#dottor Slump

[joekirby]

La gran parte del pubblico ti ha conosciuto per la saga di Dragon Ball.

Ma io voglio ricordarti per le ore spassose e spensierate, passate a seguire le vicende del villaggio Pinguino e della stramba famiglia Norimaki. Che già ai tempi era avanti anni luce accogliendo alieni e vita cibernetica.

Mancherai Sensei, buon viaggio...

Ciriciao...

[pinguinodirovere]

Dottor Slump

Opening dell' anime Dottor Slump

[uyallstars]

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ How they hold you in bed when sleeping

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia (separate) 

When the stars are perched in the night sky, and the world becomes wrapped in a still blanket of darkness - there is no better action than departing to your safe space, the coziness of your bedroom, and the safety of your beloved’s body next to you. The lights are dimmed and after a warm shower and a change into comfy pajamas, your beloved is met with a tender sight of your sleepy figure. It is time for rest, and with his arms open, beckoning you to hop into his embrace - you join him in bed at last. 

✧ A single glance from Pierro and his eyes would instantly soften upon seeing your sleepy expression. The Director of the Fatui doesn’t require any questions or even verbal communication to know that something is troubling you. Your solemn gaze and slumped shoulders tell him more than enough - and his heart aches in response. Silently but gently, he pulls you closer, his star-shaped pupils seeking answers from your own. 

“My divine one... A long day?” - he whispers, his hand lifting your chin to make you look at him. You don’t directly respond, but nod and press your lips into a thin line. Pierro sighs, yearning to vanquish all your worries and pain. But sometimes, words are superfluous.

“Do not fret your little heart. No harm shall come, for I am here, my divine. Shall I take you to bed, instead?” 

With a small nod and a timid glance from you, Pierro spoke no further. He knew what you required on such solemn nights as these, and instead, allowed his arms to pick you up, carrying your fatigued figure in his bigger embrace. He pulled you closer, his cheek gently grazing your face as he whispered soothing words and brought you to bed. 

He tucked you in, the king-sized bed bringing the familiar sensation of silky sheets and warm covers. He kisses your forehead with careful and slow deliberation before accompanying you to sleep.    

When Pierro sleeps beside you, he is often silent, but his gaze never leaves your figure. He’d lay on his side, gazing at your face as if it were the stars and the moon itself. Even within the dimness of the room, he has memorized the outline of your face, the soothing rhythm of your breathing, the contour of your figure. With one hand around you, you two slept peacefully, the troubles of the world left behind. Even the Fatui’s Director required solace, and this solace he would locate only in your tender arms; his sanctuary. 

✧ Il Capitano has memorized your routine. Take a shower, get ready for bed, and most importantly, sleep on top of him as if his body were a sturdy mattress. It’s not your fault your cherished is so much taller and bigger, right? Well luckily for you, he absolutely adores it when you climb on top of him, resting your head on top of his chest and legs around his hips. Your smaller figure clad tight around him like a loving weighted blanket while he slept on his back. His hands would gladly squeeze you, loving your softness against his toned physique. 

“You don’t mind my weight on top of you, Cappy?” - you’d often ask every night before bed, peeking at him with that tender worry that made the Harbinger melt in an instant. Capitano would continue to hold you, his sharp fingers tracing circles gently on your hips or your back.

“Dearest, I have carried heavier weights that quadruple you in size. If you were to bother me, would I be pulling you back to my arms whenever you toss and turn?” 

And thus, with the seal of approval from the honorable Captain, you’d smile triumphantly and sleep on him. That’s just how the two of you were: Capitano was a beast in size, slept still, and barely moved when on his back. Conversely, you were smaller in size, slept very lightly, and often turned or wrestled with the covers. Even when you had the spacious bed to your leisure, you always chose to sleep tightly clinging to him. And Capitano revered every second of it as if it was the biggest honor in his duty as your protector. Truly, an honorable knight protecting your dreams. 

✧ Sharing a bed with Il Dottore is a toil. If you managed to miraculously drag him out of his lab, he’d groan and argue that he has important research to do, that your concern for his sleep schedule is ‘childish’. Yet the moment he settles in bed, he becomes a menace to your sanity: 

“Are you coming to bed or not?” 

“Come here, closer.” 

“No, you are pushing around.”

And the cherry on top of it all? He’d stare at you during the entire night, maskless. You know he doesn’t easily fall asleep, even on days when he overexhausted himself in his experiments. So naturally, his method to relax is to press the side of his head tightly against your chest and just remain glued to you with the sound of your heartbeat being his salvation. You’d assume it is an adorable sight… until you’d open your eyes in the middle of the night, only to notice a piercing, red lens just gawking at you. Motionless and still, he just wore that neutral expression while being pressed to your chest.

“...Uh, are you going to just stare at me in the dark?” - you whispered in the dark, to which he won’t even move or change his expression.

“43 beats per minute.” 

You blinked sleepily - “... wha-” 

“Your heart beats approximately 43 to 50 beats per minute when you sleep. That’s anywhere between 20640 to 24000 beats for 8 hours of sleep.” 

It was your turn to gawk at him, albeit in confusion. His nonchalant yet stoic reply told you that he was, indeed, very focused on counting each and every beat of your heart while you slept. He remained pressing his ear to the middle of your chest, arms wrapped around your waist tightly. 

“Dottore, have you not slept this entire time…?” 

“Shush, stop speaking,” - he whispered more gently, pressing his face into you in a rather touchy manner as if you wouldn’t notice. “I am still counting. Your heart rate is increasing to 81 bpm.” 

“If you won’t go to sleep this instance I won’t make any Ajilenakh Cake tomorrow.”

As such, silence dominated the dark bedroom once more. The doctor said no more and settled on hiding his face against your body, not daring to admit that he loved your desserts. And even more, not daring to acknowledge that your heartbeat lulled him to sleep. To deny his infatuation with every beat of your pulse would be a lie, and to deny his longing to physically hold you close would be ignorance. So he settled to silently counting your heartbeat until succumbing to dreamless slumber. 

✧ Scaramouche didn’t require sleep. Everyone knew that. Regardless, your persuasion with the 6th knew no bounds as you begged and nagged at him relentlessly to remain beside your bedding. He would audibly scoff and cross his arms at your ridiculous request. 

“My body does not need rest for 8-something hours. Why should I even waste such precious time with you while you’re the one unconscious?” 

However, no matter how much Scaramouche put up the cold front and rolled his eyes, he wasn’t immune to your ingratiating puppy eyes or gentle tugging whenever you asked something of him. You’d always embrace him from the side, asking him softly to stay a little longer as you depart for the night. He, of course, would refuse and cut your answers short, but his actions told a different story. He was already tucking you in; making sure the futon was neatly laid and the covers warmly wrapped around you while he sat kneeling beside you. He just had to make a fuss first:

“To even insinuate such foolish proposition… You must be truly bored out of your mind.”

You’d only chuckle in response, smiling whenever he made sure your room was tidy and secure for your nightly rest. But even then, you’d reach for his hand, and whisper: 

“... Just stay for a while longer. At least until I fall asleep, okay?” 

Same scoff. Same attitude. But The Puppeteer never left. He always stayed beside you, despite his arrogant rebuttals that you quickly learned were nothing about. He’d either sit leaning beside you, keeping a silent company, or telling you obscure stories he heard from Inazuma or the Abyss. And at times, Scaramouche would remain kneeling by your futon even after you had fallen asleep. 

Your breathing was slow and steady, but he was almost afraid to lean any closer. All bickerings he displayed before were gone, and like a porcelain puppet, Scaramouche would find himself frozen in place, hypnotized by your soothing breathing. He just gazed at you, as if you were a distant star within the dark sky, the palliative breaths emitting from you told him that you were safe. You are here. 

And it was from you he learned how gentle breaths are emitted by those deemed “alive”. How your breathing fluctuates in different moments of your life: energetic when happy, hitched when disturbed, and peaceful when asleep. Strangely, this mundane motion of your chest falling and rising worked like a lullaby to Scaramouche. 

Alas, he now condemns himself for not caressing your face all these times he watched you sleep. A lonesome Wanderer sat alone, an empty futon beside him. Your familiar presence lacking, and he won’t hear your tranquil breaths. You are not here.  

✧ Your dear Pantalone had a fundamental habit before bed. He’d set his glasses aside, hair tied up, and go through his skincare routine right before bed. His hands diligently yet delicately wash all the apprehension and professionalism from his face. But the most important part? Trash talk with you about what happened at his work, while he focused on his reflection in the mirror.

“Could you believe that dear?” - the 9th called out to you from the bathroom, his brows frowning in displeasure. The man continued to cleanse his face. “Those insolent aristocrats offered another bribe under the table, thinking that would change my final statement.” 

You responded with a faint “Mhm,” back at him. 

“And then! The tasteless bastard dared to ask that some of their reports be delayed because he will pay twice, as long as no one checks for quality control. I mean, the audacity of some of those high-society morons!” 

“Right, right” - you murmured faintly from the bedroom. 

Pantalone massaged his cheekbones, making sure his face was as affluent as his taste and status. He adjusted his robe, still rambling with the same frustrated passion. “They think that just because they’re doing business with me, negotiating with a high sum of bribes would lead to a guaranteed deal with the Fatui. Ugh.” 

This time, there was no response from you. The bedroom was awfully silent, despite the night lamp still shining. 

“Honey?” - Pantalone called gently. 

Silence. The Regrator stepped out of the bathroom, a curious look on his face, until his eyes spotted you in bed, asleep. His expression immediately softens, all quarrels and gossip forgotten. It seems that his late-night rambles about work have thrilled you so much that you, obviously, dozed off. You didn’t even turn off the lights or get under the covers yet.  

Pantalone couldn’t help but smile softly. You two had a long day, anyway. He quietly finished his preparations for bed, changed into comfortable nightwear, and stepped closer to your side. With a delicate touch, he made sure you were tucked in properly, giving you the usual good night kiss on the forehead and tucking your hair away from your face. The man dimmed the lights before he two took his rightful place in bed beside you. 

Whatever quarrels troubled his mind now - didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had your comforting presence beside him in bed. As he slowly spooned your sleeping figure, Pantalone let out a sigh of relief, letting his head rest by the crook of your nape. Only then, did the Regrator feel his body go into ease, feeling the tranquil silence settle upon the room. Thus, the two of you slept warmly; Something that Pantalone would never trade for any riches or gold. 

✧ Ah yes, Tartaglia, his sweetheart, and their 50,000 Mora five-foot tall Morax plushie. Childe remained lying on his back, his expression far from pleased. Ever since he returned from his mission in Liyue, he gifted you this massive dragon plushie. A plushie that became his mortal enemy. His tormentor. His replacer. 

The 11th frequently brought souvenirs back home in Snezhnaya. Liyuan tea sets, Inazuman dresses, or Fontainian gadgets. All for your spoiling, and the joyous smiles from his siblings. One of such missions, he returned home with several cute toys and plushies, just for you and Teucer. He is not beating the “Greatest Toy Seller” allegation anytime soon, but he was certain that the gigantic Morax would be a lovely choice for you. 

How naive he was. 

