it? Although I suppose I can’t blame you for being a bit fussy with me, I feel I must warn you to make sure you’ve appropriately fixed your face by the time Pantalone stops by to pay you a visit. We wouldn’t want to rouse his concerns regarding your treatment here, now would we?” 

Somehow that manages to pierce through the inebriated fog hanging over your head and, still harshly panting in the aftermath of your ordeal, you turn your face towards him in question. “Lord Regrator? He … he’s coming here?”

“Why, of course. This is one of his properties, after all.” 

The unexpected bombshell of this information leaves you thoroughly floored, so much so that you don’t even think to yank yourself free when the Doctor loosens his hold on you. With an amicable pat to your hip, he finally lets you down to stand on your own two feet again before he pulls away, disengaging from your person. But not without a belittling smack to your ass that makes your cheeks blaze anew. 

You’d simply assumed that this manor house belonged to Zandik or perhaps the Lord Harbinger himself. Both of them, even. The notion that this was in fact Regrator’s home hadn’t even crossed your mind. He’d said it was only one of them, though, so perhaps he didn’t frequent it all that often? That would at least explain why you hadn’t seen him even once over the last month. 

Feeling a bit cowed now, you give a prim little sniff and set about smoothing your uniform out to the best of your ability. That bird-faced menace had wrinkled the dark skirt beyond repair, damn him. 

But still, he lingers just over your shoulder even when you try very hard to ignore him, chuckling another low sound when you refuse to give him anymore of your attention. 

“Don’t pout. That was only a simple demonstration, darling mouse, but I promise to play with you much more thoroughly next time. I’ll make sure to set aside enough time, just for you. Let's call it … a bonus, shall we? But do remember what I said, won’t you? Whatever that old coot can do for you, I can do so much better.” 

Unable to help yourself, you snap another sharp look at him in warning, embarrassed and humiliated in equal measure. That it only earns you another sharp laugh for your trouble frustrates you a great deal, and you stand there stewing in your anger when he at last turns to leave with one last bark of amusement. The sound of his boots moving across the floor precedes the click of the door, the groan of old hinges and then the slam of it shutting behind him. 

And finally you are enveloped in still, peaceful silence again. 

Or would have been, had your stomach not been twisting itself into a thrumming ball of knots. 

Cautiously slow, you peer over your shoulder to look back at the desk. 

Sure enough you find Zandik’s hunched frame sitting right where you’d left him. He’d heard every last bit of it, then. Even if his hearing was not quite as keen as he’d claimed it to be, he was still sitting in much too close proximity to have missed any of it. Double damn that masked fiend! And you were quite certain he’d intentionally put on that little display just for Zandik’s benefit. You couldn’t even begin to guess at why he would do something like that, but it was becoming increasingly more obvious to you that the Doctor was nothing more than a selfish bully. It probably pleased him to no end to swoop in and steal something that he likely already suspected the old man wanted for himself. 

And yet you still hesitate there in front of the crammed bookshelves for a long moment, wrestling with your indecision when you were so unsure how to proceed from here. A very real part of you wants to flee from this room, this house, the sprawling grounds outside and disappear into the snowy mountains, never to be seen again. Not once have you ever been so terribly stricken with shame in all of your life. 

But the logical, rational part of your brain knew you couldn’t do that. Your mother needed the money and Zandik, too, needed your company. You couldn’t just leave him to the care of that horrible man even if you did wish that a hole would open up in the floor and swallow you into the bowels of the earth so you wouldn’t have to deal with this mess. 

Desperately fumbling for your resolve, you finally make up your mind and start to inch your way over to Zandik’s chair. His attention remains steadfastly fixed upon the book in front of him, however, and as you get closer you can tell this is very much intentional on his part. He doesn’t want to look at you. Oh, how in the world were you possibly going to navigate this precarious situation now? 

“M - Master Zandik?” You tentatively hedge, coming up alongside him on a nervous shuffle. “Is there anything I can get for you? Is your coffee still warm?” 

He doesn’t respond beyond a mute shake of his head, looking so utterly crestfallen and dejected in his high backed chair that it tugs at your heartstrings something fierce. It was like the air had been let out of a balloon and he now sat, deflated, stewing in his own melancholy. 

You feel immediately and irrevocably terrible, even though you had no idea why he would behave like this. Anger would have been understandable, perhaps even preferable. You could probably understand it a lot more than his currently despondent mood, anyway. 

