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The Snezhnayan winds howled like jealous lovers outside the fortified walls of Zapolyarny Palace, but inside Dottore's private laboratory, the air was thick with the hum of machinery and the faint, ozone-tinged scent of Abyssal residue. Dottore leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded his visitor with a gaze that could curdle milk. Or, more accurately, could make lesser men dissolve into gibbering wreaths of regret. But not this one. Never this one.
Tartaglia lounged against the edge of the examination table like he owned the place. Which, in a way, he did. The Eleventh Harbinger had a habit of claiming spaces, people, and problems with the same effortless grace he applied to battle. His ginger hair was tousled from the trek through the snow-swept corridors, and his ocean-blue eyes sparkled with that infuriating mix of mischief and genuine warmth that Dottore both adored and despaired over. Adored, because it was a flame that thawed the perpetual chill of his own soul. Despaired over, because it made him feel things. Messy, human things.
"You're late," Dottore drawled, his voice a silken rasp filtered through the porcelain mask that concealed half his face. He didn't move to stand, content to let the tension build like a storm front. "I trust the Tsaritsa's errands didn't keep you from important appointments?"
Tartaglia grinned, that shark-toothed smile that promised chaos and cuddles in equal measure. He pushed off the table with a fluid motion, closing the distance between them in two strides. Before Dottore could protest, or at least pretend to, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug that smelled of frost-kissed leather and the faint, metallic tang of blood from whatever skirmish he'd just wrapped up. "Miss me, Doc? I had to punch a few hilichurls on the way in. You know how it is, can't let the riffraff think I've gone soft."
Dottore stiffened for a fraction of a second, his gloved hands hovering uncertainly before settling on Tartaglia's waist. The contact was electric, as always, a reminder that beneath the layers of scheming intellect and surgical precision, he was still a man who craved this idiot's touch like a drug. "Soft," he echoed, the word laced with dry amusement. "You? Never. Though I do wonder if the Abyss has finally addled your brain enough to make you forget basic punctuality."
Tartaglia laughed, a bright, barking sound that echoed off the lab's vaulted ceilings. He pulled back just enough to tilt Dottore's chin up with a calloused finger, thumb brushing the edge of his mask in a gesture that was equal parts tender and teasing. "Punctuality is for people who don't have fun. Besides, I brought a gift." From the inner pocket of his coat, he produced a small, frost-rimed vial, swirling with a viscous, iridescent liquid that caught the gaslight like captured starlight. "Picked it up from a traveling merchant in Liyue. Said it's 'essence of dawn' or some poetic nonsense. Thought it might inspire one of your experiments."
Dottore's eyes narrowed in interest as he snatched the vial, holding it up to the light. The liquid shifted colors: deep indigo to shimmering gold, like the birth of a nebula. "Intriguing. Volatile, too, by the resonance. You have no idea what this could be, do you?" He set it aside on his desk with reverent care, then fixed Tartaglia with a look that was half-scolding, half-adoring. "One day, your impulsiveness will get you killed. Or worse bored."
"Then you'd just bring me back, wouldn't you?" Tartaglia's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath warm against Dottore's ear. "Patch me up with your creepy Abyssal toys. Make me better than new."
The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken history. It had been months since they'd formalized this, whatever this was. Colleagues with benefits? Lovers in a den of vipers? Harbinger husbands, in the fevered whispers of the Fatui gossip mill? Dottore didn't care for labels; they were chains for lesser minds. What mattered was the reality: stolen nights in hidden alcoves, shared cigarettes in the palace gardens, and the quiet thrill of knowing that in a world of betrayals, Ajax was his anchor. His chaos. His constant.
"Come on, then," Dottore said at last, extricating himself with a theatrical sigh. He gestured to the examination table, now cleared of its usual array of scalpels and specimen jars. "You didn't come here to flirt—though you're abysmal at it. Lie down. Let's see how your... upgrades are faring."
Tartaglia complied with exaggerated reluctance, hopping onto the table and stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. His coat was already half-unbuttoned, revealing the black compression shirt beneath, which clung to the lean muscle of his torso. But it was his arms that drew Dottore's gaze, as they always did. Not the flesh-and-blood ones he'd been born with, those had been lost to the Abyss years ago, claimed by the same ravenous depths that had forged him into the weapon he was today. In their place were these: crystalline prosthetics, forged from Abyssal energy by his enigmatic master, Skirk. They shimmered like fragments of a shattered galaxy, veins of purple and cyan-blue threading through translucent lattices that pulsed faintly with inner light. They weren't mere replacements; they were artifacts, extensions of the void itself, granting him strength that bordered on the divine. Or the demonic, depending on who you asked.
Dottore circled the table slowly, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. He donned a fresh pair of gloves with a snap, the sound crisp in the quiet lab. "Arms first," he murmured, more to himself than to Tartaglia. His fingers traced the seam where crystal met skin at Tartaglia's shoulder. The transition was seamless, almost organic, the Abyssal material weaving into his flesh like roots into soil. No scarring, no rejection; just a faint warmth that hummed against Dottore's touch, like the vibration of a tuning fork struck against eternity.
