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rockingbytheseaside · 4 months ago

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Hiii I really love the one with the harbingers where reader calls them words of endearment from their homeland, can you do one where reader cooks for them food from their homeland? pantalone's part was so cute <33

✦ You cook them their favorite home meal, based on their homeland

(Or trying to guess what food the not-yet-playable characters might like based on their region, culture, or language. )

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

✧ It is to no one’s surprise that Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, would easily drop everything to grant your needs. Just blink and the world’s spoils are at your feet, bestowed by your beloved. Expensive clothing, jewelry, art pieces, weaponry, or lavish dishes. With his money and status, plus being a connoisseur of the ancient lores of Teyvat, The Jester can easily acquire anything you require on a silver platter.

But this time, it was you who tried to gift him something on a silver platter.

On an unsuspecting day, Pierro returned home only to be greeted with a strong scent of baked goods. The smell wafted all around the living quarters, warm and sugary. Glancing curiously, the Jester marched to the kitchen, where he found you grumbling to yourself. You stood with your oven mittens, a tray of voluptuous Kanelbullar presented in front of him; some were cut as you tried to take an analytical bite of the cinnamon rolls.

“Trying your hands at familiar recipes, my cherished?” - The man asked with a welcoming glance while you mulled and judged the taste of your cooked goods.

“Ah, Pierro, you’re right on time. Here, try this one for me. Does it resemble traditional cinnamon rolls?”

When the Jester took a bite, even his icy eye widened for a moment. A wave of nostalgia and warmth lanced his memories, ones he thought were long forgotten. The cinnamon rolls you baked were not the average confectionaries one could easily purchase, as the taste resembled traditional Khaenri’ahn Kanelbullar. A simple treat that all children and adults used to enjoy in their free time.

“Well…? Oh no, don’t tell me it’s that bad?” - you awaited his response, but Pierro quickly shook his head.

“It’s rich and potent in taste, but not too sugary. Just like the ones in our Homeland… I didn’t think replicating such intricacies was possible. What did you add this time?”

Your eyes light up. Finally, some progress. “Really? I’ve been mulling over it for hours, I thought my taste pallet was going numb. I tried to find any local ingredients that might add the flavor of saffron and cardamon.”

“Like the golden Saffron…? They were a local specialty back in Khaenri’ah. Although some variants exist in Teyvat’s soil, they are not used as cooking ingredients here.” - Pierro pondered, amazed at your ability to combine other local spices to imitate the taste of the past.

As both of you mulled over how to achieve the most accurate results for these traditional Cinnamon Rolls, half of the tray was already gone.

“Although now that I think about it, my divine, I don’t think it would be an issue to send an expedition to obtain that rare spice for you. Especially if the result is such exquisite home pastry.”

✧ In this house, Il Capitano is the master chef. The man is proficient in the art of survival, thus, his skills in outdoor cooking are especially shown. From simple meat and vegetables, the Captain can come up with the best meat skewers you ever ate. Not to mention the topic of sustenance and growth is intertwined with a good diet. A man his size and capabilities puts immense care into outdoor survival and health.

But even a strong Captain deserves some spoiling for his hard work.

After a wearying day spent honing the skills of his Fatui troops, a group of soldiers that will prepare for an upcoming expedition, Il Capitano was greeted with a surprise visit from you. You arrived right on time for their break, and as always, the Fatui soldiers couldn't help but eavesdrop on the Harbinger’s exchange with his beloved…

“I brought you your meal for today, Bife de chorizo. You need lots of protein.”

“Thank you.” - The Captain stood obediently, holding the lunchbox you brought.

“With Pico de Gallo and avocados. I also put some almonds and walnuts as a snack.”

“I understand.”

“You are preparing for another important expedition. You must take care of your body after such intensive training, Cappy.”

“You are right, you are right.”

“And I don’t want to see anything left from the lunch boxes. Make sure to eat all of it, okay?”

“Understood!”

It sure was a sight. One would think the Harbinger was the student as he stood nodding vehemently while you scolded him. With one hand on your hip, you gave him an earful as you checked up on him, generously providing him a full-course meal neatly packed in a mealbox.

The Fatui soldiers were slightly jealous. Even they could easily tell that behind that pitch-black helmet, Il Capitano was absolutely joyous to have his beloved visit him and provide such mouthwatering nourishment.