The plushie was almost your entire height, yet you held onto it with utter delight when he gave it to you. You hugged and squeezed it with love, finding the fluffy geo archon the cutest thing ever. And thus, here you were. In bed, not hugging your boyfriend, but hugging the massive Morax plushie. 

It became a common occurrence. At first, Childe chuckled at your adorable antics whenever you brought his gift with you in bed. But then it became more apparent that you would rather turn your back to him, and just fall asleep while embracing the plushie. Childe swallowed his pride. It’s just a plushie, he bargained with himself. But then he would stare daggers that that innocent, fluffy-looking Morax. How dare it be the one receiving your love, while you adorably squeezed or fell asleep on it.

It should’ve been him! 

Therefore, one night, he took matters into his own hands. Tartaglia sat up silently in bed, and by mustering all his skills in stealth, he sneakily pulled the Morax plushie away from your grasp while you slept soundly. He was slow, and careful so as not to wake you up; and boy, tugging that five-foot plush was no easy task. Once it was away from your arms, Childe grinned in triumph… and threw the toy aside. The enemy has been neutralized.  

Next step - carefully pulling you closer to him. You were already in deep sleep, so of course, you didn’t feel when your beloved naturally embraced you in bed. Shh, no one will know he was jealous of a silly toy. He was just a concerned boyfriend, who needed to bury his face onto the crown of your head and relish your warmth. 

The next morning, you woke up feeling warm and pressed to your dear Ajax, who was particularly cuddly that morning. 

“Oh no, how did my Morax plushie fall to the floor?” 

“Hm? Oh, you must’ve accidentally tossed it away while you slept, dear.” 

[yandere-wishes]

What would Capitano do if reader gets a very bad cold after they try to escape him?

⋆⁺₊❅. This reminds me of the scene where Belle tries to escape from the Beast in the snowstorm.

⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅•

✧ He drags you back indignantly, armor-clad fingers digging fervently into your forearm. He longs to sink his metal hands into your silky hair, to weave and pull and make you feel a fraction of his pain.

✧ He's slow to notice your sniffling and paling face. Too busy swallowing down his rage, snuffing out fires in favor of earning your love once more. It's only when you faint, falling tenderly into his arms like the first snowflake of winter. That he notices your condition. The deadly shade of rose blushing your swollen cheeks, the sheen of sweat glistening along your sweet face. He pulls you to his chest cradling your body all so gently fearing the worst. Pricking his tongue with patronymic orison to the Tsaritsa.

✧ He's quick to rush you to his chambers, laying you tentatively upon his velvety bed and tracing his icy gauntlet upon your temples in hopes of decelerating the pyrexia. The syllables of each word cut his throat as he barks out orders to the maids. Call upon Dottore, call upon aide...

✧ He blames himself, letting the guilt gnaw at his heart as he stares outside at the blizzard. He should have been more careful, should have kept you closer. His mission had ended early and upon his return he'd found you running through the snow. His castle a distant silhouette upon the dark horizon. He'd been so angry in the moment. So heartbroken that you would do such a treacherous thing in his absence that he'd pointed his sword at your neck and forced you to mount onto his horse. Looking back he should have noticed the dazed look in your eyes, noticed the way your body slumped against his during the ride home.

✧ Capitano loves you, utterly, wholly. But his heart shatters every time you do not reincorporate his desperate feelings.

✧ Why must love sting, greater than any cut from any weapon?

✧ When Dottore arrives and tends to you. Capitano stands in the background like a shroud. Eyes never once leave your fragile frame. He longs to reach out and touch you. To lay beside you and have you rest your weary head upon his chest. He wants you to hear his heartbeat, have it haunt your dreams in hopes you'll follow the rhyme back to him.

✧ Dottore instructs Capitano to feed you plenty of liquids and soups upon your awakening. You keep ice clothes at hand and make sure you don't strain yourself. Once the doctor leaves Capitano removes his helmet, slowly crawling next to you. Peppering your face with tender kisses.

✧ "Forgive me, my love"

✧ You revive during the ungodly hours, eyes parting to see the moon rays adorning your capturer's scared face. Perhaps it's the delirium. But you have to admit that he looks so gorgeous with this particular shade of desperation painted across his face. Your lips gently brush his lips as you cuddle closer to the man who stole your life away.

[mrpenguinpants]

Low Battery Warning - Touch Starved HCs

— If he goes too long without you by his side, he starts to get irritable and too frustrating for anyone to deal with. For the sake of everyone, please remember to recharge your battery before leaving for extended periods of time.

— Tartaglia, Kaveh, Ayato, Alhaitham, and Dottore

[Masterlist]

I JUST WANT TO WRITE WHIPPED MEN OKAY? What do you mean I have to write a part 2 for two different fics??? I'm honestly surprised I managed to finish this. Also, ALHAITHAM NATION REJOICE, YOUR BOY IS HERE AND I CAN FINALLY MAKE A BANNER. I wasn't going to write him (I'm a kaveh stan) but now that he's here...

Tartaglia

While Tartaglia is the most favored to work with compared to the other Harbingers, that's only by a very slim margin. The closest you'll get to death is when the man gets bored and randomly picks someone to fight, but they usually make it out alive. Maybe a couple weeks in the medical bay and a few broken bones but they aren't dead for the most part. He's also the youngest and therefore the most easy-going even if he's a bit childish. He's a soldier first so he knows the pain of listening to someone verbally beat you down and not having the power to do anything back. But he's still a person at the end of the day and after so many people messing up and delaying his work, he's starting to get irritated. First, it was someone spilling tea onto important documents that he just finished signing, then the Fatui agents stationed near Jueyun Karst being defeated by some no-named treasure hoarders, and then finally being held hostage in his own office because the Liyue Qixing wouldn't leave him alone. God, he slumps over his desk, he just wants to go home and see you!

By the time he finally stumbles through the door, you're already passed out on the couch. He can't blame you, it's very late into the night and he would probably be more upset if you forced yourself to stay awake just to welcome him home. But he can still pout that he was taken away from you for so long, he didn't even get to see you all day. That's borderline torture. But he supposes he can forgive you since you look so cute bundled up in his red shirt. If he happens to take a picture or two that's for his knowledge and eyes only. So he easily scoops you up into his arms, taking a couple seconds to just stand there as he basks in the comfortable weight before he takes you to bed. Just for tonight. This will be the last time work takes him away from home for so long.

It lasts for two weeks. Usually, Childe could hold himself together, he's been away for far longer, but the fact that you're right there and he can't hold you is driving him insane. By the 14th day, Childe is ready to snap his pen in half and hurl it at the next person that comes through that cursed door. He doesn't though because it's usually Ekaterina, the only one that has the balls to talk to him right now, and she deserves far more than she's paid to deal with. But he's touch-deprived and tired. Even Zhongli with his infinite amount of patience advises him to sort himself out before inviting him out to lunch next time. He tried to deal with it on his own, this isn't the first time he's felt claustrophobic, but after the fifth Hilichurl camp he doesn't feel any better which only makes his mood sour further. He might even beat Scaramouche in how short-tempered he is right now. There's heavy air wherever he goes and whatever carefree persona he usually has on is thrown out the window.

It's Zhongli who clues you into how bad Childe's demeanor has gotten, the rascal looks horrible both physically and mentally. Despite the consultant and Childe being on friendly terms, you don't really know the man that well. But he doesn't seem like the type of person to lie so you thank him for the information and make your way to the Northland Bank. To be honest, you've been feeling the effects of not seeing Childe as often as you usually do. You know his work can get so hectic that it keeps him cooped up in his office but it's been a while since you've even seen that fluff of ginger hair. He usually doesn't want you near his work considering how it might put you in danger, but if he isn't taking care of himself then what kind of partner would you be if you didn't help?

Even outside the building, you can feel the effects of what Zhongli talked about. All the agents look like they're on their last legs, there's a gloomy atmosphere surrounding the building even though the sun shines brightly across Liyue harbor, and you can vaguely hear an annoyed Harbinger scolding someone. As soon as you set foot into the building Ekaterina nearly tackles you off your feet. Desperately thanking you for coming and looking at you as if you're the Tsaritsa herself.

As soon as Ekaterina says your name, Childe whips his head around at such a speed that you're afraid his head might fling off as his eyes lock onto yours. You know Childe wouldn't hurt you, never you, but he's looking at you like he's about to devour you and you're suddenly very glad you've never been on the receiving end of his anger. He shoves the papers in his hands into the agent's chest he was probably reprimanding and marches over to where you are.

"C-Childe?" "S-Sir?"

Ekaterina mirrors the wary call of his name until he's finally in front of you and without a word, throws his arms around you. You stumble a bit under his weight but you quickly circle your arms around his back and hold on tight so you don't trip over your own feet. You can only imagine what it looks like for Ekaterina to see her stiff boss suddenly deflate in your arms. A pleased groan escapes from him as he basically lifts you off your feet just so he can hug you closer to him. You almost feel like a child's teddy bear with your legs dangling in the air trapped in a crushing hug. You know that your relationship with Childe isn't a secret but you both don't show any displays of affection, you don't even really interact in public in general, so this is pretty open for the two of you. Well, for you at least. You don't even think Childe is registering anything around him except that you're here.

"Are you okay милый?" you whisper into his ear, nuzzling into the side of his head that's nestled into your shoulder. Your snezhnaya is a little rough around the edges but from how he seems to purr you think he enjoys it nonetheless. "Although I'm happy to see you too, don't you think we should move so we aren't blocking the main entrance?"

He sleepily blinks awake and slowly starts to acknowledge that you're both very much standing at the bank's entrance with everyone shamelessly staring. He frankly looks like he doesn't care, people have working legs, they can walk around you both. But he also doesn't want anyone to find another reason to take him away when he's very comfortable.

"If you need me, don't," is the clipped order that rings out through the bank. You know he's heavily censoring what he actually wants to say but from how everyone cowers away, they can probably tell what would happen if they disobey him. They all give him a nod and a salute before he's picking you up, cradles you into your arms, and swiftly walks upstairs. With a kick of his boot, the door slams shut and he sinks into his chair, you seated pretty on his lap.

"Please never leave me, I think I might die," he groans, re-wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You can only sigh fondly as you gently run your fingers through his hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp and he melts into goo. As if you would want to leave.

Kaveh

You know Kaveh is a bit...eccentric to say the least. He always says what's on his mind and most of the time his thoughts are things he should keep to himself. Even you're not totally immune to his blunt honesty despite the fact he tries to watch how he phrases things when directed to you. He doesn't want to accidentally hurt your feelings, regardless if you know he means no harm. It's rather cute that for someone who doesn't care about what others think of him, he's a bit insecure around you. He likes you, really likes you, and he often finds himself plotting out what he's going to say hours before your lunch date with him. But as soon as you greet him with that charming smile and a brief hug, he turns into putty and whatever flowery language he conjured in his mind is swept away. The confident architect that graduated with honors is reduced to a red-faced mess of stumbling words. It doesn't help that you find it adorable enough to press a chaste kiss to his red cheek and he swears that he's going to pass out from a heat stroke.