In all honesty, you hadn’t thought he cared all that much for you to begin with, the way he always treated you like nothing more than a proper nuisance. But you’d have to puzzle that out another day. 

Scrambling for something appropriate to say in the present, you hear yourself impulsively blurt, “I’m sorry you had to listen to that. It was not my intention to …” 

To, what? Be assaulted against your will? No, that wasn’t it. But what did you call it then? Was it disrespectful to him, that you’d been accosted by his associate without putting up more of a fight? Was that what he was upset about?

Or had it been a blow to his ego for him to sit there, listening, while the Doctor gleaned such explosive results from a similar perusal of your cunt? Dripping just as wet as before, and sore now, soaking into your panties with the proof of what the other man had done to you while you stood there next to Zandik begging for his acknowledgement. 

You have absolutely no idea what to say or how to fix this, if it even could be fixed. 

But, at length, he finally exhales a weary breath, inspiring a low flutter of hope in your guts as you watch him slowly sit up in his chair, the gesture stiff. Halting. 

“It’s nothing for you to apologize for, stupid girl.” He grumbles, obviously unhappy. “This is just how things are, isn’t that right? The strong rule over the weak, and the young replace the old. I knew that, of course. But …” 

The creased wrinkles along his brow deepen slightly when he frowns as if in thought. It’s not hard to see he’s pondering over some troublesome aspect of this situation, either his own feelings on the matter or the circumstances that had led to this end result, and you patiently wait there at his elbow for a conclusion to be reached. 

You can’t even begin to guess at what he’ll say next, but somehow or another the very last thing you expect is, “It’s surprisingly frustrating, though. I wouldn’t have thought I’d still care about these things at this age.” 

Your stomach pulls with a faint tug of uncertainty. “Sir?” 

Giving his head another brief shake, Zandik allows himself to recline back against the cushioned support behind him where he finally sends you a sidelong glance. 

“The feeling of being one upped. Bested. And by myself, no less. It seems that no matter how old I get or how much I think I’ve matured over time, a man’s pride remains a delicate thing. Even when I know I simply can’t compete on the same physical level anymore, it still manages to wound almost as much as admitting this to you does.” 

You slowly blink at that. So that’s what this was about. And worse, it made a certain amount of sense that he should feel this way. You’d been given to him, promised to be his servant, only for that masked man to turn around and lay claim on you himself. Even if the logic was a bit backwards, seeing as you’d never agreed to your body being a part of the deal, you did understand it on some level. 

“I see.” You say at last. “That way of thinking isn’t unfounded, I suppose. But … Master Zandik, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, it’s just. I really don’t think that this is something you should be concerned about.”

A mirthless laugh punches out of him, laced with the startings of his ire. “And why is that? Don’t try to coddle me, girl. I don’t need your sympathy or my ego fluffed. It is simply the way of the world.” 

Flinching slightly, you almost find yourself backing down. He was getting short with you now, and you so hated to agitate him, but you foolishly decide to stand your ground on this. You had to. 

“Master, that is just not true. Of course you’re not wrong to say that he is on a different level than you physically, but that’s not all there is to it. There are — other factors at play here. Things that you aren’t considering.” 

Zandik scoffs an impatient sound. “Such as? Go on then. Tell me all about it, if you know so much.”

You quickly draw a purposeful breath to do just that, but the words immediately get stuck in your throat. Panic starts to set in. How were you possibly supposed to explain to him that he was the more agreeable choice — even despite his age and physical condition, even if he thought those things made him inferior to the Doctor — and you liked him better by simple virtue of the fact that he had not terrorized you as the masked man had?

Your cunt still throbbed with the lingering evidence of that, sore and achy in the aftermath of his rough treatment whereas Zandik’s almost affectionate petting had only left you craving more. If you were going to have your innocence stripped by anyone then you would have preferred it to be him. 

But you couldn’t just say that! What would you look like, inviting an old man to touch you in that manner? And that was to say nothing of the fact that he was clearly just waiting to write off whatever you had to say as mere lip service? Something to mend his bruised pride and make him feel marginally better about himself, candy for a scraped knee. But unless you could actually figure out how to convince him of your sincerity it would never amount to anything of worth in his mind. Just pretty, placating words. The sympathy he already told you he didn’t want. 

So, what was the solution? 