✧ Today, you were ready to tackle and kill Il Dottore. Why? Because that man barged into your kitchen and confidently announced himself as the culinarian for today’s dinner. A simple and kind gesture, right? You would rather starve than have The Doctor implode your kitchen again.

“Stop exaggerating as if I let your Serenitea Pot house crumble. It was just a little fire.” - Dottore defended himself, watching closely as you made him stand back from the stove.

“I had to replace the whole walls, Zandik!”

The two of you stood in the kitchen, with the Harbinger peeking from behind your shoulders as you claimed dominion over the frying pan. The whole day, he was made watching you prepare Sumeru Kibbeh meatballs, since the last time he decided to dabble in the art of cooking, your house was put at stake.

He was a scholar, not a chef, unfortunately. But The Doctor is not ashamed to admit his impatience and lack of skill in the kitchen. Hence, he helped you as much as he could while you diligently taught him how Kibbeh is properly made. He remained silent but pleasantly subservient. The sight of your sleeves raised, hands tactfully molding the Kibbeh was oddly amiable. Especially when your face was so focused on the task, he couldn’t help but stare.

Yet every time you fried the meatballs and set them aside on a pan lined with paper towels to drain, a sneaky hand would try to steal some. You’d slap his hand away.

“Nope. Hands off! Wait till dinner”

“They’ll end up being consumed anyway. I’ll just have a small tas-”

Slap!

And it continued for a long while, all the way to the end once you finished cooking. When the two of you finally sat down and began eating, Dottore would often remain silent. You were too busy relishing the dish, unaware of the Harbinger’s appreciation for your home-cooked meal. Sustenance is just a waste of time that the human body must go through to gain its energy. But it’s not the same when he is sitting with you casually, the warm afternoon sunlight wrapping the dining table, and the warm food steaming with an appetizing aroma.

For him, eating with you was different. It was simple, but it was home.

✧ Scaramouche may huff and scoff all he wants, but when it comes to appraising your Unagi Chazuke, no master can compete with you. Perhaps because he is a puppet, but Scaramouche has a delicate pallet. He despises strong flavors and always preferred simpler dishes, to appreciate the unique flavor of a singular ingredient. He would never admit it vocally, but he would often crave your chazukes, and it was easily written on his grumbling face.

“Come on, just say it.”

The Balladeer lamented.

“Say it. My home cooking is the best, and you just want me to cook for you today.”

“...I won’t. I don’t have use in consuming any human meals.” - he mumbled in response, arms crossed. You sighed and with a wide smile, you turned away.

“Oh well. Guess you don’t want any, huh…? And here I thought I could prepare your favorite Unagi Chazuke today. But I guess it’s foolish-”

“No, Wait-!” - The Harbinger wished to bite his tongue but it was too late. He already called out to you in a moment of weakness, and your goofy grin only widened with his desperation.

He gave up. With reluctant embarrassment, the Balladeer admitted your victory - “If you may… Can you prepare another one of your signature Chazuke? Please.”

And that’s how you two ended up by the dinner table. You couldn’t just deny him after such a heartfelt request. You prepared the unagi meat and rice diligently, showing him how to prepare green tea to add mild bitterness to the salted rice. Topping off with some dried Nori leaves, and sesame - two bows of Unagi Chazuke were ready and looking artistically grandiose.

Light and sublime, that’s what Scaramouche thought. A true definition of soul food, as he held his bowl and chopsticks close. A rare but sincere smile would always grace his features whenever he ate your cooking, but he of course would conceal it by clearing his throat.

“Hm, okay fine. Maybe your cooking is adequate after all. Especially when you don’t make it too sweet.”

You’d laugh at his reaction. At the end of the day, it was you who taught him how to cook what later would become his signature dish, even if his identity as a Harbinger was wiped away.

✧ Being the richest man in Teyvat like Pantalone means dealing with lots of bureaucracies and business. Sometimes, after a prolonged day in the office, the sight of stacked papers becomes dreadful and negotiations with the Snezhnayan elites may go fruitless. Thus, The Regrator would often slum by his desk, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and sigh in exhaustion.