He's both extremely glad and terribly conflicted that your love language seems to be touch. He loves it when you brush your fingers through his hair but it always lulls him into sleep so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you hug him tightly but then he never wants to leave so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you cup his cheeks and pull him into a kiss but then he goes in for seconds, then thirds, and so on that he doesn't get any work done. If he went into alchemy rather than architecture he would dedicate his life work to studying why you have the touch of an Archon that compels him so. But he didn't and now that he's drowning in debt, he really needs to concentrate and finish his work before the deadline.

So now he has the painful task of trying to find an extremely polite way of asking you to leave him alone without you taking offense and breaking up with him. He would be devastated if he couldn't see your loving gaze on him again. But the situation is dire because as soon as he sees you, all he wants to do is curl up in bed with you in his arms. Preferably forever but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. But every time he tries to bring it up it only takes one look from you for him to stutter and wave off his words. He tries to pep talk himself and every single time he claims that this will be the day that he, very politely, pushes you off, it ends with him melting into goo and waking up the next day with all his untouched work judging him from the table.

It gets to the point that he begins to air his grievances to Alhaitham of all people. To be fair, he doesn't expect the scribe to listen to a word he says and if he did, it would only be because Kaveh needed to pay his share of the rent. But he's pleasantly surprised when you pop up with a guilty smile and that Alhaitham explained his circumstances to you. He tries to clear up the situation, he has no idea what Alhaitham said specifically but it must have been put in the worst way possible, but you take his hands and he shuts up immediately. You give him a light giggle that melts his heart and you tell him to call for you once he's completed his work.

It was the worst decision he's ever made. Second to moving in with Alhaitham. Maybe his judgment of you being an angel was a lie and you were secretly the devil from how often his thoughts were plagued by you. He could draw a circle and think of your eyes. He knows that he's smitten in your presence but he didn't expect that to double when he's suddenly alone. His only motivation is that as soon as he's finished, he'll be able to see you again. But his mind and his work bleed together and he ends up drawing your face instead of buildings and pipes.

He ends up locking himself in his studio and slowly deforming into slime with how awful he's taking care of himself. Alhaitham has to pry him from the table only for Kaveh to flop in his arms that the scribe gives up and hauls the corpse over his shoulder and makes his way to your home. Kaveh still needs to pay his share of the rent so he's not allowed to die before then.

When you opened the door you weren't expecting Alhaitham at your doorstep with Kaveh over his shoulder. He doesn't seem to want to be in this situation either because it looks like he's two seconds away from throwing your boyfriend across the room. But he manages to reign everything in front of you and quickly explains Kaveh's situation, dumping said man into your arms, and telling you to fix it. You shoot him an apologetic smile that he waves off, it's not like it's your fault, before turning around and making his way back to his own home.

"Kaveh?" you whisper gently against his ear to not startle him. It only takes him a second to register your voice before he's perking up and beaming at you. He easily shifts positions so you're in his arms instead. Twirling you around and using the momentum to tuck an arm under your knees and smoothly picking you up, somehow supporting your entire weight in one arm while the other closes the door. Sometimes you forget that Kaveh is really strong despite his lean stature. He is a claymore user after all.

"Darling! What are you doing here?" Kaveh questions while he makes himself at home. If only your living space was big enough for him to store all his work otherwise he would have moved in with you by now.

"Alhaitham mentioned that your recent commission was taking up all your time and you weren't taking care of yourself. Are you alright?" you ask, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself while Kaveh takes his shoes and coat off. In these types of moments, no matter what you do or say he'll refuse to let you out of his arms. If he has to live with one arm then he'll gladly do so just so long as his other hand is wrapped around you.

"Never better," he replies with a smile. He's obviously lying given the dark circles under his pretty red eyes but the soft look he sends you is enough to tell you that right now, he's never been more comfortable. It makes you a bit flustered to have such an intense gaze on you but Kaveh is always forward with his affections and this isn't any different. With you in his arms, there's nowhere for you to run to when he tilts your chin down and brushes his lips against yours.

"Be still for me..." he whispers, the vibrations of his voice tingling against your skin as both of your eyes slowly close. Only for the moment to shatter by loud knocks on your door. You both jerk apart and turn to the disturbance with varying expressions. You're a flustered mess while Kaveh scowls as if the door offended his entire life's work. He finally sets you down on your feet and gives you a quick peck on the cheek. Before marching to the door, flinging it open, and telling the man on the other side to shoo before slamming the door in his face. Unless the world is ending, don't knock.

Ayato

To say Ayato works hard is an understatement. There are several nights when he's glued to his desk rather than resting in bed. Such are the woes of him being forever dedicated to his duties as the Yashiro Commissioner. On days when there are big events and everything needs to be perfect, he's nearly inconsolable that Thoma weighs how much he can get away with if he knocks Ayato out with a frying pan. His pondering doesn't go far because even though Ayato looks like a corpse from the lack of sleep, he'd probably knock Thoma off his feet before the housekeeper could even raise his arms. Ayaka has better luck but she's only able to drag him away for a few minutes before he points in a random direction to divert her attention before disappearing as soon as she turns back. It's just something everyone is aware of and they try their best to support Lord Kamisato. But if it starts to look really bad, like Ayato might drop dead at any second, then you're called in. The last defense and their ace up the sleeve. Not to brag or anything but you have a spotless record and you intend to keep it that way.

It only takes one word from you to have the dignified and cunning Ayato turn into a scared rabbit. His name. None of the wary calls of Lord Kamisato, a dismissal of his titles, and certainly not your affectionate terms of endearment. It always brings the temperature of the room to zero and Ayaka has to double-check that her cyro vision didn't accidentally activate. Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, you're not soft on him and you set your foot down when it comes to his extremes. One of the many reasons he fell in love with you but it's coming back to bite him now. He hates seeing you unhappy, doing anything possible to wipe that frown off your face, but when it's him that's making you so displeased he can't help but look like a scolded puppy.

It doesn't take much for you to know that Ayato has overworked himself to the breaking point again. You understand his duties mean that he's going to be riddled with work but you're his partner first and foremost. You're there to care about Ayato, not the Yashiro Commissioner. And Ayato looks like he's falling apart at the seams. Heavy eye bags, pale complexion, and his body swaying back and forth before he catches himself from falling over. It pains your heart to see him like this and yet still push himself to keep going. So you take one, two, and three steps towards him to delicately take his hand in yours, rubbing soothing circles into his palm before intertwining your fingers together.

Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, he doesn't disappear as soon as you take your eyes off him. Just stands there and stares dopily at you while you issue orders to take over his work. God, you look so attractive when you're in control. It's been a while since he's seen anything but paper and ink but did you always look this beautiful? He's so glad he's going to marry you. Maybe he can force the elders to move the ceremony date up. Everyone in the room politely ignores the fact that Ayato is saying these thoughts out loud and how red your face has gotten.

He doesn't object when you pull him out of the room with you, blindly following you wherever you happen to lead him by the hand. As long as your hand is in his, he'll follow you to the ends of the earth if you'll allow it. It's a bit comical how the dignified Yashiro Commissioner recedes into himself and crumbles away into a love-sick man just by a simple touch. At much as it makes you feel a bit shy, it's nice to know that Ayato won't try and weasel his way out of your grasp and return to his work.

If anything he clings to you like an onikabuto on a tree. You have to waddle your way to the baths with an oversized blue-haired man refusing to let go and draping himself over your back. You know he's making this as hard as possible on purpose, just do you can dote and pamper him a bit longer before he succumbs to slumber and has to return to work. It dampens his mood thinking of the future but it's quickly ushered away by the warm water poured over his head. It's fitting that his vision is hydro because he fits himself into the space you provide as you begin to scrub his hair clean.

There's something meditative about having his hair washed by your hands that no one else can replicate. It's a luxury that he only receives when he works hard enough that his arms hang uselessly at his sides and his body slumps into itself. Soft and malleable, completely willing to bend and mold in whatever shape you wish. But your hands scrub through his hair gently, rubbing all the stress out of his body and never complaining. Right now there's nothing else that matters more than being here with you and you with him.

"I'm going to rinse your hair out. Close your eyes now," you softly say and he follows your instructions. The rush of warm water is soothing to his ears although it sparks something in his memory that momentarily takes him out of this romantic moment. He reaches blindly behind him to take your hand, rubbing circles into your palm to halt your actions.

"It's just occurred to me but aren't you supposed to be on a trip to Watatsumi island?" he opens his eyes to peer up at you, his long eyelashes tipped with water droplets reminding you of just how pretty Ayato is. It's almost a good enough distraction for you to forget why exactly you're here rather than speaking with Kokomi right now. Almost.

"I was but someone had to go and work himself to death again. You need to take better care of yourself Ayato. I don't want to see Thoma running across all of Inazuma just to drag me back because you can't seem to sit still for a few seconds," your frown deepens with each sentence. Your free hand that's not in his grasp is knocking against his forehead, albeit not hard enough to cause any actual pain. He only chuckles before pulling you into the water with him until you're sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His head lay comfortably against your thighs.

"Apologies." He's not sorry at all. "When you're not beside me I have to throw myself into my work or else I may go insane."

"Oh so now all of this is my fault," you huff exasperated but he can hear the undertones of how happy that sentence makes you. "Come on, you'll catch a cold if we stay here any longer."

"Mmm, indulge me," he mumbles into your skin, his eyes closing once again with a content smile on his face. He doesn't need to see to know that you have an equally fond expression.

"Oh, so now my lord wishes to relax?"

"Only because you're here."

Alhaitham

You know that your relationship with Alhaitham is unusual to onlookers. You're both polar opposites and yet somehow stumbled into a rather healthy and committed relationship. To others, Alhaitham is a talented and intelligent man. The perfect bachelor if it wasn't for his "extraordinary sense of individualism" that he doesn't pay attention to people around him. He's notorious for being hard to get along with that not even his handsome face is enough for people to sit around for too long. Meanwhile, there's you. A wandering traveler who takes work whenever anyone needs an extra pair of hands. You're a bit well-known for accepting any job that pays well regardless of how dangerous or weird it might be. But unlike Alhaitham, you're more than happy to make conversation and you're often seen conversing with scholars from every one of the Six Darshans.

To everyone's knowledge, it's you that's the clingy one. You always have a hand around his arm or throw yourself at him shamelessly. Everyone assumes that Alhaitham tolerates it because he never pushes you off but he doesn't reciprocate affection to the degree that you do. If only those nosy scholars could see him now. Your newest job has you traveling to the Chasm to help collect and study the newly opened area. While the Chasm is close to Sumeru, a series of mysterious accidents led the entire mine to be closed. With the Liyue Qizing gradually reopening the area there's a lot of ground to cover. Alhaitham doesn't care much for the details except that this means you'll be away from him for a few years rather than a few weeks. As soon as you told him the expected date you'll return his face instantly soured. It was so cute that you couldn't help but press kisses to the corners of his mouth until they lifted. But one thing led to another and you're now trapped underneath his strong figure for the past couple of hours with no signs of him letting go. Every day you're gone equates to one minute he gets to keep you here.

No matter how much Alhaitham wishes to make you stay, even going so far as to bribe you, you eventually gather your things, press one last kiss to his lips, and leave him in his too-quiet house. He doesn't want to admit it but as soon as he closes the door he already feels lonely. But he'll learn to cope and continue with his life. He's been through more challenging obstacles and made it through. It's only two years, 3 months, 14 minutes, and 58 seconds. Alhaitham sighs and leans against the door. He's not going to make it.