The two of you stay like that for an uncomfortably long stretch of minutes, just looking at one another, while you frantically scramble for the answer to that exceedingly difficult question. Seeing the flustered uncertainty on your face, however, he eventually turns away with a gravelly sound of annoyance. 

“As I thought. That will be all for now. Leave me to my work.” 

Your knotted stomach plummets into the ground at your feet. “But, sir - -“

“I said leave me to it!” 

Jolting at the harsh reprimand in his voice, you take a frightened little step back from him. He’d never hit you before, not in earnest anyway. You didn’t count the quick swats he’d sometimes give your hands if you were reaching for something you shouldn’t have been in the lab when you accompanied him down there. But seeing the old man this outraged, you aren’t so sure he won’t start. 

And yet, in spite of it all, Zandik instead just shuts you out completely. With a singleminded focus, he sits up in his chair and leans over his book again, taking up his pen in the right hand. Ignoring you completely, as if you didn’t even exist anymore within the narrow stretch of his world. Just like it was when you’d first arrived here. 

To say you’d simply stretched the truth in your letter would have been an understatement. It had taken you almost an entire week to get him to speak to you at all, and another after that before he would engage in anything even remotely resembling a friendly conversation. This was all wrong. You couldn’t go back to walking on eggshells after all that hard work you’d put in just to earn even a tiny sliver of his trust. That damned Doctor had thrown everything into disarray simply because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You had to think fast and you had to think smart. 

There was only one thing that came to mind which might remedy this situation though, and you weren’t so sure it would work. You also weren’t convinced you had the stomach for it, especially after everything else your poor cunt had already endured today, but you at least had to try. You needed to show him you weren’t just saying things to protect his pride but that you really, truly meant it. 

Your heartbeat slams a violent, pounding rhythm against your ribcage as you make your decision on a spur of the moment whim and slowly reach down to grab at the bulk of your housekeeping uniform, lifting the skirt up around your hips. Just that simple act makes your skin crawl, having never exposed yourself to anyone like this before. Not of your own volition, anyway, and you pointedly keep your chin tucked so you won’t have to look at him as you shuffle right back up into the space you just vacated a moment ago. Silent and hopeful as you present your cunt to him in offering. 

At first he just continues to ignore you, the whole of his attention fixed on the birdlike scrawl he scratches out on the sheet of notes. Not for the first time you wonder what he’s working on but say nothing for fear that it would just come out a jumbled mess and further embarrass you when you were already internally withering. 

All you can do now is wait for him to decide whether or not to acknowledge you, whether he would keep you or send you away. But you intrinsically understood that the only way you were going to get through to him was by showing Zandik that you weren’t simply coddling him with empty words. 

And finally, after what feels like many lifetimes has crept by at a glacial pace, he finally brings his attention up with a particularly bothered sigh. Turning towards you at last, he impassively takes in the sight of you standing there with your panties flashed at him, the deeply frazzled look on your face and the death grip you’ve got on the hiked up skirt. 

You’re not sure how you must look to him in that moment — like some tawdry trollop, if you had to take a guess — but he doesn’t move or say anything at all until, eventually, you start to self-consciously squirm under his piercing gaze. 

“And what’s this, now?” He says in a clipped tone of voice, dropping his pen to the desk with a noisy clatter. His eyes remain locked on you, however, not dissimilar to those of a predator staring down a helpless prey animal, and you hope that this is a good sign. Maybe that meant he would actually listen to you now. 

Yet you still can’t quite seem to find your voice, completely choked up by your own self conscious embarrassment, so you make do with simply nudging your pelvis forward to indicate what you want from him. But Zandik just narrows his eyes, glowering at you from behind the single lens of his monocle, as if he expected this to be some cruel, insidious trap. 

“You want me to touch you, is that it? Well? Speak, girl, before I decide to put your mouth to better use than all that inane prattling you’re so prone to. You won’t shut up when I want you to but then you’re as silent as a crypt when I ask you a simple question.” He scoffs a rough sound and then, more gently, adds, “I would have thought you’ve had enough of other people’s hands on you for one day.” 

Nervously biting your lip, you offer up a slow shake of your head. “I - it’s not that, Master Zandik. I just … it felt — better when you did it. So I thought you might want to … finish what you started earlier. That’s all.”

As far as appeals to pride and ego are concerned, it’s not a particularly clever one.   