Now what would the richest man in Teyvat do to relax after a bad day at work? Go to the most expensive five-star restaurant? Perhaps purchase a fancy drink that costs more than his subordinates' monthly salary? No. He would head straight back home, where he knows you are awaiting him with open arms.

A single look at him and you would know he is fatigued. Leaning up to embrace him, you plant a tender kiss on his cheek - “How about I make us a quick snack, hm? You can go and take a shower in the meantime.”

Pantalone would try to conjure up a faint smile and nod. As he winds down for the day, subconsciously he knows your home cooking is like a balm to his soul. No matter how many exquisite restaurants he tried, he’d easily sacrifice all of them for a bite-full of your culinary.

And here you are, merrily handing him his childhood favorite - Mora Meat Roujiamo. A simple meat sandwich, but a staple street food in Liyue’s culture. That’s all the Harbinger desires after a tough day at work, as he gobbles the sandwich wrapped with a paper towel.

“Made your favorites. I added some extra meat since I know you like it juicy.” - you gave Pantalone soothing pats on the back as he ate up.

“You’re a lifesaver, honey. You would not believe how frustrating work has been today,”

Pantalone would rant and confide in you about his work. He would rather do that than delve into the nostalgic feeling that Mora Meat sandwiches gave him. It was indeed his childhood favorite. Yet it also reminded him how in the distant past, when food or money was scarce, starvation and desperation were his only companions as a lowly child. Thus, on better days when he acquired some change just to purchase simple Mora Meat - these sandwiches felt like a king’s feast.

Such an unadorned dish, but one that brought warmth and sustenance to a starved child, telling him that everything would be okay. Today, this starved child is the richest man in Snezhnayan. Nevertheless, he still relished these sandwiches from your hands like divine wealth, telling himself once more that everything would be okay.

✧ Tartaglia was bedbound for some while, bandaged heavily after a massive battle he faced during one of his missions. The young Harbinger would never tell his family where his scars hail from, except for you and his father maybe. But after an earful of scolding, you took care of your reckless boyfriend and sighed.

“You made me worried, you know. I don’t want to see you move a muscle around the house these days, are we clear? You must recover first.”

“Y-yes, captain.” - Childe chuckled humorously, suppressing the soreness his cuts provided around his body. “It’s just… there is only one remedy that could save a fallen soldier like me.”

“Hm? What is it? Do you need something, Ajax?”

“Please, dear… come closer.” - he said with a pained expression.

You did so he could whisper to you what he wanted. Your concern was only heightened, oblivious that his dramatic words were playing you - “The secret to my healing… is…”

“Yes?” - you leaned even closer.

“... Some yummy food.”

You blinked at him, and Tartaglia immediately gained a comically “passed out” expression on his face, as if your cooking were his last death wish. You let him plop to the pillow and gritted your teeth - “Why you little-...! Ugh, you’re lucky I am worried about you. You just want me to pamper you.”

“Oh, come on, is that such an unrealistic request? You told me not to move a muscle and I would receive your scolding no matter what. Please, sweetheart, just anything you would like - cook it and I would happily gobble it up!”

You crossed your arms. You hate to admit it, but his puppy eyes were working effectively and if his appetite was returning, that means he is on a good path of recovery anyway.

“Fine… I’ll make something nutritious and easy for your stomach.”

Tartaglia's eyes lightened up in an instant. He was a simple man - if you cooked him something, he would drop on his knees for you instantly. That day, you pondered whether you’d make him some Piroshki or Borscht, but he needed something light. His health was your priority, after all. Even though Childe fancied himself a master at concealing his painful whinces, you are no fool. You always notice them.

Thus, your beloved was presented with Ukha fish soup. A warm bowl with fresh herbs, imported calla lily, and nutritious fish.

“Easy now, I know you like Calla Lily Seafood Soup, since you often had it in Liyue… So I decided to go with the local version of it. Now make sure to eat all of it, or you won’t feel better.”

Like an obedient child, Ajax felt pampered and delighted. Lunch by the bed? His sweetheart feeding him? The injuries were worth it as he happily ate the Ukha fish soup.

“If getting injured makes me taste food more worthy than the gods themselves, maybe I should get wounded more often, haha- Ow!”

Your response was another fistful nudge to his shoulder.