Everyone else is content to whisper behind their hands about how the scribe seems to be more hostile. While Alhaitham doesn't have the most friendly personality, he's still somewhat polite until someone gives him a reason to exit the conversation. But now Alhaitham can barely get two sentences in before insulting someone. He doesn't even mean to do it on purpose, it just slips out. A girl who happens to share your eye color is met with a backhanded compliment that she should eat more fish. A man whose skin color is just a shade lighter than yours is met with an irritated scowl before he could even say anything. It's only now that people start to miss your presence because anything is better than a walking warning sign.

It only takes a few weeks for him to crack. He's not usually this starved of attention but the knowledge that he won't see you for another two years has him itching at his wrists. While on the outside there doesn't seem to be any changes, he's perfectly calm and collected, but his facade breaks when he starts making rash decisions. When he heard that his senior Kaveh needed a place to stay due to his financial situation, he offered to live with him much to everyone and his own surprise. Even Kaveh suspiciously asks why Alhaitham is being so generous. He doesn't dignify it with a proper answer, only that he better get his situation fixed within the next two years or the scribe is kicking him out.

As the second year rolls past, it's Kaveh who brings up Alhaitham's sudden mood change. He seems...excited. Kaveh chalks it up to Alhaitham being happy that Kaveh is finally moving out but that'd be kind of low even for someone like Alhaitham. As someone who cares about the arts and romance, there's a certain care in how Alhaitham cleans the house. Every systematic movement is laced with a longing gaze. His wrists are rubbed raw that Kaveh has to physically step in or he might rub so hard he reaches the bone. But above all the dangerous aura around Alhaitham is replaced with something Kaveh can only describe as restless patience.

"Honey, I'm home!" your happy voice is accompanied by the loud slam of the door crashing against the wall. Kaveh is startled by a random stranger entering their house but mostly at the term of endearment. Alhaitham only lowers his book at your voice before going back to reading. A bit rude in Kaveh's opinion but he can see the small smile that Alhaitham tries to hide behind the pages of his book. It's not like you aren't a bit devious yourself. So you retaliate by plucking the book out of his hands, taking a quick glance at his page number before placing it on the desk.

"Welcome back. I assume your job went well?" Alhaitham sighs as you kick his legs apart, plop yourself down into his lap, and rest your head against his chest. If you weren't so enthralled by the masterpiece that was Alhaitham's physique, you would have laughed at how the blond-haired man seemed to stare owlishly at the scene. His eyes almost fall out of their heads when Alhaitham doesn't push you off, doesn't throw you over his shoulder, or even make the slightest hint of being irritated or embarrassed. He just places his hands around your waist, rests his chin on your head, and sends an icy glare to which the blond-haired man scoffs before excusing himself. It's not anything different from what he usually does to onlookers although this is you and you can tell just how weary he is. How deeply he relaxes in your hold as the tension melts from his shoulders. How his eyes search over your body for any injuries that you might have gotten. It does look like you got a bit roughed up during your stay at the Chasm. Your hair is cut shorter than he remembers, you've put on some muscle, and there are a few nicks and cuts running along parts of your skin that are visible. But none of that matters because you're here. You're finally here.

"Aww, Haitham did you miss me?" you tease only to quickly eat your words when he manuever's you sideways so he can pin your back against the couch. You're hit with a sense of deja vu back to two years ago when you were about to leave for this trip.

"The next time you take a commission that lasts longer than two weeks, I'm coming with you or you're not going at all," he grumbles as he tucks himself into the crook of your neck with no signs of leaving. You laugh now but he's dead serious.

Dottore

You aren't sure when it started but at some point, you've been labeled as "Dottore's Favourite". He always seems to be the slightest bit nicer if you happen to be there, his voice a smidge less aggressive, and a lot more touchy. He's a Doctor first so he doesn't want to be contaminated by whatever bacteria people have gathered. But with you, he always seems to have a hand on you. Either harshly pinching your cheeks like a child with a crazed grin whenever you mumble something he deems stupid or pulling your arm of out its socket as he yanks you through the hallways of his lab. You act almost as his shadow, permanently glued to his feet and forced to follow wherever he goes.

You wouldn't consider yourself exceptional at your job but you did know how to listen. Perhaps it was your blatant disregard for your lack of safety since your head was always in the clouds that let you do your job with a steady hand. You don't blame your college's, it's hard to work under so much stress. If you had to do quantum physics and whatever the hell smart people do with someone who could, and would, kill you on the spot if you couldn't tell him what 3567 x 438 was on the spot, you think you could have exploded and crumbled on the spot. But you were just the ditzy receptionist who twirled a pencil on her nose more than on a paper. The only thing you were required to do was make sure Dottore was never bothered and let him know if anyone important needed his attention.

You've seen the Regrator the most compared to the rest of the Harbingers. You don't know what a banker needs from a doctor but you're not about to ask. It's not your business and you aren't paid enough to care about what your boss does. Besides, for such a handsome face his presence creeps you out which is saying something considering there's a maniacal doctor that treats human lives like numbers on a stats page. But since you are his "receptionist" you have to make conversation with him. Most of your interaction extends to him asking if the Doctor is in and you politely saying that he's out. You both pointedly ignore the loud crashes and angry yelling from one of his segments behind the closed steel door.

Once again, you don't consider yourself exceptional at your job. You're just a lousy receptionist at a place that doesn't require it and who spends all their time spinning in the office chair than doing actual work. You're just as replaceable as any grunt in this hell hole. So when Tartaglia waltzes through the doors, blinking at you with his dead fish eyes, before nodding to himself and hauling you out of your chair you can only hope that Dottore manages to remember that he has a meeting with Pantalone at noon.

You're hardly gone for an hour. Tartaglia was just bored, bored enough to come to Dottore of all people, that he happened to spot you who looked equally as bored. He just roughed you up a little before he deemed you completely useless and a horrible fighter before sending you back on your way. Seriously, if he wanted a fight he should have just picked one of the skirmishers instead of a damn receptionist. Although you may have to reconsider your position because as soon as you walk back into the lab, a girl is throwing herself at you and demanding where you've been.

You don't get the chance to answer before she's hurriedly running down twisting hallways, down the stairs, and punching in codes so complicated it looked like she was trying to make music out of them. Whatever questions you have are ignored in favor of getting you somewhere as fast as possible. It begins to make sense when you're finally shoved into a room, the girl who dragged you all this way throwing herself onto her knees and begging for forgiveness for letting you wander off.

The lab is an absolute disaster. This isn't the organized chaos you're acquainted with but the aftermath of a manic episode you're familiar with. Glass shards dripping with fluorescent liquid, research notes torn apart that flutter around the room as faux snow, and one mad doctor in the middle.

"Where have you been?"

For someone who destroyed years worth of progress, he sounds oddly calm and collected. His deep voice is firm while he fiddles with a test tube of blue liquid, watching it slosh around before placing it onto a broken table. He barely pays any mind to the girl currently on her hands and knees, forehead pressed to the ground while she glares at you to say something.

"Out," is your reply. A casual shrug of your shoulders even though the Dottore's back is to you. He's not wearing his usual white coat. That's too bad, you think it looks kinda cool. Really goes with his bird aesthetic.

"Out...out you say. Out. Out. Out," he mumbles softly, each time he say's the word "out", he taps the test tube harder onto the table. The lull in conversation only makes the pressure of the room drop lower before the tension snaps and he hurls the test tube at the girl still on her knees. It's only thanks to your reflexes that you manage to grab the collar of her uniform and throw her back just as the test tube collides with the floor, the liquid melting away the concrete where her head was. You can only give her a nudge and a look towards the door for her to scramble to her feet and flee as far away as she can. The slam of the door behind her acting as the nail in the coffin as Dottore's body seems to slump in on itself.

"Where have you been?" he asks again, running a hand through his messy hair. He sounds and looks far more tired, his fingers twitching to reach out and hold you but his pride stopping him. So you push yourself and step forward into his space, reaching your hands out to cup his face and rubbing soothing circles into his porcelain skin. He doesn't lean into your touch but he doesn't push you away either.

"Getting tossed around by Tartaglia. He came by saying he was bored and I just so happened to be there," you say absentmindedly, twirling the long lock of blue hair that hangs off the sides of his mask. He responds by snatching your wrist, squeezing hard enough until your bones creak. "Were you worried? Did you think I ran away?"

He doesn't dignify your question with a response. Simply shrugging your hands off his face before he reaches up to pinch your cheeks, a familiar cackle vibrating from his chest.

"As if you would have anywhere to go."

———

[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

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[morose-melodies]

cold freezing night | various yandere! fatui harbingers x reader

summary: they find you on the verge of death after being attacked by a monster.

content warning: mentions of blood

CAPITANO

the captain seldom took different routes to his manor.

but, on a night like this - he wanted to enjoy the scenery which he didn't do much.

a branch cracked underneath his boot, and a bird from a nearby tree flew off. the captain paid no might to the fleeing bird, not when he heard monsters nearby, accompanied by the sound of... ragged breaths and soft cries.

the captain's hand came near the hilt of his sword.

he was cautious as he approached the sound. when he reached the sight, he saw four hilichurls and you - he had seen you around.

if he remembers right, you had once cleaned his bloodied sword for him after he returned from a mission.

he hadn't forgotten about you, he doubted he ever would.

as the captain slaughtered the hilichurls, he did so with you in mind. in his mind, he thought of paying back your kindness by wrapping you in his coat and taking you somewhere to recover.

he tucked his sword away. he walked past the carnage he had created and stopped at your side.

you were no longer crying. kneeling to your side the captain removed his coat and set it over your shoulders before lifting you into his arms.

he held you as if you were the most valuable thing to him.

on the walk home, the captain couldn't keep his eyes off of you and your trembling form. he had idly wondered if you'd accept his help without offering to pay him back. you didn't seem like the type.

perhaps he'd ask you to stay - to keep him company until you were fully recovered.

CHILDE

on days like this, childe went out looking for a fight.

not just any fight, though, a fight with a worthy opponent - an opponent that could give him a run for his money.

childe had picked fights with a few monsters, but nothing worth his while. just cryo slimes and maybe the odd hilichurl.

that was until he heard the tell-tale sound of a ruinguard stomping around in these desolate woods.

finally! a fight worth searching for.

childe's mind was fuzzy as he ran at the ruinguard - he only thought about the fight and cherished the thrill he felt in that moment!

still, he'd fought ruinguards before - he knew their weak spots so the fight wasn't exactly a fight.

childe's shoulders slumped as he watched the ruinguard drop, already defeated. "huh, no fun."

childe saw something in the snow. was it a coat left by someone? he walked over to it, nudging it with the tip of his foot. it was a human, a weak one at that.

he turned you over to lie on your back and that's when he noticed you. his crush from a few years back!

oh, he had missed you so much when you and your family left snezhnaya. you had gotten away back then, but, not this time.

picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder, ajax was taking you home - he hoped you liked it since you never got to visit his house all those years ago. you were always so scared of him, always avoiding him.

well, now was the time to make up for all the lost time, and boy, oh boy, was he going to cherish it!