But something still shifts behind his eyes, something you have no name for and which you were very much unaccustomed to having directed at you. It looked like something akin to a distant flicker of heat though, the curlings of genuine interest making the dulled irises subtly light up from within. 

Is this what it was like to have a man look at you with plainly unbridled lust, you wonder, even as he slowly reaches out for you with a silent gesture. 

Your breath starts to come short again when his bony fingers slip into the space between your thighs, finding the gusset of your panties once more and pressing up into them. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat at the unmistakably dampened quality of the material while you tremble weakly at the contact. 

For a tortuously long moment, Zandik just takes his time petting over you through that thin, flimsy barrier, coaxing your pussy into buzzing for him again. Testing if you were really telling the truth. And you were. His touch was so much more intentional, less impatient, than the Doctor’s, and it nearly bowls you over how quickly your arousal skyrockets back to full force under his watchful eye. 

That probably wasn’t too terribly surprising though, you supposed, given that you’d already been denied the relief of absolution twice now. And yet that was precisely why you were so eager to reposition yourself back into his good graces again. You could have lied to yourself, convinced your heavy conscience that you were only doing this for his sake, to ensure melancholia didn’t take hold of an already sensitive constitution. But that would have been a boldfaced lie. 

In truth it was your cunt urging you on, dictating your choices, and you rattle out a threadbare little moan when he eventually turns in his chair to better face you. 

Using both hands now, Zandik pinches at the corners of your underwear and ever so gently tugs them down your thighs. One inch at a time they drag lower and lower, until the rumpled cotton finally meets the tops of your stockings. They can’t go any further than that with the garterbelt clasps in the way, but that is all he needs. 

Shivering at the molten rush that sweeps over you, pussy hot and swollen, bared fully out in the open like this, you sway almost dizzily there on your feet. “Nngh, Master Zandik … please. Please touch me. J - just like you did before. Please?” 

He faintly clicks his tongue even though he’s already half way through the motion of reaching up between your legs again. But this time his cool digits touch skin and slick pubic hair, applying just a small amount of pressure on your slit to make it part for him. 

Only to immediately draw a sharp little breath. “No wonder your panties felt so wet. You’re positively soaked. I’m sure a nice, hard cock would just slip right in there, wouldn’t it? Is that what you want?  Are you secretly hoping I’ll fuck you here and now, you stupid little girl?” 

Equally aghast at his crass language and running hotter than ever before at the deeply felt response it inspires within your body, you tip your head back to groan up at the ceiling. “Oough. Don’t say that. Please. Don’t even think about it. That’s so … it’s …”

Zandik rumbles a low chuckle at that, more and more of his usual self assured confidence returning to him now as he nudges further up into the fleshy grip of your labia. “What else am I supposed to think about when I’ve got such a fresh, lovely young thing offering herself up to me like this? Even an old man’s cock still works, you know.” 

You can’t help the way you whimper at the thought of it, positively gushing against his worn fingertips when they locate your clit and set in to rub. The glide is perfectly smooth and lubricated, and that delicate pearl simply pulses under his steady attention.  

Your hands shake as you hike your skirt up a bit higher, jutting your pelvis further into that mind numbing source of pressure. It really does feel good, so much better than whatever that selfish Doctor had forced you to endure. This was something else entirely, and it has your vision blurring around the edges while you try to find your bearings and orient yourself again, bracing squarely on your heels. 

It’s an effort in futility though. Just like before, the surging tide of pleasure rushes up to swallow you and it sweeps you off your feet, pulling you under the current. Your head swims and your chest tightens. Knees wobbling faintly in their locked positions. It’s too much and, somehow, not enough at the same time. You could almost sob from how intensely your pussy thrums with the static electricity of your oncoming release, every single nerve ending in you vibrating at a hitherto unheard of frequency. 

And to think, it was all because of a man who was old enough to be your grandfather. 

“Zuh - Zandik! Master, I … ooughh, I’m so — so …!” 

“Then let it go. You’ve already got my fingers soaked, a bit more won’t hurt anything. Don’t over think it. Yes, that’s right. Just keep pressing that sweet little cunt into my hand, now. Just like that.” 

