#dottore angst

Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly. 

“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”

“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.

“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”

“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.

“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.

“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.

“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.

“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.

The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk. 

“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”

For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.

“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”

“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.

“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?” 

And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.

“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.

“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.

Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.

—

One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.

“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.

“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”

He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.

“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…

“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.

Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.

“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.

Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.

—

Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.

“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.

“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.

“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.

“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.

“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.

“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true. 

—

The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.

You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.

All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.

“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.

“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing? 

“But why?”

“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”

“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.

“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.

“A-And what does he say?”

“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.

“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do? 

“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.

“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.

You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…

“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.

“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.

“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?

“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.

The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.

You were truly a warm person.

His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.

The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.

He hoped you’d stay with him forever…

“Long day?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm—haah! I’m close!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How strange.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, one exception was when knelt before Her Majesty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Basically, a losing situation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What they required was reassurance—not bribes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She absentmindedly nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But money wasn’t convincing the Guild.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To efficiency.” You repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

“. . . What of him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a first. Was he sick? 

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

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

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

Both emotionally and sexually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take up on that offer.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t mind visiting in the near future.

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

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

The banquet. You almost forgot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve monopolized my colleague long enough.”

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

How did he get here so quickly?

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

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

“Oh, hello. We were merely—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The absolute audacity of him.

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

“Then beg, Zandik.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Count.”

A brief silence.

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

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

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

“T-Two.” You stammered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“D-Dottore! Yes—haah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially not when it hid anger.

“I-I can explain!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the last you heard of The Doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he out of his mind?

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

“Lay him here.” You instructed. 

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

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

Silence. Pitch black.

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

“Prevaricator.” That familiar voice. Dottore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

False. Moon Marrow.

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

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

“You . . You stole my research?”

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

This was never what you intended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The impact rang across the expansive space.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“██  █████!?”

“█ ██ ██!”

“L█  █va██tor!”

“Lady Prevaricator!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Threat—Dottore, neutralised. Sandrone, perished.

Two Harbingers, dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightened. Dottore . . ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Segment? I do not seem to follow?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something inside your chest stuttered. 

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

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

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

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

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

“A death wish, then?” 

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

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

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

“You’re changing the topic.”

“And you haven’t answered my question.”

“I am of no obligation to do so.”

“Then, I will take that as a ‘Yes’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, that was what it all meant.

Silence stretched briefly before you took his hand in yours.

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

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

—

Neither can you answer his question, despite the fact it’s not that long since the scholar started to acknowledge your presence beyond barked orders and suspicious glances. Actually, you think that him telling you to straighten up must’ve been one of the first things he told you.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper. The lab is quiet, as it often is in the early morning. You could hear a pin drop, but all you hear is your own breathing.

His hands move. Your body threatens to move away, as if your back and his hands were the same poles of a magnet. You’ve never been stabbed but somehow you expect to be now.

Instead, his hands come back down from hovering over your shoulders, slowly, and instead, tentatively, give the tense muscles a slight squeeze. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound. It soon turns impossible.

“Look at you,” the doctor scoffs, “This is all your fault.”

He kneads your shoulders with surprising care and not so unexpected efficiency. Despite it being painful, you’re aware it is simply the inevitable result of allowing your body to get this bad, not because he’s trying to make his touch painful.

His thumbs run along the column of your cervical spine and you hiss in pain, gripping the edge of the desk tightly.

“You need to relax,” he hisses, “It wouldn’t be this painful if you listened to me.”

You know, you truly do know. Although you did not expect for his words to be anything beyond common courtesy. He didn’t exactly seem like the type to show much care - though you can’t blame him. Your presence here was forced upon him, after all. 

His fingers dig deep into your tissue, he doesn’t seem to mind the embarrassing grunts and whimpers occasionally slipping past your lips. It feels strange. Uncomfortable even, or at least you’d say so if the relief didn’t feel so good. Your muscles give into his demands, all the knots easing under his fingers. 

Still, his movements are rough. His gloves do not make for easy glide, but it’s much better than nothing - an emergency intervention before you would be rendered unusable. You hope Dottore doesn’t realize how severe your condition was, and at the same time you doubt he wouldn’t. 

“Stay here,” he growls, and then his hands are gone.

You feel colder without his body hovering behind yours and his touch on your shoulders that feel like the weight of the world was lifted off them. You almost feel like you could fly. Carefully, you try twisting your neck slightly and feel no pain, no daggers stabbing into the back of your skull.