DOTTORE

dottore had gone out for one thing and one thing, only.

to observe the flowers that bloomed in snezhnaya. they were different, beautiful but oh so delicate.

they couldn't survive indoors, not for even a day. this had been dottore's recent interest.

while out in the cold forest, dottore was kneeling beside one of those beautiful white flowers.

dottore plucked the flower and placed it into a bag full of snow - would this preserve it for longer?

a stick snapped.

dottore glanced over his shoulder, and saw something in a bush behind him.

he sighed, tucking the bagged flower away, and turned to approach the bush. nudging it open, hilichurl stumbled out before dropping to the ground, dead.

dottore took a step back, glaring. he nudged the hilichurl with the tip of his boot before pushing the bush open once more - firstly, there was someone unconscious but most likely dead lying in the snow, secondly, there was a cryo lawchurl.

dottore had no interest in fighting the beast but had some interest in your body. he could run some experiments on it.

he stepped through the bush and grabbed your hand, dragging your body away from the lawchurl that seemed to be feeding on a hilichurl. dottore grinned, he'd never seen something like that before.

dottore crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you - your lips tinted blue and snow covering your eyelashes. you looked familiar.

not that it mattered, you were long gone.

crouching down, he picked the snow off of your eyelashes - you looked so familiar it was pestering him.

perhaps you were from the akademiya. (y/n), was it? you were smart, too smart even. smart enough to evade him, smart enough to escape him.

he chuckled, but not smart enough to survive a lawchurl attack...

dottore felt a weak breath come from your mouth.

oh. so you were still breathing?

how disappointing, dottore thought, before standing and lifting you from the ground. well, you were resilient; you could be of some use to him, not to mention that the two of you had much history together.

him chasing you around and you evading him, it was a shame back then.

perhaps now he could put your pretty mind to use.

PANTALONE

pantalone was never fond of the sight of blood.

so, why did he feel so drawn to the gory sight before him? right at the front gate of his manor, you were there.

gripping the gate bar, as if you were trying to escape whatever had attacked you. pantalone tilted his head at the sight.

it was a horrid sight, truly.

but, he pitied you. you shouldn't have been alone so late at night - you shouldn't have left him either.

walking towards the gate, he opened it, watching you slum further to the ground.

perhaps if you were a bit smarter, this wouldn't have happened.

pantalone kneeled to your side, rolling you over to lie on your back. he saw your chest ever so slightly rise and fall and felt relief.

"oh, (y/n), you must be in so much pain," pantalone typically wouldn't do this; he wouldn't want to risk dirtying his clothes, but for you, he would.

he lifted you into his arms, walked you back into his manor, and laid you down on the couch. gosh, your blood was everywhere.

he seated himself at your side, running a bloodied hand across your cheek.

the blood would probably never go away, it would always be there, always reminding him of this sight.

a sight that he was already desperate to forget.

[affableramen]

When they are wounded and you take care of them || Genshin Impact men x you, the reader

Characters: |Pantalone, Wriothesley, Ayato, Dottore|

Tags: hurt/comfort

Notes: all care is consensual not forced; pathetic men

Pantalone: you learn about his pitiful state as soon as you see the colours drained from his face and his blazer severely torn. There is even a dark blood stain on his side. Pantalone accepts your help only after arguing over it. Once you lean to check his wounds he tries to kiss you, but is too weak to even move his body. You help him lie down comfortably and tend to his wounds, promising you won’t leave him alone in such a vulnerable state.

Wriothesley: slumps into his office scratched and messed up. He wipes the blood off his forehead, nose and mouth with a nearby towel. Wriothesley strictly rejects all your help, claiming to be very self sufficient and brushing away your worries. But soon enough he, however, falls unconscious on his desk and this is your chance to intervene.

Ayato: never speaks of his wounds and you learn about it when he accidentally winces. You “interrogate” him and eventually Ayato gives up, letting you take care of him. There is satisfaction in seeing you circling around him with your sincere desire to aid. Ayato feels comforted and afterwards asks you to stay the night with him, persuading you it’s only for his sooner healing.

Dottore: you’re the last person Dottore will inform of his injuries. He doesn’t want to be weighty to you so he mainly hides his troubles from your sharp eyes. Unfortunately to him his silly self reveals his wounded state as he tries to bandage himself but struggles. The accidental groan ruins the silence but you are not even impressed with Dottore’s being so secretive. You roll your eyes “Silly doctor”, and tend to his wounds. Eventually he gives up and with huge blush under his mask and enjoys your touch like a starved animal, even if it is just for a few minutes.

[catscidr]

Can I please request Dottore x clingy reader who loves giving him affection thank you! 💕

hell yeah baby that's what i'm TALKIN ABOUT ୧(☉□☉୨ ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, vague mentions of gore includes: gn!reader, dottore, webttore mentionned for like a second wc: 1k

6 minutes. 

That was the longest amount of time Dottore had gone without being bugged by your presence. Well, "bugged” was a bit of a strong word- maybe more so inconvenienced by your endless whining for attention. It’s not that he hated it, it was quite the opposite really, but he actually needed to get work done before tomorrow and couldn’t afford to get distracted this time around. You called out after him for the millionth time today, trotting up to his side with an almost puppy-like expression, looking up at him expectantly. 

Currently wrist deep in the guts of one of his poor victims, he swallowed down the urge to speak his mind honestly, instead choosing to glance over at you from the corner of his eyes. His glare (unfortunately) did nothing to deter your determination and willpower- with his attention now on you, you flash him a bright smile, wrapping your arms around his torso from his right side. 

“Hey, why don’t you take a break?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him properly. Dottore’s sharp, angular features never failed to make you swoon no matter how many times you looked at his unmasked face. You think it’s a blessing, but he argues that it’s a curse- especially now that you won’t leave him alone, making him pause his work. 

“No,” he sighs for the nth time, bringing his attention back to the corpse on the metal table. “I have work to do. Why don’t you go bother Delta instead? He should be filing out some paperwork,” the doctor says, skillfully shrugging you off of him. You shake your head, resting your hands on his forearm to give him the space he needed. 

“I don’t want to hang out with him though,” you say with a frown, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Come on, you’ve been working non-stop for ages now. Just a small break! An itty bitty one. Like thirty minutes. You can spare that much, can you?” 

The Harbinger stares at the wall with a deadpan expression, weighing his options. On one hand, he could give in, listen to you and take a much needed break. But on the other hand, he could always just... lock you in his office. Not that he would leave you there for long, just enough for him to get this experiment over with. Plus it’s not like you’d be like a dog stuck in a hot car in the middle of summer without any a/c, he had a plush sofa he never used im his office alongside a mini fridge he also never used. The amenities were there for this exact scenario, anyways- so you’d be comfortable while waiting for him to be done. Although, the more he thought about it, the more his body began to feel heavy, exhaustion seeping through his limbs. Dottore grumbles some choice words under his breath and withdraws his arms out from the bloody mess that came from his current experiment and makes his way towards the sink. You follow after him, curious. 

“‘Ttore?” 

“I give up,” the doctor sighs, his shoulders slumping forward. He turns on the sink and discards his bloody surgical gloves, washing his calloused hands under the cold water to get rid of whatever gunk had gotten on his skin. “What do you want?” he asks in an indecipherable tone. You perk up noticeably, a smile making its way back to your face as you watch him dry his hands and turn around to give you his full attention. 

“Just wanna spend time with you, honestly.” you say a little sheepishly. “Have you eaten yet?” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Wanna take a walk? Get some fresh air?” 

The offer seemed tempting. After spending hours smelling nothing but hospital-grade cleaning supplies, iron and death the doctor wouldn’t say no to a trip outside of his lab- that is to say if he were anyone but the second Harbinger. 

Instead, he grabs his mask and lab coat from the coat rack and begins to walk away, making a gesture for you to follow after him. And you do so eagerly, catching up to him fairly quickly considering how long his strides were. 

Your footsteps echo in the quiet hallways, the only sound bouncing off the ornate walls of the otherwise cold and barren palace. The both of you reach your destination, Dottore pushing the door open to reveal his (barely used) bedroom. Tossing his coat aside and placing his mask on his nightstand, he loosens his button-down shirt and sits on his bed, looking at you with a raised brow. 

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all day?” he asks with the slightest bit of amusement, kicking off his shoes and repositioning himself to lay down on the bed properly. You snap out of it and shake your head, closing the door behind you, jumping in next to him happily. Your bodies fit with one another perfectly, his arms snaking themselves around your waist while you hold him around his shoulders, keeping one free hand to stroke his icy locks. He hums contentedly, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Happy?” he asks, voice muffled from how close his face is to your chest. Your nails gently scratch his scalp, drawing out a soft sigh from the doctor. 

“Very,” you say, smile audible in your tone of voice. Dottore simply hums in response, basking in the comfort of the warmth of your body against him. Part of you felt the need to ask him how long he wanted to stay like this knowing that the doctor hated being away from his lab but, feeling a bit selfish, you allow yourself to revel in the small victory that came in the form of finally convincing Dottore to let you have him all to yourself for a portion of his day. The both of you drift off peacefully, knowing perfectly well that you’re going to repeat this dance once more in the morning when the Harbinger has to work.

[mikaela-the-slut-expert]

HII!!! CAN U GET A FLUFFY ONESHOT WITH DOTTORE(WEBTOON VER) PLSSSS.... like he has a huge soft spot for you but REFUSES to acknowledge it when ppl ask... and he can never stop staring at reader IDK im down horrendous for him

Stay

Dottore (webtorre) x Reader

Of course you can. Thanks so much for requesting something from me it rlly means so much you're my fav person rn😭🖤

I'm just calling him webtorre so hopefully that's fine.

Tell if you like it or not 😋

_____________________________________________

You've been Dottore's lover for a while now so of course you're allowed to wander around the lab since he gave you special permission to. Obviously in the lab it would be impossible not to meet his clones. They're everywhere, lots of them. You've met segments that look identical to him, segments in his Akedemyia days and even segments that are children

In your opinion though your favorite segment is when Dottore was in his early fatui days. This version of Dottore has gained your affections quite easily and if you're not with Prime everyone's second guess is him. His name is supposed to be Theta but you gave him a nickname, Webtorre. He pretends to hate it though.

You love Webtorre very much. He's much more wild in terms of Prime, but he's quite funny. He has this "hee hee, ho ho" laugh and it makes you giggle every time at his sharp toothed smile.

You find that he's quite affectionate too, in more strange ways that is. Often, you notice that if you're in the same room with him, he can't stop staring at you. If you ask he'll say you're being delusional but you know that those beautiful, red eyes have been locked on you the whole time.

Throughout harbinger meetings, or while you roam the lab. There is always a pair of eyes on you. Webtorre loves to look at you. He won't tell anyone else that not even you, his darling. However he just can't seem to drag his eyes away. You're not stupid you know he's burning holes into you but you don't say anything.

Believe it or not you like his staring. How he can't look away even if he wants to. He gazes at you like you're the most important thing to him and you love it.