You can do nothing else, in fact, eagerly rolling your hips into the motion now. The building tension within you abruptly doubles, then triples, and you screw your eyes shut when pulsing starbursts flash across your vision to effectively blind you. Letting out a faltering mewl of pleasure, you readily give yourself over fully to that hot, throbbing warmth that emanates out from your core. You can feel everything. The nudge of your pudgy labia moving with his hand. The excess slick that oozes and drips out of you. The fleshy, swollen bud of your clit rolling, rolling, rolling under his fingertips. 

And you finally cum, the thread snapping so suddenly, almost violently, that you jerk in place. A strange keening noise rattles out of you as you shake into your orgasm, pelvis stuttering while he continues to rub, rub, rub. You have no choice but to ride it to completion and you weakly shudder through the spasms, struggling to remain upright and erect. That’s an exceedingly difficult task, however, when it felt like the whole world was being flipped upside down on its head around you. 

Finally wheezing a haggard, utterly spent moan into the static charged air of the quiet library, you abruptly slam back into your own body a small eternity later. The unexpectedness of it staggers you, damn near knocks you on your ass, and you stumble back half a step as if in shock. 

The new distance separates Zandik’s hand from your still squeezing cunt, and he consideringly peers up at you while you try to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Not that you’d allowed it or that the sensation had left you soaring somewhere far outside your own mind high above the stratosphere. It was, in many ways, inconceivable. 

“Oh … oh, blessed mother.” You finally croak, once you’ve managed to find some semblance of your voice again. “That was — interesting, wasn’t it?” 

Zandik barks a sharp, not entirely humorless laugh. “Is that what you call it then? Just interesting?”

Wheezing out a long, grounding exhale, you shoot him a somewhat surreptitious look as you tiredly drop your arms, allowing your skirt to fall back into place. “Were you expecting something else?” 

“Perhaps. I might have liked to hear how utterly amazing it was, or how skillful my technique is.” 

“You just wanted to be praised, didn’t you?” 

“Every man wants to be praised, girl. It would do you well to remember that in the future.” 

You realize then, glancing down at him sitting there, looking like he was quite pleased with himself, that he was having a bit of fun with it. Teasing you in a way you’d never experienced before. Not from him, at any rate, and you allow yourself a soft, thoroughly satiated laugh as you tiredly reach to tug your panties back up. 

“I’ll admit, it was awfully nice. I didn’t know my body could feel like that, especially after … w - well, that’s not really important.” 

“It’s alright.” Zandik tells you, surprisingly soft. “I cannot take back what he did to you while I was incapable of doing anything to stop it, but I can try to make it a little better for you. That was your first orgasm, wasn’t it?” 

The shock of that question must be written across your face in broad sweeping brush strokes, because he gives his head a slow, almost disappointed shake.

“It didn’t occur to me at first that that might be the case. But I figured it out shortly after you held up your dress for me. It just didn’t make sense for anyone who is at all familiar with the erogenous functions of their body to behave the way that you were. As if you wanted it but didn’t know how to ask for it, or even what you should be asking for.” 

Putting his head to one side — one of a few different gestures he seemed to share with the Doctor — Zandik studies you from that new angle for a drawn out moment. 

“Come here, girl. And no tricks this time, I give you my word.” 

Hesitantly heeding his summons, you step up next to his chair again on wobbly legs. A distant note of surprise quickly washes over you when he reaches up to slide his hand along the curve of your waist, pulling you in against him until you realize what he’s doing. You put up a cursory amount of resistance then, insisting again and again that you were too big, too grown, to sit on his lap when he tries to tug you down. But in the end Zandik wins out, his stubbornness exceeding even yours, and you finally let him drag you onto his thigh. 

Your reluctant compliance does absolutely nothing to steady your nerves, though, and you squeak a tiny sound as you come to settle in place against him. “M - Master Zandik? Surely I am much too heavy to be on top of you like this! What will I do if I accidentally hurt you?” 

“Nonsense. You’re much too self conscious for my liking. We’ll have to work on that. But for now,” sighing rather softly, contently, almost, he leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Looking for all the world like he was settling in for a much needed nap. Honestly, you could have used one of those yourself. 

“Just sit and enjoy the quiet for a moment, won’t you? Do some self reflecting on how you feel or meditate, or do nothing at all. I don’t really care either way. Just … be silent with me.” 

You would have jumped at the chance in almost any other situation, under any other circumstances, but a doubtful niggling at the back of your mind makes that nearly impossible. Even in the hazy warmth of afterglow you’re almost too antsy to sit still. Because even despite having never taken part in such activities before, at least not until today, you’d certainly heard whisperings about it. You were not that naive as to have completely missed out on the way both women and men alike often talked about sex. 