Kanelbullar - in Swedish, Cinnamon Rolls Bife de chorizo - in Spanish, Argentinian beef cut Pico de Gallo - in Spanish, Mexican salsa/dip Kibbeh - in Arabic, bulgur parcel stuffed with minced meat filling (in Genshin, they just called it meatballs lol) Chazuke - in Japanese, green tea poured over a rice meal (Scara's signature dish) Mora Meat - had to look this one up, apparently Genshin is referencing RouJiaMo (肉夹馍) meaning “meat in a bun". Ukha fish soup - in Russian, also known as fisherman’s soup. Childe’s signature Calla Lily Seafood Soup is probably a variation made with Gēng found in Chinese cuisine. But there is a Slavic variation that reminded me of his signature dish.

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dreamerdeity · 1 month ago

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𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐄 ('𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄)

*ೃ𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Il Dottore x Fem. Reader

*ೃ𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.2k

*ೃ𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Sleep deprived, overworked, a report requested by your Lord Harbinger. Just place it on his desk and leave–or take a nap on his luxurious leather couch before you do. What could go wrong? Well, a lot, apparently.

*ೃ𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: DARK CONTENT!!! Dead dove: do not eat. Somnophilia, non-con like straight up r*pe, subordinate x superior, scary delusional rationalizer-dottore, p in v, fingering (f. receiving), creampie, dottore thinks he's actually a nice guy, dottore is in fact just a creepy guy, dottore acts like a silly (like a psychopath), 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! others, please proceed at your own risk!

*ೃ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: Hi lovelies! I meant to post this yesterday but had some things to take care of so didn't get around to it. This is a request part of @ficsforgaza 's kinktober event. DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE WARNINGS!! If my shit gets flagged one more time I'm going to kms. anyway, I hope you all enjoy dottore being a literal psychopath. byee :3

KEIRA'S FUNDRAISING EVENT 🍉

You walk through the east wing of the Sumeruan Fatui Research Facility, your eyes heavy and your senses numb from lack of sleep. The only sound that rings through your ears is the faint clicking of your shoes against the rubber flooring.

The strong scent of antiseptic has always fared excellently in keeping you awake, and you thank the archons for its potent presence in this sterilized hallway as your eyes scan over the various signs plastered on the walls. Il Dottore, Il Dottore, Il Dottore. What turn should you take? What sign bears the arrow to his private laboratory? Frankly, if it were up to you, you would've shoved the responsibility of delivering this report to Lord Dottore onto Mikhael, but he feared the harbinger even more than you did, so here you were, left to take one for the team while sleep deprived, cranky, nervous, and somewhat afraid all at once.

It was a bit of a long walk–marked by frustrated sighs and irritated mutters of disapproval at your own dull sense of direction–to Dottore's personal lab, and you weren't even sure he would be there. He's always been the most eccentric of the harbingers, which is then, relatively, extremely eccentric, and his work hours never conformed to normal people's. You round a corner and turn one last left, before a large fortified iron door faces you ever so imposingly, a towering frame that stands a solid ten feet above you, and you sigh in relief. "Il Dottore" painted in bright white slashes across the door, and you hesitantly stretch your hand out–to knock... or maybe to open the imposing slab of metal. A second passes, and as it turns out, you don't have to choose, because the door slides open automatically, a faint mechanical whirr resounding throughout the premises.

You stride in quickly. A sickeningly sweet scent permeates the air around you, the fragrance wafting off the incense sticks burning at the harbinger's desk. You fleetingly wonder how on earth he could stand the oppressively strong smell, but that doesn't matter right now. Dottore isn't here, you have the report in your hand, tucked neatly into a blue folder (Dottore insisted all papers delivered to him must be so in blue folders only. Not green, not yellow. Blue). All you had to do was set it on your Lord Harbinger's desk and get the hell out of here before he returned. Otherwise, you'll be stuck with intense heart palpitations as he questions you about one thing or the other, or goes on a philosophical rant that you didn't ask to hear while laughing manically as his terrifyingly sharp fangs glint under the white light. Yup, no way. So, you set the folder onto the pristine oak desk, eyes still heavy and head pounding from your lack of sleep.