You love the way his attitude changes from you compared to other people. To other people Webtorre is a terrifying segment of Dottore. Who experiments on people and tortures them just for the fun. Webtorre shows ill intent or aggression to other people, but never to you. Never you.

He looks at other people with angry eyes and furrowed brows, or a look of intrigue because he plans to dissect them. Not you though. When he looks at you it's the literal definition of "his gaze softened".

Webtorre is quick to deny the claims that he has a soft spot for anybody, much less you. Waving the claims away, but if anyone were to take a chance on you because of his denial? You'll find that the person has gone missing and you might even find parts of them in jars the next day.

So while Webtorre does deny the claims and rumors, everyone knows not to touch you, much less look at you unless they want an angry harbinger in their path.

**********************************************************

You let out a big sigh, slumped on Prime's office desk. He's left for some big mission again. Which leaves you here alone and bored. What do you do when you're bored? Bother Webtorre.

So that's what you do. You wander down halls and rooms looking for him. The lab is actually quite large and branches off to even more places, you often get lost. You open a door to a smaller lab and finally spot fluffy blue hair.

"Webtorre! I've been looking for you my love, are you busy?" You say in a sing-song voice and walk over to him.

He grunts from his seat, "Of course I'm busy" but he pats his lap anyways, demanding that you sit with him. And who are you to deny? You slide on to his lap and lie your head on his shoulder. He's always acting like such a grump but he never denies you of anything.

You shiver from the lab's AC. Even though you're in the freezing winters of Snezhnaya, Webtorre loves keeping the rooms cold. He's quick to move his coat around you though so you can warm up. He doesn't need it, he has his own heat source. His heat source is lumped in his lap right now.

You yawn and shove your face into the crook of his neck, while he scribbles away in a notebook. It's an early morning and you're still sleepy. Webtorre smiles and shows his sharp rows of teeth. "Tired, my love?"

When you nod he starts rubbing his hand through your hair. "Then sleep, I'm not moving anytime soon."

You hum and close your eyes. You could use some sleep but you enjoy just relaxing here. Plus it's hard to sleep when you can feel his gaze locked on you, and when he's playing with your hair. You enjoy it though so you say nothing to halt his actions.

It's not until another presence walks in the room that Webtorre goes back to being a grump. He doesn't push you away or anything he just goes back to his huffy-puffy attitude. You smile to yourself and keep your eyes closed.

"Oh? Look at you Theta. You're getting soft, I see" you hear Pantalone's voice tease. He takes a step closer to you but is quick to take a step back when Webtorre's eyes snap to him.

"I'm not going soft, they fell in my lap" he huffs and looks back at you. It is undeniable how his gaze softens though. "Don't call me that, my name is Webtorre you incompetent oaf" you fight off a giggle.

"Don't be so polite, Webtorre. That one is always clinging to your side... Or maybe it's the other way around?" Pantalone chuckles raising his hand to his mouth.

"I don't cling to anybody, idiot. You're a blind fool if you think that's what's going on. Obviously they're the ones clinging to me" he rolls his eyes. "It's not your business anyways, get out before I put you on a lab table" Webtorre snarls.

Pantalone laughs but he leaves anyway. You are trying to hold yourself together so you don't start having a giggling fit into his neck. Webtorre isn't dumb though he knows you're awake.

It's amazing how fast his claws are put away and he stops his hissing. "Oh, what's so funny my dear?" He smiles and grips your waist.

You hum tapping your lips, "I think we cling to each other don't you think?" You tease him and look up at your lover's face.

"Ugh you're just as dumb as Pantalone, be quiet and go back to sleep." He huffs and tries to shove your face back into his neck.

You laugh, knowing he's just trying to hide his blushing face. "Noooo, you cling to me just as much Doctor" you giggle, and start giving little pecks to his face.

Webtorre groans and stares at you, "... Maybe" he grumbles. He pulls you closer against him and fixes his coat back on you. "Now shut up and sleep before I kick you out" you giggle but willingly lie back down into his chest. You know he would never push you away. You're his darling after all.

__________________________________________________

I hope it isn't too short and I hope you enjoyed it 🥰

[cream-stew]

omg i need a dottore smut can I req for a sub fem reader x dom dottore where dottore is busy doing his research stuff in his lab so he gets one of his clone to fuck you in his lab as well but halfway through dottore couldn’t hold himself back so he ended up fucking the reader but with his clone so it ends up becoming a threesome and reader gets cock drunk omg plsplsplspls 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐

🔞 minors dni

warnings: afab reader, threesome, oral sex, creampie, rough sex

// note: this was a nice scenario🙏

you can tell he's busy today, so you try not to bother him too much, but he still scolds you for being so restless and unable to sit still at your desk to do your own work :(

his solution to keep you occupied while he wraps up an experiment is to call one of his clones into the laboratory, and you eagerly stand up at attention when the clone walks close to you. he doesn't even let you strip, he only pulls down your pants and underwear and bends you over your desk, eating you out from behind as you moan.

he plays with you for so long that you lose track of the time, lost in your pleasure as you grip the desk and try to push your hips back into his face. he's holding you still tho, a bruising grip on your waist, and you only realize how loud you're being when dottore yells at you to keep quiet, and the clone stands up to jam two fingers in your mouth, making you gag as he muffles your moans. 

you feel the tip of his cock finally breach your pussy, and you're drooling by the time he's balls deep in you, already pulling out to slam back inside with force.

you're still making way too much noise as he pounds into you so roughly, not only with your barely muffled whimpering, but also his own grunting, the lewd slap of skin on skin, and the scraping of your desk against the stone floor…

the real dottore is at his wit's end, now more distracted than before he'd called his clone, and he knows there's no way he can get back to his experiment without taking care of his erection :( he needs to pump you full of his cum now, he can't just wait for his cock to go soft again :(

so he walks over to where the clone is still fucking you hard and fast, and makes him pull out to forfeit his place to him. dottore's cock buries deep inside you, not even leaving you empty for a few seconds while they switch, and the clone simply walks to the other side of the desk, his cock still wet with your juices now nudging at your parted lips.

you take him in your mouth obediently, bobbing your head up and down his length as dottore's hard cock drags in and out of your pussy, rubbing insistently against your sweet spot and making you tremble.

your thighs are quivering, and you slump over the desk, unable to keep yourself steady, and both of them just laugh at you, taunting you for not being able to take all they're giving you, despite wanting it so badly that you had even dared to disturb dottore's work.

soon enough, they're both cumming inside you, flooding your pussy and your mouth with their thick loads, and they leave you boneless on the desk when they're done. 

they go back to their respective tasks and you should too, but you're way too tired to get up :( you're just gonna lay there on your stomach for a while, your cum filled pussy still on display, until you can finally move again…

maybe they'll just save you the trouble and go for a second round when they notice you're still there, warm and waiting for them!

[screamingcrows]

Tomorrow - Dottore x reader

Note: Dottore isn't his usual self here, I'm aware. This is meant to be with my so far unknown to everyone OC, but this scenario fits x reader format. Written in Tumblr drafts as I lay in bed. Keep this out of character ai bots or I'm sending Trypanosoma brucei after you.

Tags: comfort?, soft, gn reader, skin to skin contact happens twice that's it, they are not in a romantic relationship (yet), pining

MINORS, AGELESS, BLANK BLOGS DNI

You'd never had reason to set foot in The Second's chambers, had never imagine you would either. It made the intimacy of this moment far greater than you cared to process. He was heavy when he leaned against your smaller frame, one arm slung across your shoulders for support.

Both of you remained quiet while Dottore fumbled with his keys, your eyes flickering to his gloved hand. It still trembled. How long had he been awake by now?

It had been at least four days since the door to his laboratory had been open to anyone but his segments. Not even you had been allowed in, a sentiment that made everyone uneasy. And he despised sleeping in there.

It had always infuriated you how he failed to maintain his own body. The act should theoretically hold the same value as any other system maintenance. Theory and practise rarely aligned, a fact you knew by heart.

A gentle nudge against your shoulder set your body in motion, pushing open the door and leading your superior inside.

It had a surprisingly homely feel to it, causing your steps to falter briefly as you looked around. Most of the furniture was fashioned from dark wood, creating an almost intimate feeling. Shelves filled with books lined the walls, an occasional ornament lingering amongst the tomes.

His desk looked well worn, polish having long since matted. A smile tugged at your lips, it resembled him in many ways.

Your musings were cut short when Dottore shifted his weight, pulling away from your body with a slight groan. His hands rubbed at his lower back, a habit you'd observed despite countless claims that nothing somatic was ailing him.

"Don't"

It was a simple command, his voice a little rougher than usual. The fact that he hadn't asked you to leave threw you off.

"Is there anything you need, Doctor?"

Dottore mumbled something under his breath, making you sigh in defeat. Even now, undoubtedly at his weakest point in a long time, there was no real aid for you to provide.

Uncomfortable with merely standing around, you went to draw the curtains, leaving only a tiny crack for natural light to enter. It made the situation worse, heat pooling in your gut at the sheer familiarity of the gesture.

Dottore had sunk to his knees when you turned back around. His face was pressed into the edge of the mattress, the characteristic mask discarded on the ground.

His hair had grown to an unruly length. When had he become this unkempt? Your fingers itched to run through those locks.

"Doctor, if there's nothing I can do, I'll take my leave"

The gloves had been discarded as well. No matter how many times you saw his hands it didn't ease the sting behind your eyes. It looked painful. Burnt skin, thin scars, and crooked fingers all spoke of a past best buried. His back straightened at the sound of your voice.

"Tomorrow. It'll be finished tomorrow"

A cryptic message, but you didn't feel like prodding. Not with how he seemed to dwindle in the darkness. His hands moved to unbutton the blue shirt, letting it unceremoniously fall to the ground.

"Okay?"

Your feet carried you closer against your will. The curiosity he praised you for would forever remain a curse.

His skin looked ashen. A trick of the light no doubt, that much should be logical. It didn't help the unease feeling spreading through you.

"Come by tomorrow. The laboratory. I must show you."

With every word his shoulders slumped further. He was as muscular as you'd expected, perhaps even more so with how little sustenance you saw him consume.

Objectively, he was beautiful. Subjectively, you could hardly process the sight. Outstretched hand already reaching towards him. He tensed when your palm made contact, his skin surprisingly warm.

Scars ran across his shoulders and back, oh how you yearned to map them and hear their stories. His was a life lived.

In a moment of folly, you pressed your lips to his shoulder, feeling it rise with the sharp intake of breath.

"Tomorrow then."

You left his chambers with practised nonchalance, your gait a mirror of The Second's. You could still taste his skin on your lips. Had your faith been intact, you would have prayed tomorrow never came. Tonight would have been enough.

[seabirdtxt]

Vocem Dei

The Shouki no Kami was built to be the closest thing to an artificial god that humanity could create.

Just how close to divinity does the god-machine get? [p1 - you are here!] [p2] [p3]

Notes: Genshin SAGAU, cult AU, vaguely religious themes. pre-3.2!

WC. 1.5k

----- ⚘ -----

The Shouki no Kami was built to be the closest thing to an artificial god that humanity could create.

Infused with dozens of Divine Knowledge capsules, and powered by liquid energy inspired by the Lord Balladeer’s own divine puppet blood, the machine god had capabilities beyond even Dottore’s own comprehension.