It was usually the other way around, wasn’t it? Or at least that had been your impression up til’ now. That men tended to lean towards being selfish and they rarely concerned themselves with the pleasure of their partners. That they were demanding and only sought their own release before rolling over and going to sleep without a second thought to anything else. It was in part why you’d avoided being courted by anyone, for fear of being on the receiving end of such impartial advances. 

And while Zandik certainly looked as if he was starting to doze off, it seemed that this was a bit out of order from how you’d been told it would be. 

Unable to keep your concerns at bay any longer, you give in to the urge and ever so carefully fidget atop his lap. “But, Master … what about you? Should I not be seeing to your needs as well?” 

His eyes do not open but the pale line of his brow does draw in, knitting and deepening the wrinkles on his forehead slightly. “No need for that. Not at the moment, at any rate.” 

You sneak a quick peak down at the front of his pants to briefly study the weakening tent there. It looked like he’d been right, and even an old man’s cock still worked under the right conditions, and the Doctor had been wrong. If you were only brave enough — or stupid enough — you might have liked to rub that in his stupid, smug face. 

“Is this really okay though? Are you sure?” 

“Gods, girl! You don’t know how to just let things rest, do you?” Zandik snaps alert again to turn a narrow eyed scowl your way. Back to his usual grumpy self, it seemed. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were fishing for it. Is that it? Do you actually want me to fuck you sensless, right here and now?” 

He barks a mirthless snort at your startled expression of plain faced shock. 

“As I thought. Then unless you want me to change my mind I’d suggest you learn to let sleeping dogs lie.” Exhaling a deeply ruffled breath, he tips his head back to regard the ceiling as if in deep contemplation. “You’ve already made it clear you have no desire to go that far with me, and I can hardly say I blame you for that. I’m also not physically equipped to make you do something you don’t want to. Not with this old body, at any rate. So I won’t even try.”

“But,” you stubbornly take another jab at it, feeling that you would be remiss if you didn’t at least make an effort to better understand him. It was odd for him to seek out this sort of prolonged physical contact with you anyway, and yet he didn’t want anything from you in return while doing it? That just doesn’t make any sense. “You could just order me to do whatever you want. Why won’t you?” 

Zandik huffs a quiet laugh. “And what would the fun be in that, huh?” 

A strange little flutter starts up in your chest but you’re quick to suppress it, shoving it back down into some vault in the back of your head where you can lock it up and throw away the key. That was a dangerous possibility threatening to open up before you. It wouldn’t do to let this situation spiral any further out of control, if you could help it, especially when you were already toeing the line of indecency like this. 

No. No, you’d have to remain steadfast for as long as you were in the thick of it dealing with this situation. 

As if it had been cued to do so, the grandfather clock along the opposite wall abruptly chimes then, disrupting the resounding quiet with such an earth shattering explosion that you jolt right up out of his lap. 

“Oh!” You blurt, flushing hotly when Zandik sends you a flat look as if to say ‘see? always so damn jumpy’. Like you hadn’t already embarrassed yourself enough for one day. “I - it’s lunchtime already? How time flies! I didn’t even … didn’t even notice how late it was getting. I’ll go start on something right away!” 

Ignoring his very unimpressed frown, you pivot on your heel and hurry over to the window side to grab up the coffee carafe on your way out. You knew he would want a fresh pot to go with whatever luncheon sandwich or savory soup you prepared for him that day, and you were admittedly quite glad for the chance to beat a hasty retreat from this room. It was inexplicably stuffy and fogged with something unspeakable. Something you didn’t even dare to dwell on. 

Stepping up to the little table at the corner of the windowsill, your hand reaches out to loop around the silver handle and you start to turn away. But a suggestion of movement at the edge of your peripheral makes you hesitate, head turning, as you glance out the window and down at the yard below. 

Where you proceed to watch someone unknown to you — a young man, by the looks of it— as he walks away from the side of the house to step around a snow covered bush before he disappears from sight. 

Your hand immediately starts to shake with the terrified tremor that works up your arm, vibrating so badly you almost drop the carafe to an ear splitting crash against the floor. 

He’d had his back to you so you hadn’t gotten a good look at the face, but the hair … 

It had been the exact same, wispy shade of pale blue that Zandik’s and the Doctor’s was.