"Tickles," Tartaglia complained mildly, though his eyes were half-lidded in contentment. He watched Dottore work, that ever-present smile tugging at his lips. "You're like a kid with a new toy, you know that? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous."
"Jealous?" Dottore scoffed, though his pulse quickened traitorously. He pressed a small sensor pad to the crystalline forearm, watching the readings flicker to life on a nearby holoscreen: energy flux stable, structural integrity at 98.7%, no signs of degradation. Perfect, as always. "Of this amateurish patchwork? Please. Skirk may be a force of nature, but she's no surgeon. No artist."
Tartaglia's laugh was softer this time, affectionate. "Says the man who once tried to graft dragon scales onto a Ruin Guard just to see if it'd breathe fire. Admit it—you're obsessed."
Dottore didn't deny it. How could he? From the moment Tartaglia had returned from his last Abyssal sojourn, these limbs had captivated him. Not just scientifically (though the implications for bio-alchemical fusion were staggering) but personally. They were a testament to Ajax's resilience, a badge of the hells he'd crawled out of and conquered. And, in the dim corners of Dottore's mind where sentiment dared to lurk, they were beautiful. Ethereal. A piece of the cosmos wrapped around the man he... well. Loved? The word stuck in his throat like a fishbone, but it fit, damn it all.
He moved to the other arm, repeating the process: palpation, scanning, subtle adjustments to the energy flow with a handheld resonator. Tartaglia sighed contentedly, his head lolling back against the padded surface. "You're good at this, you know. The inspecting thing. Makes a guy feel... cared for."
"Don't get used to it," Dottore replied, but his voice lacked its usual bite. His hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary, thumbs tracing the fractal patterns etched into the crystal—swirls of purple nebulae shot through with cyan lightning. They glowed faintly under his touch, as if responding to him, and for a wild moment, Dottore imagined them as veins of starstuff, pumping the Abyss's wild heart into Ajax's own.
The inspection shifted lower, to the legs. Tartaglia kicked off his boots with a grin, propping one foot on the table's edge to give Dottore access. The prosthetics here were identical in composition: crystalline sheaths encasing what remained of his thighs and calves, flexible yet unyielding, shimmering with that otherworldly sheen. Dottore knelt—yes, knelt, the great Il Dottore on his knees before the Eleventh like some supplicant—and ran his hands along the contours, checking joints and flex points. The material was cool to the touch, like polished quartz, but warmed quickly under friction, pulsing with a subtle rhythm that mimicked a heartbeat.
"See anything interesting, Doctor?" Tartaglia teased, his voice dropping to that husky timbre that always sent heat curling through Dottore's veins. He flexed his calf experimentally, the crystal catching the light in a cascade of purples and blues. "Or are you just enjoying the view?"
Dottore shot him a glare, or what passed for one, with the mask in place, but there was no heat in it. "Behave, or I'll dissect you for real this time." Empty threat, of course. He wouldn't. Couldn't. These limbs weren't just functional; they were Ajax, woven into his essence. To tamper with them would be to tamper with him, and that... that was a line even Dottore wouldn't cross.
But as his hands worked methodically when a stray thought slipped through the cracks of his clinical focus. It started innocently enough: the prosthetics' integration was so thorough, so symbiotic. The Abyssal energy had rewritten Ajax's body at a cellular level, or so Skirk's vague missives suggested. No rejection, no atrophy. Just seamless fusion. Dottore's mind, ever the explorer of forbidden frontiers, wandered lower. To the core of that fusion. To the parts unseen, uncharted even by lovers like them.
What if... The thought bloomed unbidden, a rogue experiment in the petri dish of his psyche. *What if it's the same there? Crystalline? Shimmering? A cock forged from the Abyss's own forge, veined with purple galaxies and cyan comets?* He nearly dropped the resonator, his gloved fingers fumbling against the smooth plane of Tartaglia's shin. The image assaulted him: Ajax, bare and brazen, his arousal not flesh but starlight—glowing, pulsing, otherworldly. Would it hum like these limbs? Warm under touch, responsive to stimuli like a living circuit? Would it change with his moods, flaring brighter in passion, dimming in repose?
Dottore's breath hitched behind his mask, a rare crack in his composure. He straightened abruptly, turning to the holoscreen as if it held the secrets to the universe. *Focus. Data. Hypothesis.* But the hypothesis was already forming, wild and wanton: *Subject's prosthetics exhibit adaptive properties. Extrapolation suggests full-body integration. Test required for confirmation.* Gods, he was clinical even in his perversion. But beneath the scientist's veneer, the man stirred; a hungry, silly thing that wanted to peel back layers, not for knowledge, but for the sheer, absurd joy of discovery. A man whose dick looked like a cursed artifact from a fantasy novel. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a bark of inappropriate laughter.