And the good Doctor was oh so eager to find out what would happen if a person were to be plugged into the mainframe.

Nevermind that every scholar who’d tried to use Divine Knowledge capsules lost their minds in the process.

Scaramouche grunts softly with every tube that locks into its socket on his back, the sensation of the machine’s lifeblood beginning to flow through him causing his body’s equivalent of a brain, his databank, to spark painfully. He pushes through it, determined to grasp divinity with both of his unworthy hands even if it’s the last thing he does.

The moment he feels the last tube socket in, an all-encompassing buzzing sensation floods his body, causing him to jolt and spasm uncontrollably. He snarls and grits his teeth, distantly hearing Dottore rattle off some statistics.

The feeling is reminiscent of his birth, when he knew the embrace of the electro gnosis, but amplified by hundreds.

An inhuman scream leaves him, electro bolts coursing across his body and the machine’s as he bows backward, curved over the shimmering tubes and feeling their hotcoldsmoothsharp liquid pulsing through him. He opens his eyes, not aware of when he’d closed them.

Above him, reflected in the ceiling Shouki no Kami’s metal cockpit, Scaramouche can see his own eyes glow so brightly with electro energy that his pupils become white. Purple sparks emit from the corners of his eyes, like tears of pure energy that tumble down the sides of his face contorted in rage and agony. In his mouth, parted in a scream that’s now beyond human hearing, small bolts of lighting sew his teeth together.

Through sheer force of his own will, the face of Shouki no Kami’s cockpit begins to slide closed, just as he hears Dottore announce 100% compatibility.

As the face plates slam shut, the overwhelming sensation of raw power suddenly cuts out and Scaramouche slumps over, held up only by his connection to the tubes in his back. His face nearly collided with the doors in front of him but he stops his descent with his hands, and the sockets in his back pull ominously.

The blessed silence lasts for exactly a minute before being replaced by a strange mechanical sound, almost like a bell ringing.

He lifts his head weakly, turning from side to side to find the source, until he realizes it’s coming from inside his head.

“Wh-” he begins, but is cut off as a clicking noise interrupts him, replacing the ringing with a cordial-sounding voice.

“Hello, who’s speaking?”

“H- hey! Who the hell are you?! I demand to know how you’re speaking to me right now!”

There’s silence for a moment before the voice responds.

“Uh, well, you called me, dude. And I asked first.”

A million thoughts run through Scaramouche’s head as he braces his hands against the face plates of the cockpit, pushing himself back upright with a noise of frustration.

“Do you even know who I am? When I find out who you are I will put an end to your insignificant insect life- wait, what do you mean I called you?”

“... You… You called me, and I answered…” The voice says hesitantly, a tone of amusement filtering into their words. “That’s how calling usually works, right?”

Scaramouche rubs his temples, shaking his head. “I… called you? I don't even know who you are. How did you get in my head?”

“... in your- you know what? This is weird, dude. I’m gonna hang up now.”

“Wait!” Scaramouche blurts out before he can even realize he’s done it. “Don’t… don’t go! At least tell me who you are?”

The silence is deafening, and for a moment Scaramouche is sure he’s been left alone, and then the voice returns…

… Saying the name of Teyvat’s overarching deity. Greater than the Archons. Greater than Celestia. Greater than even the Traveller, who originated from beyond this world.

Incredulous, Scaramouche repeats after you, following up with: “Is- is that right? That’s your name?”

“... Yes? Should it not be?”

Scaramouche lets out a peal of elated laughter, the tubes in his back rattling with the movement. Unbelievable. He did it! He attained godhood beyond even the power of the Archons; he made direct contact with the Divine Creator themself!

“Your Grace! I can’t believe it. It’s me! It’s Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth Harbinger of the Fatui! I can’t even begin to fathom that you deigned answer to my call!”

“Scaramouche? Like from the game?” the voice asks. “Is this some kind of prank?”

“Wait, no, please! No, I swear this isn’t a joke, please believe me! I’ve worked so hard to get to this point, I deserve your recognition!” A hint of desperation bleeds into his voice, and his fists clench where they’re pressed into the walls of the Shouki no Kami’s cockpit. A second passes with no response and a pathetic cry escapes his lips. “Please… not you, too…”

His shoulders and the tubes shake with the force of his muffled sobs, air he doesn’t truly need catching in his throat. He lets his head fall forward, colliding with the metal panels with a dull noise.

“Listen, I’m not sure I believe you,” the voice returns. “But you sound really bad, man. Please don’t cry or anything, okay? I’m kinda in the middle of something right now but I’ll call you back in a bit. If this is some kind of RP thing or whatever, I swear…”

Scaramouche feels it, the second communication is cut. It leaves a void in his skull, right behind his ears, and the silence that once filled the cockpit is replaced with the mechanical whir of the Shouki no Kami, and the metallic sound of hammering.

He swallows and rubs his eyes roughly, scrubbing any trace of tears and briefly thanking the powers that be for having made him a puppet, to exist without the embarrassing functions of blushing or having bloodshot eyes.

He grumbles and looks down at the heel of his palms, noticing that he’d wiped some blood as well. He checks his nose, finding it to be the source, and messily wipes it clean before willing the cockpit’s face plates to open.

Outside, a frantic team of Fatui engineers cheer and hastily pull the doors open, and Dottore pokes his head into the space, seemingly both relieved and intrigued at Scaramouche’s state.

“Well well, my little friend,” Dottore drawls, a shark-like smile spreading across his face. “The god machine, as well as you, has been unresponsive for just under twenty-four hours. We’d nearly feared that we lost you.”

Scaramouche glares at him with a sneer. “You seem so terribly broken up about it. I’m touched by your show of concern."

Dottore doesn’t reply, only acquiescing with a hum. Around him, the engineers are taking stock of the robot’s state and functions, jotting down notes and observing the puddle of Scaramouche’s blood, the evidence of which is still drying on his face.

“Tell me, was the synchronization a success?” the Doctor finally asks, barely holding back a flinch when Scaramouche’s head flies up to face him with a feral grin.

“More than a success,” he raves, his hand coming up to touch the side of his head. “With just a bit more practice, I will ascend higher than even Celestia itself!”

Dottore hides his uncertainty well, but Scaramouche’s eyes are sharper than they were before, and his grin widens at the sight of the Doctor’s expression.

“Very well, let us conclude the test now, then.” Dottore announces, motioning for the technicians around him to disconnect Scaramouche from the machine.

“No.” Scaramouche says, maintaining eye contact with Dottore and remaining stock still as he sends a pulse of electro running down his body, giving a violent shock to any of the technicians who’d been unfortunately too close.

“... No?” Dottore asks with a stiff smile.

“I want to stay connected with the machine,” Scaramouche declares. “Isn’t this the goal? Shouldn’t I spend as much time attuning to the divine energy, so that I may become the perfect god? This is what you designed it for, after all, right?"

Dottore remains silent, with that same plastic smile on his face.

“Very well,” he says curtly. “The Lord Balladeer may remain inside the god-machine. Resume monitoring and record signs of changes.”

The Doctor turns on his heel and steps lightly out of the room before Scaramouche could annoy him further. That suits Scaramouche just fine, as well. He settles back into the cockpit, willing the face plates closed until he’s in solitude once more. He stares at the small puddle of his own blood on the floor; his normal reddish oil-blood mixing with vibrant, glowing purple.

He leans back into the mess of tubes, and smirks.

He’ll eagerly await your next contact.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ A Boy Named Heretic 

tw: mentions of stalking and theft. Dottore in his Akademiya days, reader hinted to be from Khaenri'ah. SFW

Imagine little boy Zandik, discreetly hiding behind the columns of the Akademiy, trying to take a peek at you from afar. You’d stand among your peers, the Akademiya’s uniform embracing your constitution to further highlight your comforting poise. You are taller than the young boy, a perfect image of a senior student with just a few semesters away from graduating and becoming an official researcher. Alas, the teen felt self-conscious to approach you directly, since he was only a junior trainee Dastur. 

Imagine little boy Zandik eavesdropping on your discussion with your friends. You’d complain to your friends how one of your notebooks on Linguistic Semantics and Pragmatics was lost. You were a diligent student, and your written notes were a reflection of your hard work, so it was natural for you to feel bummed out about losing your notebook out of the blue. Zandik would persist in eavesdropping, noticing your friends providing consultative pats on your back: “Maybe you left it some other place?” or “Maybe you forgot it in the previous class?” - they’d say. Little did you know that a young trainee Dastur was hugging your notebook close to himself, not admitting to anyone that he was the one who stole it.

Imagine little boy Zandik sneaking off into the lush gardens of the Akademiya or some other miscellaneous corner of Sumeru. He’d hold your notebook protectively as if it was his newest treasure from the one he adores. He’d spend hours reading your notes, analyzing your handwriting, and smiling at the small doodles left on certain pages. Zandik’s fingers would gently trace the outline of your pages, memorizing the unique theories and thoughts you conveyed in your notebooks. His dorm room was filled with various notes or papers you randomly discarded or forgot about. Now it proudly hung, being displayed on his wall. 

Imagine little boy Zandik never telling anyone that he was the one who pocketed your negligible belongings. Yet in a couple of weeks or months, you’d mysteriously find your long-forgotten notebooks once more. There it is, in your backpack, as if you never lost it. You’d scratch your head in confusion, unaware of carnelian red eyes staring at you from across the library. Even yet, oblivious of the boy whose cold stare would turn into a longing gaze. Any books you borrowed from the library a week ago were now on his desk.

Imagine little boy Zandik being conveniently nearby when you stormed into the student affairs office, complaining to one of the supervisors how your Akademiya uniform was stolen. You’d relentlessly argue about how you definitely did not leave it somewhere randomly, only to forget it after returning from a research expedition. Thus, after a useless talk in the office, you’d sigh and slump down in the empty hallway wearing casual clothes due to your missing uniform. 

“...Excuse me, miss?” - a small voice interrupted your thoughts when a junior student approached you. He stood there for a while, hands behind his back and big round eyes gawking. 

“...Um, yeah?” - you replied with uncertainty, trying to conjure a polite smile. “How may I help you?” 

“You’re not in your Akademiya uniform. I heard a commotion from the office from which you came from…” - he spoke, although hesitantly as if looking you straight in the eyes was an act of disrespect that could shatter him. “Did you lose yours?” 

“Ah, well, about that…” - you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “I’m sorry, was I too loud that other students heard from the hallway? My bad… Yes, I have indeed lost mine. Although I am more than certain it was stolen directly from my bag.” 

The young trainee Dastur stood in front of you, his eyes still wide and observant of your every move. He mustered a reply and said: “Don’t worry. No one heard… Only I did.” 

You stared at him awkwardly. Where did this boy come from? 

“Is this yours, miss?” - he suddenly revealed neatly folded clothes from behind his back. And wouldn’t you know, it was indeed your uniform. You hopped up in an instant. 

“Whoa-! It’s my uniform! But how, and where did you find it?” 