⭐

“Oh? Why, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” Pantalone’s smooth voice and fake smile and stupidly biased financial approvals drove Sandrone up the wall. You only blinked with a somewhat curious look.

“If it isn’t Sandrone. Ah, and is that Columbina too?” Dottore tilted his head to the other Harbinger, but she was less interested and only addressed them with a smile before heading to her seat. You remained quiet, hands in your lap, and that’s when she noticed Dottore’s hand running down your thigh, and Pantalone was similarly stroking your arm. So she already knew there were going to be even more annoyances during this show.

“Yes. We’re here to see today’s performance,” Sandrone replied, although her gaze was fixated on you, and Dottore picked up on her inquisitive look.

“I believe this is your first time meeting them,” Dottore motioned toward you, and you perked up with a small smile. “This is [Name], our…” He paused, as if wondering how to introduce you. You were his beloved, of course, but telling that to anyone would cause more problems than he wanted to deal with.

“Friend,” Pantalone finished the scholar’s sentence with a smile, faded purple eyes giving you two a certain, mischievous look. A smile curled onto your face due to how obvious it was that his words were probably a lie.

“Yes. We are all dear friends.” You nodded in affirmation while Dottore appeared equally as amused.

“… Oh really?” Sandrone wondered where the pair had even acquired you from, if you were just a toy for them. She wondered if you even knew the situation you were in: two Harbingers, and the most insane ones no less, to both of your sides, but you looked as relaxed as could be.

“Of course. Shouldn’t friends be allowed to have an outing every once in a while? You’re doing the same thing, are you not?” The tone Dottore took with her seemed slightly mocking.

“Naturally.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice, but she wasn’t about to dwell on his conversation anymore or let them get to her in the opera house. “Well then, the performance should be starting soon. I’ll take my leave.” However, her seat was just a bit farther away from where she was standing, much to her dismay. And then, despite her being on the opposite side of the booth with a small gap between you, the Ninth, and the Second and her, she could still hear small whispers flowing from her side.

“Are they going to be next to us the whole time?” You leaned in closer to Pantalone and softly whispered.

“I’m afraid so. Is there a problem, my dear?”

“No… I was just… hoping we could all be alone during this, like last time.” You smiled and shrugged your shoulders before pulling away. Pantalone let out a sigh.

“This is why we shouldn’t let Dottore handle the tickets. I told him to reserve the seats at the very top for more privacy.” Pantalone adjusted his glasses while Dottore clicked his tongue.

“Surely you’re not blaming this on me? It’s already rare enough that people join us up here. How could I anticipate Sandrone of all people would sit next to us?” He crossed his legs, hand still firmly planted on your thigh. “Besides, those seats may be private, but these offer a better view, in my opinion. Isn’t that what’s most important?”

“You’re not wrong. I also like watching from here,” you giggled as Dottore squeezed your thigh with a pleased hum.

“Well, there is nothing wrong with that. However, you could have at least booked all of the surrounding seats as well. Then, our darling would be more comfortable.” Pantalone was always good at talking around Dottore with a smile.

“Oh really, I am comfortable…” You tried pushing your two lovers back as they leaned in closer in front of you with a challenging gaze.

“Alright, Pantalone. Lesson learned.” Dottore relented as you nudged him with your shoulder. Sandrone kept her head facing the front, but from the corner of her eyes, she could see their hands dangling in the center of your lap, all brushing against each other.

“Do they even realize that I’m still here?!” Sandrone muttered under her breath and crossed her arms. She glanced at Columbina, and the Third had already turned her attention to the gallery below, her head and arms resting on the edge of the balcony, as if she was in another world. Either she didn’t hear, or just didn’t care. Sandrone let out a sigh and sank back in her seat. She would probably be the only one being tortured tonight…

—

Sandrone had finally settled in when the performance began. The theater had dimmed, placing most of the attention on the Korolevskiy Troupe, so your figures were slightly darker, thankfully. Unfortunately, from her past experiences, that was not the end of things. Because Dottore and Pantalone liked to talk, and now, you seemed to like to join in. Normally, you wouldn’t be bothering anyone, as you all sat by yourselves with no one near. But even though Sandrone was here, the other two Harbingers didn’t seem to particularly care about her comfort.