A soft breath of relief furls past your lips as soon as the folder hits the desk, and then, you try to turn on your heel and get out of here. Keyword: try, because just as you resign yourself to leaving, your gaze strays to the long, plush, brown leather sofa seated at the corner of the office-meets-laboratory. Fuck, that looks comfortable–no, what in the world were you thinking?! Get out, you mentally scream at yourself.

Yet, the more logical part of your brain has shut down, and a tired sigh leaves you as you stumble over to the couch. Just a second. You're so, so sleepy. Just a second and then you'll leave, you think, and plop onto the cushions. Your mind is blank, and your limbs feel like they're weighed down by lead. You blink slowly, your body sinks into the soft leather. This sofa must have cost your entire annual salary, what with how comfortable it is. A faint moan bubbles up your throat at the feeling of being engulfed in softness like this, and your eyelids droop. Before you can register, you're slipping away, into the inescapable depths of sleep.

Out like a light.

It could've been 10 minutes, it could've been an hour, or it could've been all day, but at some point, your name is called, and you're too deep into the recesses of unconsciousness to process it as a word. All it manifests as is a distant voice spinning around your head.

Dottore had trudged into his lab after a rather exhausting day of fieldwork, of examining poisonous flower samples on the outskirts of Avidya Forest with the diligence of the... scientist he was. The deep velvet of his voice uttered your name, and when he received no response, he hummed to himself. He continues to stand over you now, gazing down with the eyes of a predator and the smile of a fox

"Didn't see you there," he mutters to himself more than anything, because, from the looks of it, you're in slumber. His eyes observe the scene before him. The way your chest rises and falls rhythmically, the way your rosy lips are parted just a bit, and the way the moonlight filtering in through the windows catches on the curve of your cheekbones. The inviting sight before him has him licking his lips and adjusting the collar of his coat.

"How lovely..."

The inviting sight, because yes, that's what it was, you were inviting him to indulge, weren't you? Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, asleep on his couch, in his space, blouse unbuttoned once or twice at the top. You know what you're doing, aren't you? He's not the bad guy for just... taking the hint, if you will. His hands twitch at his sides, and his smile widens. You're sleeping, and if you saw the terrifyingly sinister grin on his face right now, you would've thanked the archons for sparing you its sight by letting it stretch upon his lips now that you are asleep, unable to see it.

As though he were debating whether to go about whatever evil he was about to, he crosses his arms over his chest, gaze locked on your form and brow furrowed in thought. He wasn't thinking about the depravity of his potential actions and the psychological harm they may cause you later on. No, no. He didn't have a conscience loud enough for that kind of thought to grace his mind. He was simply thinking about the logical implications. It was... unprofessional–to say the least–to grope your subordinates in their sleep, and should word get out about it, the Second Harbinger will never hear the end of it–especially not from Pantalone. It could jeopardize his relationship with all the investors who fund his research. It could also get him in a pickle with Arlecchino, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with that crazy woman for at least the next century.

But it was dark outside. You were asleep, and he had the whole night to himself. It wasn't his fault, and if you were to awaken, well, it's not like you were going to tell. Oh, he'll make sure of that.

His decision is made, and without a single thread of doubt left in his mind, he crouches by your side, eyes locked on your slumbering face. The smile that stretches along his lips is one reserved for moments like these, for moments when he silently observes the unconscious features of those that fall into his predacious hands. There was always something about unconsciousness that stirred something in him. He was fascinated by the human brain, but he was also fascinated by the unadulterated powerlessness of an unconscious human. It gave him a power trip of sorts, knowing he was the lion and the slumbering were the deer. He chuckles to himself as his eyes fall upon the trail of drool at the corner of your lips, a sound so quiet and smooth that it could have melted butter.

"Don't worry, agent. I'll be... gentle," his words are spoken softly, yet they hold the same venom that his actions always do. They're meant for the both of you. "I won't hurt you."

He won't, will he?

Well, that was for him to know and for you to find out–should you awaken. His gloved hand, gentle but firm, snakes under your head and props it up, and his other hand is busy pushing the buttons of your blouse apart, one by one, until your raven-black bra meets his gaze. He breathes out in a soft exhale, a sound too tranquil for a man of his reputation, and his hand gently tips your face toward him. He meets your face halfway, scanning his sharp eyes over your sleeping features for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, though you can't feel it in your drowse. Slowly, almost like he was deliberately holding himself off, he lets his lips brush against yours, and then he tests the waters some more, giving them a light kiss. You subconsciously shift at the contact, but you're still asleep, and that's enough reassurance for him to go further, letting his teeth graze your lower lip.