“Who told you to do that?” 

You jump hearing his voice so close again. He walks with unnatural silence, you missed his approach both times today. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

One of his hands rests at the crook of your neck with more force than before, as if pinning you in place. In the next moment it becomes clear that that was indeed the point as you feel a needle prick the back of your neck, easily injecting something into your abused muscles.

“What-”

“It’s just a relaxant,” he informs you, “Nothing to be scared of.”

Well, you are scared nonetheless. His reputation does precede him, after all.

“You’ve been helpful in eliminating the most basic of tasks,” he continues, “Consider this a show of gratitude.”

You wish you could but your mind stutters trying to comprehend that what he had you do he considered basic or that he could sound so bored just mentioning it. You thank him nonetheless.

And as soon as the injection is done and the puncture wound is patched, a list of tasks for today is laid in front of you. Dottore himself leaves to start with his own part of the work waiting to be done.

it's difficult to say where it started, and equally as difficult to say when it would end. you thought you were done with it- that you were on the path towards healing, where the strips of discoloration would finally dissipate with time.

but all it took was a build-up of stress, misfortune with your line of work, and a glimmering scalpel that the doctor would surely not miss with the variety he possessed. each identical and equally as disposable- forgettable. surely your partner would not fuss too much over a tool that he barely used, having been left in the same exact place for weeks on end. he was already so busy, something as negligible as that was sure to be the last thing to suddenly pop up into his mind.

not quite.

pulling down your sleeves for good measure, you made your way down to the labs where dottore had spent most of his time, a wave of nausea hitting you which wasn't quite associated with the pungent scent of antiseptic. you'd gotten used to that, after all, this was.. more so the familiar prickle of stress, having etched itself almost beyond coverage on your face no matter how much foundation you had used to even out some of the discoloration.

archons, you shouldn't be here. you had so many deadlines, and you most certainly did not deserve to see your partner- who was always so diligent and timely with his work, never once needing to concern himself with making due dates or accomplishing the impossible. not only that, but you had stolen the last time you had visited, and had broken through the layers of your skin since that fateful die- reopening old scars and sketching new ones.

if anything, this was the very last place that you should have been allowed in. but alas, he had summoned your presence, and it felt wrong to ignore him when he had taken the time to reach out to you- to remember your existence despite his cluttered schedule.

stepping in when the doors parted with a soft hiss, your eyes found that familiar head of seafoam curls with practiced ease- having always been your beacon amidst fatui related gatherings whenever you needed stability through the occasionally chaotic festivities. he looked as pristine as ever, not a hair out of place, with an aura of calm surrounding him while he worked.

sometimes it instilled a seedling of jealousy in the pit of your stomach, and you hated that it did. your lover was a genius by all accounts, having spent centuries educating and familiarizing himself with all types of knowledge and procedures. he was in every right to be able to have such immense focus and tranquility with his work ethic.

"you asked for me, doctor?"

said man let out a low hum, not quite dropping his pen as yet, though the scrawling came to an eventual slow. "'zandik' is fine, my dear, it's just the two of us here." he corrected softly, swiveling in his seat before rising from his place to approach you. "have you been well?"

black-azure leather came up to cradle your cheek gently, angling your face to press a soft peck over dry appendages. maybe you should have drank some water beforehand or applied chapstick, knowing full well how unforgiving the climate could be to one's complexion. you'd scolded yourself plenty over this, wanting to look your best for your lover.. but with periods like these, it became progressively harder to remember, let alone care enough for upkeep outside the bare minimum.

honestly, you wondered why he even bothered with you anymore. everyday you asked yourself when he would finally see you for the pathetic thing that you were, unable to manage yourself without breaking down, but he stuck around. for whatever reasons, he just- stayed.

it was a shame, really.. he deserved someone more worthy.

"i'm okay," you answered as though it were second nature already to lie about your mental health, willing your lips to lift by the corners. "just a little stressed, is all." that should do it; not too vague to raise suspicion, and not too revealing either. "how have you been, zandik?"

curls the color of a pale ocean color spilled with the tilt of his head, another contemplative noise leaving him. "i see they're working you to the bone, my dear.. poor thing," he cooed out a little, rubbing circles with his thumb against your cheek- just about bordering where you had caked your eyebags earlier this morning.

it almost had you stiffening, and you could only pray that your fear hadn't reached your eyes. your partner was perceptive, frighteningly so. not much got past him, apart from.. the trinket you had taken from this very lab.. that was full with many others- plenty to dress your skin up with crimson.

you tried to push down the growing thoughts, willing yourself to nod. "j-just another day in snezhnaya, right?" it was a poor attempt at lightening the atmosphere, but the doctor didn't seem quite as entertained with it.