Tartaglia noticed, of course. He always did. Propping himself up on his elbows, he eyed Dottore with that predatory curiosity. "Earth to Doc? You look like you just solved the meaning of life. Or invented a new way to torture Pierro. Spill."
Dottore cleared his throat, adjusting his mask with feigned nonchalance. "Nothing. Readings are nominal. You're disgustingly healthy." A pause, then, because lying to Ajax was like lying to a mirror, it reflected back tenfold. "Merely... contemplating the extent of Abyssal influence."
Tartaglia's grin widened, sensing weakness like blood in the water. He swung his legs off the table, boots forgotten, and slid to the floor in one lithe motion. Before Dottore could retreat, he was there—crowding close, hands bracketing hips, that crystalline forearm brushing Dottore's thigh in a deliberate tease. "Extent, huh? Like... how far down it goes?" His voice was velvet over steel, eyes dancing with wicked knowledge. "You've been staring at my legs like they're a puzzle you wanna solve with your tongue."
Dottore's composure fractured further, a flush creeping up his neck. He grabbed Tartaglia's wrist and yanked him closer, masks be damned. "Insolent brat," he hissed, but there was laughter in it, bubbling up like champagne. "You have no idea the depravities rattling in this skull."
"Then show me." Tartaglia's free hand slipped under Dottore's coat, fingers splaying possessively over his chest. The contrast was intoxicating: Abyssal chill against mortal warmth, galaxy against flesh. "We're dating, remember? Your thoughts are mine. Your experiments, too."
The word dating hung there, soft and silly in its domesticity. Amidst Harbingers and high stakes, it was a rebellion. A promise. Dottore surged forward, capturing Tartaglia's mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger—less a gentle exploration than a claim staked in the snow. Tartaglia met him fiercely, tongues tangling like swords in a duel, the faint taste of salt and storm on his lips.
They stumbled back toward the examination table, coats shedding like molted skins. Dottore's mask clattered to the floor, forgotten; he rarely wore it with Ajax anyway, not when vulnerability was the price of this madness. His hands roamed, greedy; unbuttoning, unzipping, mapping the terrain of scars and stars. Tartaglia's shirt came off first, revealing the taut planes of his abdomen, unmarked save for the crystalline seams at hip and thigh. And lower...
And lower still, where the crystalline fusion hinted at deeper mysteries. Dottore's breath caught as his fingers brushed the waistband of Ajax's trousers, easing them down with a careful tug. The fabric whispered to the floor, and there, was another facet of the Abyss's touch, subtle yet unmistakable. Tartaglia's arousal stood evident, a shimmering extension of those ethereal limbs: translucent and veined with faint pulses of indigo light, warm under the lab's glow, like a captured fragment of night sky.
Dottore paused, his gaze lingering with a mix of curiosity and quiet hunger. It was beautiful in its otherness, humming softly against the air, responsive in ways that stirred his ever-curious mind. "Ajax," he murmured, voice low and threaded with wonder, "you're a marvel."
Tartaglia shifted on the table, a flush creeping up his neck, his usual bravado softening into something raw. "Yeah? Well, don't just stare, Doc. Do something about it."
The challenge hung between them, electric. Dottore's gloved hand moved with deliberate grace, wrapping around the base—cool crystal warming instantly to his touch, the subtle vibrations traveling up his arm like a shared secret. He stroked slowly at first, a measured exploration, thumb tracing the faint ridges that caught the light in soft glimmers. Tartaglia inhaled sharply, hips twitching upward, his crystalline fingers gripping the table's edge as he began to squirm.
"Easy," Dottore chided, though his own pulse raced, free hand steadying Ajax's thigh. He quickened the pace, firm and rhythmic, the slick warmth building between them easing the glide. Tartaglia's breaths came in ragged bursts, body arching off the padded surface, legs shifting restlessly as pleasure coiled tight. He bit his lip, stifling a whine, but couldn't hide the way he writhed, shoulders pressing back, toes curling, that shark's grin fracturing into gasps and half-formed pleas.
"Doc—please—" The words dissolved into a low moan as Dottore twisted his wrist just so, drawing out the tension until Tartaglia shattered. A soft glow flared along the crystalline length, spilling warmth in quiet pulses that left him trembling, spent and boneless against the table.
Dottore eased him through it, strokes gentling to a halt, then leaned in to press a lingering kiss to Ajax's temple. "Diagnosis," he whispered, a rare tenderness softening the edges of his smirk, "perfectly intact. And mine."
Tartaglia laughed breathlessly, arm looping loosely around Dottore's neck. "Flatterer. Your turn next time."
Dottore huffed, but his arm tightened around Ajax's waist. "As if I'd let you leave. Not when there's more data to collect."
Tartaglia chuckled, nuzzling closer. "Freak."
"Yours."
Outside, the winds raged on. Inside, in the heart of the storm, two Harbingers found their peace. And in the morning, over stolen coffee and scheming whispers, they'd laugh about it all. The inspection. The wonder. The *dick that wasn't quite a dick, but it was close enough*.
For now, though, sleep claimed them—happy, silly, and utterly, unapologetically freaky.