You taste like candy; sweet, soft, and addicting. You're an aphrodisiac, aren't you? He wonders, and his tongue prods at the seam of your lips, begging entrance, but it doesn't take. A soft, almost inaudible growl emanates from him, and the distant feel of his tongue has your breathing stuttering, a whimper bubbling up from your throat, but you don't wake, and that has his pants feeling a lot tighter than they were a few seconds ago.

"tsk," he grumbles against your lips. He's not sure if he wanted you asleep or awake right now. There was a thrill he felt in his veins when he teetered on the edge of danger like this, but there also seemed to be a thrill at the thought of having you awake for this, eyes wide in fear and lust all at once, soft implorations of "please let me go, Lord Dottore" falling from your lips like a mantra.

In the end, though, he'll have his way, and it doesn't matter what your state is. His tongue slips past your parted lips and invades the heat of your mouth, his sharpened canines grazing your tongue. His saliva, mixed with the residue of alcohol he had before heading back, drips down your chin and stains your blouse. If you were awake, you would've found the whole ordeal sloppy and wet, but since you weren't, all it felt like was warmth, and a foreign feeling, as his tongue prodded and probed your mouth. Your brows knit together, and a soft, unconscious moan escapes your lips, one that he greedily swallows. You're not so sure what's going on, still in a drowse that makes you think you're having some sort of insanely realistic wet dream. You hadn't slept in almost two days after all. Archons knew you weren't about to let anything wake you from your much-needed rest.

Dottore retreats from your lips and pauses for a moment, eyes raking over your form as though his mind was scanning over all the choices of what to do to you next.

"Ah," he says, like he was hit with a revolutionary idea. It wasn't so revolutionary, because the next thing that happens is the harbinger's hands finding their way to your chest, the cool leather of his gloves brushing against the bare patch of skin he revealed to himself when unbuttoning your blouse down three or four buttons. You shift again, and the movement has his fingers accidentally grazing over your bra-clad nipples. The sudden touch causes your body to arch and a low groan to rumble in the back of your throat. You were sensitive, he notes, and a grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

But you see, Dottore was getting bored of his self-inflicted abstinence. He did tell himself he had all night earlier, but come to think of it, he actually doesn't. He wants it fast and rough, and he wants it now. So, he lets his hand trail down for a moment, shamelessly shoving it into your pants and letting his fingers play with your pussy over your panties.

"H-hnngh!" You gasp in your sleep, and if you were awake, you'd be able to almost feel the smirk he wears as he continues, a finger pressing insistently at your clit, even if the fabric of your underwear is in the way.

"Oh? Do you like this then, agent?" he asks, and the words are an almost inaudible whisper. The question is rhetorical, after all. He doesn't give a flying fuck if you do like it, and he was talking himself through it more than he was you.

Your head lolls to the side and a shaky breath leaves you. Your panties are subconsciously growing wet, an automatic bodily reaction to being touched here, and his finger doesn't relent. It's a good thing, however, that the friction of the thin fabric has you writhing, and the stimulation has him impatient, his fingers hastily moving to roughly pull your pants down, then to grip the fabric of your blouse, ripping it apart, buttons popping off the garment and onto the ground with soft clicks. The supple flesh of your torso is now exposed and open, and so are your eyes. It takes you a second to register what's going on.

You're... lying on the sofa.

What time was it?

What are you doing here, exactly?

"W-what..." the words barely leave you, and suddenly, sleep has left you completely, the feeling of a heavy weight against your body taking its place, and the realization that a man is on top of you.

Your eyes snap open wider, and the first thing you see is Dottore's grinning, almost psychotic-looking eyes boring through you.

"My Lord?!" you cry, and everything comes rushing back. You went to drop a report to the Lord Harbinger. You fell asleep on the couch in his laboratory.

"What are you doing?!" you demand as assertively as you can in a situation like this, but your voice shakes in fear despite your efforts.