"i suppose so," he returned after a moment, lowering his hand to place behind his back. "well in any case, i've been well- even more so now that you have graced me with your esteemed presence." he followed up with a low chuckle, ornamental mantel whipping behind him as he approached his desk, fingers dragging slowly over the tidy surface.

that felt almost relieving to hear, seeing as you hadn't been able to talk or visit him like you normally would. it made you feel like you were still somewhat important to him- that your existence was acknowledged and something noteworthy. a footnote to be added to his day to day, which was more than many got out of the second harbinger in particular.

"although," he began again, stilling his digits. "i seem to have misplaced a scalpel of mine, so that was boggling my mind a considerable amount when i was intending to use it for a procedure."

and just like that, the blood was drowning out of you- color leaving your face as your body froze.

he knew, didn't he? of course he knew- how dare you underestimate and insult his intelligence with mere assumptions that he would not pick up on even the most insignificant object when he bothered acknowledging your existence of all things.

reaching to grip your forearm despite the way it screamed in protest, you forced out a laugh, laced with a mirth so false, it couldn't even belong or make a mediocre production.

archons, let one of his creations strike you down right now and just save you the humiliation of confessing your crimes to him. "r-really? should i help you search for it?" perhaps you could return it as though it had never disappeared to begin with while he was asleep, and laugh this off by the next morning as a joke of some kind.

oh were you naive.

"i don't believe much of a search is in order, truthfully. in fact, i think i might have found it." he admitted, taking careful strides after turning to face you once more.

and as if he had done something to lock you into place, or you just couldn't find enough time to get your wrist out of the way, it was captured with careful precision before worn fabric was being pulled back in one fell swipe.

shame stained your features as you looked down in horror, but not so much at what was there. you knew that already, had already woken up and gone to bed everyday with the shame of what you had done to yourself, but dottore? he hadn't known any of that.

or at least, you were led to believe that he didn't.

"hm, as i hypothesized." he spoke up, brushing his thumb over one of the fresher scars, which you couldn't help but wince at. "i know well how my tools cut, dear. and the last time i saw it was during a recent visit of yours."

he knew. he had known all along, hadn't he?

unable to quite stop your dampening eyes, tears collected at the corners of your eyes before you lowered your head in shame, shoulders shaking with a silent sob. what could you say? that you were at your worst that week and that the glinting object had beckoned you over like a flame would a moth with an offer of sickening salvation?

"i'm sorry- i.. it was there, you were in an extension of the lab.. and i know a bad day is not enough of an excuse- it really isn't, but i just.." you sniffled, lowering yourself to your knees despite your wrist still being captured in the hand of your beloved. "i couldn't help it when i saw it laying there — i-imploring me..”

at your choked words, the harbinger found himself following you to the floor not very long after, opting for silence while your woes had spilled out involuntarily.

somewhere along the way, when you had gone into it about your dreadful existence- struggling to get out the fact that you had wanted your life to end, he pulled your body into his by your arm.

it took you by surprise, teary eyes widening as dark feathers brushed your skin as antiseptic mixed with something recognizably forest-like greeted your senses. it was familiar, intense as it was attractive. ultimately, you slumped against him, feeling the weight of all your troubles seep out with each apology that tumbled past your lips.

and all through it, instead of telling you to shut up or cease the repetition of a phrase that would not undo what you did, dottore merely ran a soothing hand over your back, opting for being the presence that you needed in that moment. reassurances, discussion and medical attention could come after you calmed down, and perhaps a firm warning against taking his tools- certainly if they were being used on yourself.

for now, you just needed to be held while you let everything out, and although he'd never had something like this or needed to perform such an act.. it was what would do you good. "that's it. just let it all out for me, my dear."

notes. i don’t think i’ve written much with the involvement of sh scars so i hope i depicted this okay! once again, pls look after yourself and even if you feel compelled to act on these kinds of urges, just- think it over. twice at least, or a few times, just consider what you are doing & really weigh it out before acting.

tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3