“It’s a far cry from how they treat art in Sumeru, isn’t it? The Akademiya would have never let something like this happen.” Dottore tapped his fingers against your leg and leaned in closer to you, a long lock of hair nearly tickling your face. He knew performances like these would be some of your favorite activities from what Snezhnaya had to offer. The Akademiya had suppressed your enjoyment of such things so long ago. That was why he made it a point to take you out to see them whenever you were feeling well enough.

“It is amazing. The stories they tell through songs are fascinating,” you marveled in agreement as there was a small break in the performance.

“They are, indeed. It’s no wonder the opera house is fully booked whenever the Troupe is performing.” Pantalone rubbed circles in the palm of your hand. “And all of the performances always have something worth dissecting.” Sandrone was well aware of that, because she had to constantly listen to them talk. “Even the most classic of plots, a love story, presents the basic question of how far you’re willing to go for that feeling in a compelling manner.”

“Then, do you have an answer to that question?”

“Of course. I imagine mine would be fairly similar to Dottore’s. But I would certainly be more smart about it than these characters in the story.” Dottore let out a sound of agreement.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

“Won’t it be more interesting to wait and see the answer if that day comes?” Pantalone only gave you a closed-eyed smile as you rolled your eyes. But in reality, you already had a hunch, if it was anything similar to Dottore’s.

In the meantime, Sandrone rested her head in her palm tiredly, exhausted from sneaking glances of the three of you cuddling just across from her, while Columbina was zoned in on the performance.

—

Eventually, Sandrone managed to block the others out and properly focus on the opera. Well, for the most part. Dottore seemed keen on explaining what was happening while Pantalone kept poking in with his own thoughts or interpretations. Alright. Fine. Whatever. She could deal with it for a while longer.

But then the noises got a bit… stranger. You let out a sigh that was just a bit too high to be normal. Still, she ignored it. Perhaps that was a good thing, because otherwise she would have seen Pantalone shamelessly kissing you.

“D-Dottore, tell ‘Lone that the others are right over there!” You whispered-yelled, but it was largely muffled by the banker’s lips on yours. You were used to this behavior, but it was more embarrassing when others were sitting a distance away from you, even in the dark.

“I find his aptitude for taking risks quite thrilling. It might even draw my attention away from the performance.” Dottore’s tone was amused, and although he still looked at the stage, he was partially devoting some attention to you and Pantalone, his hand squeezing your waist.

“Hey… you can’t touch me there…” You softly whined as Pantalone’s hand ran over some spot of yours. It was then Sandrone balled her hands into her dress as she avoided looking to her side at all costs. In reality, it was just Pantalone’s cold rings gliding across your tummy to caress your softness, but here she was having to listen to his.

“Fine then,” you grumbled, embracing the warmth creeping up your body. You splayed your hand across Dottore’s chest, and he hissed as you looped your finger through the hole on his harness and pulled him closer. Pantalone seemed entertained at the sight as you turned to kiss Dottore now, cooing something in your ear, goading you two on.

Sandrone plugged her ears with her fingers after that. Opera be damned, she wasn’t about to sit through any of that any longer.

—

The opera had finished, the lights brightened, and people were beginning to shuffle out of the theater. You, Dottore, and Pantalone all looked quite relaxed and pleased. Sandrone could not feel more irritated.

“That was really good. Thank you both for taking and companying me.” All three of you had put on your coats, standing up to take your leave.

“It was our pleasure, darling.” Pantalone rested his hand on your back while Dottore insisted on wrapping a scarf around you, despite your protest.

“When can we come again?” You questioned as Dottore took your hand and guided you out of the booth.

“I believe they’re doing performances every week this month. Perhaps we can catch another one soon, depending on our schedules.” You squeezed the scholar’s hand in gratitude. “But for now, let us head back. I’m sure you need to rest.”

“Yes, that would be nice. And I think I need some more leisure time with my two best ‘friends.’ Don’t you two agree?” The chuckles from the other two men were all you needed to hear.

“It looks like they had a good time, Sandrone.” Columbina nodded towards the three leaving figures. “I did too. What about you?” Sandrone was still sat in her seat, eyes closed. “Hmm? What’s wrong, Sandrone? Did the opera make you sad again?” The Seventh groaned while the other lady remained oblivious.

Sandrone was not going to think about this ever again, for her own good. And she’s learned her lesson - she’s never, ever sitting next to any of you again, too.