"I could ask you the same question, agent," he hums, and his gloved fingers move to trail over the expanse of your breasts, fondling and groping with not a sliver of shame. "You were asleep when I came in, and so, I assumed, naturally, that you wanted me to do this. Why else would you have been so conveniently sprawled out on my couch, in the privacy of my lab, half-naked and vulnerable?"

"I-I didn't–I wasn't half naked," you try to defend yourself–with such a witless refutation too–but how could you possibly defend yourself? The harbinger was right. You were asleep on the couch in his private lab. Utterly disrespectful. And he caught you. Maybe this was karma–or just your luck.

"Hush, now," he purrs, and his fingers slither behind your back to the band of your bra. You don't have time to react as the garment is pulled off you in one swift motion, tossed away and onto the floor, and then his hands are back on your tits, kneading the supple flesh, pinching your hardened nipples.

"My Lord–stop it, please," you plead, and you can't help the gasp that escapes you, the action shooting straight between your thighs, which clamp together as best as they can with Dottore straddling your waist with all his weight.

He was a scary man, Il Dottore, and even if he wasn't physically hurting you–for now–the sheer intensity of his gaze was enough to scare the shit out of you. You were utterly, hopelessly, and vulnerably at his mercy, and the worst part is, you have a feeling that not a single person in this whole 8-story facility would stand up for you. Not a single Fatui subordinate would dare.

"Stop? Oh, darling! But we haven't even started," he laughs, like what you just suggested was utterly ridiculous, and a shudder runs down your body.

"You know," he hums, leaning closer and lowering his head to ghost his lips over the shell of your ear, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath. "You can scream–if you'd like. No one would hear."

You have no time to retort, because Dottore's head dips to the valley of your breasts immediately, then his lips ghost over one of your nipples, swiftly taking the nub in his mouth. A sharp inhale rushes into your lungs, and a whimper threatens to spill from your throat. You're not quite sure if the feeling coursing through you is fear or lust or both, because it makes your stomach churn how good this actually feels. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and Dottore’s teeth graze the sensitive skin around your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity between your legs, then his tongue flicks over the hardening peak.

"Mmh," the moan bubbles up from the very back of your throat.

"Oh? So... still want me to stop now, agent?" he muses, mockingly, and his free hand is back at your pussy, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the soaked fabric. Your hips buck up, so he takes that as a sign to push the garment aside, a finger sliding between your wet lips.

"No, my Lord," you gasp, and you can't believe the words that come out of your own mouth. Dottore's hand doesn't stop, and his thumb presses down on your clit, and a breathy, whiny moan escapes you.

"See? This isn't so bad, now, is it?" he doesn't give you any warning before his fingers dip into your wet pussy, the intrusion causing you to jerk. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers. His sharp canines dig into his lower lip.

"Aren't you a good little whore. So pretty and obedient for your Lord Harbinger," Dottore purrs, and his thumb begins to move against your clit, while his fingers curl and press insistently at your walls. Your legs tremble, a string of moans falls from your lips, and if anyone told you just an hour ago that the Second Lord Harbinger Il Dottore was going to finger you in his lab, you would've laughed and asked who the fuck would say something like that.

Alas, Dottore wasn't a patient man, so it's no surprise that he doesn't finger you long enough before his hands pull away from you entirely, and he "tsks" impatiently to himself. He has to have you now. He's been so, so nice. Hasn't he? Kind enough to prep you for him instead of plunging himself into you from the get-go. If anything, he thinks he deserves a pat on the back for his thoughtfulness.

Swiftly, his hands reach under your thighs, and with an alarming amount of ease, he yanks you down and away from the cushion that sprawled beneath your head. Then, he's settling between your legs. A soft whimper is torn from your throat when the cold, metal buckle of his belt grazes the inside of your thigh. You watch, helpless, as his hands make quick work of his pants, unzipping the black uniform, and pushing them down just far enough to pull his cock out. You can't help but gulp at the sight, and the wideness of your eyes makes Dottore laugh out an almost sadistic-sounding string of giggles.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he hums, the term of endearment spoken so condescendingly. "You'll take it well. Won't you?"

His words aren't a question. They're a statement. An absolute, undeniable fact. An order. You'll take it well, whether you want to or not, and the knowledge has you almost making a run for the door, but the thought leaves you as fast as it came.

Dottore doesn't wait for a response that won’t come, or a plea for him not to do this, not to force his cock into your tight heat, and you're not quite sure why, but you don't find yourself objecting, or trying to kick him away. Maybe you were curious. Maybe this was a materialization of one of your own depraved fantasies. Or maybe you were just scared he'd kill you if you resisted.if you made a run for the door like you fleetingly thought just now.

His fingers curl around the base of his thick cock, fist then sliding up and down in a few experimental pumps. The tip presses at your entrance almost desperately, and he's pushing the head into your tightness before you can process. He's a big man. The stretch burns. It has a hiss tearing from the back of your throat, and a pained grimace twisting your features.

"Shh," Dottore murmurs, his other hand reaching up to caress the side of your face almost soothingly, the action a stark contrast to the harshness of his current actions.

"Good, good," he whispers, his voice is sickeningly smooth, as though he were genuinely consoling you.

Then, just like that, his hips snap forward, not giving you time to adjust as the entirety of his cock is engulfed in the warmth of your pussy. You're clamping down around him, and it has him groaning lowly in his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, the grip of his hands that are now on your hips tightening.

"Agent," he sighs, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your sides. It'll leave a mark there. A reminder.

You're not quite sure where the burning pain had gone. All that remains is an aching desire, a desperate need, and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Your hands move, without a conscious command from your brain, and they rest on Dottore's shoulders, holding on tightly. The harbinger smiles down at you with sickening sweetness, no, not sweetness, mockery. Or maybe sweetness. God, you were a mess. Your mind was nothing but a blob of mush at this moment, and Dottore's hands shift to the underside of your knees, pushing your legs up and thrusting his cock even deeper at this new, utterly indecent angle.

"My Lord!" the moan is punched out of you. His lips meet yours again, his sharp canines scraping over the sensitive flesh. Your hands slide to tangle into his hair, pulling and tugging at the soft blue strands. An almost whiny groan escapes the harbinger's throat at the action. His movements become more desperate. Fast and rough. So fast and rough you're scared you'll be split in two. The plush sofa under the two of you shakes and creaks.

"So, so good," he whines, face contorted in pleasure, but as though he caught himself in his haze before it spiraled, his lips pull back into a domineering sneer. "Take it," he demands, and the words, combined with the obscene feeling of being filled to the brim, are enough to have your vision going white. You claw at Dottore's shoulders with desperate fervor.

"L-Lord Harbinger. I think I'm going to–"

"Do it," he commands with the struggle of a man on the brink of ecstasy, and he folds you even more. If you weren't agile–thanks to your agent training–you're sure you would've actually split into two by now. Back arching off the sofa, a string of incoherent, unintelligible moans escapes your throat. Your pussy clamps down around the thick cock stretching it, and a wave of pleasure courses through you, rendering your muscles numb.

The sight and feeling of you unraveling have Dottore following closely after, his movements becoming erratic and uncoordinated. It's a sight like never seen before; the normally ever so composed man crumbling like this, and then, he's spilling his hot cum into you, a guttural groan reverberating throughout his chest. He fills you to the brim until the warm white liquid leaks out of your aching pussy and stains the leather under you.

A second passes, then two, then three, then a few seconds more. Dottore lets the head of his cock press against your insides one last time before pulling out. He sits back on his knees and regards you for a moment with an almost frightening calmness, and you open your mouth to try and say something, because why was he looking at you like you were nothing but the scum of the ground he walks on after literally cumming inside of you as some lover would?

"The couch will need some cleaning. I trust you can get that sorted tomorrow, agent?" He says finally with a cock of his head, voice level and calm as he climbs off of you and stands on his feet, tucking himself back into his pants as he nonchalantly hums a tune to himself, like this was just another day of fucking his subordinates in their sleep. And maybe it was; you didn’t know, but right now, you're still paralyzed in your spot, just staring at him, and so he turns to glance at you. "Get dressed. You're dismissed for today."

You can only gape, speechless, watching as Dottore turns his back to you once more and disappears into the microscopy workroom in his lab, a certain energized spring to his step.

What the fuck just happened?

The workroom's door closes behind him with a soft click, and he smiles to himself.

Ah, the thrill.

Now, it was time to get back to his research.

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