Imagine little boy Zandik invoking all his courage to stand still before you while biting his lips nervously as he handed you your belongings. Your immediate shift to awe and excitement upon your found uniform was a lot. You were indeed taller than him, your mere presence made him feel like a child, stammering and shifting coyly. However, he finally muttered his name to you and explained how he found some folded uniforms mysteriously left behind. 

Imagine little boy Zandik feeling relieved when you believed him, even when you noticed that the uniform was oddly warm despite being missing. And yet you still looked at him with sincere gratitude and a warm appreciation. The boy’s lips would tug into a guileful smile when you left. He’d remember your smell from the uniform. 

Imagine little boy Zandik managing to catch you every morning in the Akademiya’s hallway. He’d always approach you, so silent yet observant, but only when you weren't surrounded by your classmates and other seniors. You thought it was a coincidence that his breaks matched yours and that he’d inadvertently stay in the same remote hallways you always preferred. He was visibly reclusive when talking, but his curiosity was palpable like his gawking red eyes. He often asked you about your interests, research, classes, and frankly anything. The young trainee Dastur never got bored of hearing you ramble and rant about ancient technology or languages; instead, the boy huddled close to you, with his legs swinging gently. 

You didn’t have to know that his break schedule did not match yours. But your inconspicuous meetings became a daily routine nonetheless. 

Imagine little boy Zandik clutching onto your uniform and asking in horror: “What do you mean you’re leaving the Akademiya?!”. You informed him that although you graduated and got your thesis approved, you refused all invitations to work as a researcher or a trainee professor at the Akademiya. It wasn’t an easy decision, and you wished to withhold that information from him, but the boy was eerily observant. He saw your signed papers and coaxed an explanation from you. 

“...I’m sorry, Zandik. I have to.” - your voice filled with as you stared down at him clutching onto you. regret 

 “You can’t just leave!” - his grip on you was not firm, but it was pleading. “You are an exceptional alumni! You could become a professor in just a few years. If you wait just a little, I’ll finish my senior classes and become a junior like you, too! And- and, in just a couple of years, I’d be a student in your courses! I’ll be your best student in class, I promise!” 

The boy begged and pressed himself onto you as if you’d vanish forever. It hurt to see him like that, it hurt to say you’d leave him. You squatted down to meet his gaze.

“Zandik, it’s all right. You’re already a top A student in your class. It’s just the circumstances that are calling to me, and I’ll have to leave Sumeru. I won't be staying to work here. I’ll… have to return to my home country.” 

“You won't even stay in Sumeru…? But your theories on ancient technologies, the ruin guards, the anthropology of the Cataclysm… a-and me - you can’t just leave it all behi-'' Znadik's lips were shut with your palm, trying to keep him at bay and not cause a scene. It took a while to shush him, and you’ve never seen him in such enraged distress.

“As much as I loved my studies and research, I… do not wish to stay in the Akademiya. This institution would not be so welcoming if I were to pursue my theories. This is not the academic career I desire.” 

Imagine little boy Zandik not understanding at the time. Why would the Akademiya not be happy with your topics of interest? What’s so wrong with learning about Khaenri'ahan technology? You’re Khaenri'ahan. What’s wrong with your thesis on the origins of cataclysms throughout Teyvat? He read them, he worships them, and you determined to leave it all behind? 

Imagine little boy Zandik concealing his choked anger as he whispered “... You would leave me behind?”. He never confessed he was the one who stole your notebooks numerous times, or how he reads your papers at night with a flashlight, or how he stole your uniform to relish your scent and imagine it was you he was holding tightly. 

He could’ve held you. He could’ve done many things if you stayed. Now his last anchor in this cursed institution was gone. 

Imagine little boy Zandik glaring daggers at a classmate named Sohreh, who blurted out once: “So what if some random alumni left the Akademiya? It’s not like their research was the most unique one… students come and go, right?” 

Imagine little boy Zandik is no more. Because after 400 years, in his place stood a dangerous man, deemed a heretic and the 2nd of the Fatui Harbingers. He would achieve great scientific length, no matter how immoral and heretical they were, all thanks to the inspiration of your works when you were young. His works in creating segments were not for naught, because his influence was used for both the Fatui’s and personal gains too. Personal, as in scavenging the corners of Teyvat and Abyss to locate you. 

Imagine Dottore finding you, after almost 400 years, instead of the little boy you once knew. Because that little boy from the Akademiya never stopped imagining you being back.

➻ A small illustration of Zandik that I did for this fic is here too :)

[dottores]

A WINTER NIGHT'S LAZZO | PANTALONE & DOTTORE

summary: a peaceful night in bed is interrupted when dottore returns to you your drunken lover, now you must spend the night taking care of him... and perhaps having a serious conversation with the second too.

warnings: none rlly, poly relationship (meaning dottore x pantalone too), pantalone had been drinking and you're taking care of him, implied past smut between you dottore and pantalone, extremely self-ship

notes: i luv them ur honor sobs this was so indulgent i literally wrote it in like an hour -- @snezhnayans @mxnjiros @dxlucs @hanmas @manjiroscum @suyacho @alucrds @tokyometronetwork

wordcount: between 1.5 and 2k

even before he spoke, you could tell that he had been drinking. the regrator usually walked with a sort of confidence that would have even the most powerful men taking a second glance. it was a mask, yes, but a mask that he wore well—one that he rarely let drop even around you. 

he was not the sort of man that stumbled over his feet and he was not the sort of man that ever would ask for help. so when the door to your room slammed open and pantalone floundered in, being steadied by dottore, you couldn’t help but raise your eyebrows.

“i thought he said he wasn’t drinking tonight,” you said, amused, as you placed your book down on your nightstand and sat up from where you were lounging against fluffy pillows.

“i thought so too,” dottore agreed, eyes lit up in a sort of way that they only did when he was with you and pantalone. “found him slumped against a wall complaining about the floor moving beneath him.”

always one to point blame at something other than him, you thought to yourself, biting back a giggle as your eyes traced over pantalone’s flushed face and red-stained lips.

“come here,” you said to the older man, whose hazy eyes drifted in your direction as dottore’s grip tightened on his waist, preventing him from swaying on his feet again.

“when did you get here?” your eyes widened a bit at the heavy slur to pantalone’s voice, strong enough so that you could barely even make out what he was saying. your eyes drifted behind him to dottore, who looked thoroughly amused at your reaction.

“oh my,” you said quietly, unable to muffle the next giggle that rose to your lips. “help him to me.” 

“i don’t need help,” pantalone said, offended, batting dottore away and nearly careening right to the ground. “‘m perfectly fine.” 

“of course you are,” you placated him as dottore guided him closer to the bed. you smiled as pantalone collapsed right into your lap, face buried in the crook of your neck.

you let out a soft ‘oof’, adjusting yourself to the added weight as you wrapped one arm around his waist, rubbing circles against his back, while the other held the back of his head. he reeked of cabernet and the faint scent of that perfume he enjoyed so much. 

“how much did you drink?” you asked, kissing as close as you could get to his temple as pantalone hiccuped against your skin. he was never this docile unless he was sick or all but blacked out. you wondered if he would even remember this in the morning… perhaps it would be better if he didn’t. 

“two glasses,” he had the audacity to lie blatantly as you held him. you withheld the urge to jab your fingers into his side, knowing he would probably just throw up on you.

“how much did you drink?” you asked again, after a moment of silence. 

“two bottles,” he said, and you shook your head, forcing yourself not to smile.

“oh, i hope you don’t remember this tomorrow morning, you’ll be absolutely despicable if you do,” you murmured, kissing the top of his head again as you felt his eyes droop shut, lashes tickling your skin.

he had been dining with some of the less antagonistic aristocrats, if you remembered correct. he would be livid if he humiliated himself in front of them… you wondered if you could slip out to find pulcinella before pantalone woke in the morning, he would likely know how the meeting went down.

as your thoughts ran amok, your gaze snapped up as you heard your door creek open again.

dottore was trying to sneak out, you realized.

“where are you going?” you asked, frowning deeply as the masked man paused, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“back to my lab,” he said. “i have research to finish up before the meeting tomorrow.” 

“you’re going to leave me with him?” you asked, aghast. “i can’t handle him alone while he’s like this.”

you knew very well that he would wake up midway through the night sick and complaining—not able to make it to the bathroom before he was heaving up the food and alcohol he had consumed at dinner. 

“he’s your lover, no?” dottore asked, leaning against the doorframe as he stared at the two of you with an unreadable expression. “i’m sure you can deal with him perfectly fine.”

that’s right, you thought to yourself, barely holding back a sigh. the three of you had never explicitly stated what… this was. you and pantalone had been together long before dottore had ever wormed his way into your relationship but even then, he was usually just… there. joining you in bed occasionally, lingering around the two of you in his rare bits of free time, never anything too intimate… and this was intimate, more than just a use of release, you were asking him to spend the night with the two of you.

“must you be so difficult,” you murmured, carding your fingers through pantalone’s hair as the man drifted to sleep on top of you. you would have to shift him off at some point otherwise your body would be numb by morning… but he looked more at peace now than he ever had before, so you decided to leave him for now.

… plus you wanted to take advantage of the rare show of docility from the harbinger.

“don’t be daft, dottore,” you finally sighed loudly, looking back up at the man. his lips were pressed together tight at the comment—you should feel proud, not many were able to insult the second harbinger and live to see the next morning. “he is my lover, you are my lover, and you are each other’s. and you are not going to leave me here to deal with him alone. he’s absolutely miserable when he’s sick. you will suffer through it with me.”

dottore did not look moved by your speech. your eyes narrowed.

“either you stay and help me tonight or i’ll sic him on you tomorrow when he’s hungover and even more miserable,” you threatened and the doctor simply shook his head, closing the door and making his way back over to the bed. 

“and you have the audacity to call me the difficult one,” dottore said flatly, taking a seat hesitantly on the bed next to you, watching pantalone with a fond expression on his face… or as fond as he could get with the mask on, you supposed. “does he agree with what you said? or was it just a way to delegate some of the work to me?”

you turned your head to the side to look at him. you didn’t say anything for a moment, just observing him. he still had that wretched mask covering half of his face and you realized, dully, that you had never seen him without it. your body moved before your mind could reconsider, reaching up to pull the mask off.

long, thin fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist in an instant, stopping you just as the pads of your fingers brushed the cool metal. you didn’t pull away, you supposed you took it as a challenge—another thing that you should be proud of, because no one challenged the second and lived to tell… much less get him to back down.

it took a few moments of tense silence but dottore eventually released your wrist, reluctantly, if the way his lips were pressed together tight had anything to say about it. 

you held your breath as you slipped the mask off of his face, eyes tracing what was finally exposed to you. rough, jagged skin over both of his eyes—burn scars, it seemed. you reached up to cup his cheek, he tensed but only for a second.

you leaned in just a bit so that you didn’t disturb pantalone, smiling as you spoke quietly. “as intelligent as he may be, our lovely, drunken princess has the emotional awareness of a rock… just like someone else in this room.”

“i hope you’re referring to yourself,” dottore said dryly, but he didn’t move your hand away as your thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

“i am not,” you replied, an amused lilt to your tone as dottore visibly forced himself from rolling his eyes.

“you have some nerve,” he murmured.

“i do,” you agreed. shifting carefully as pantalone let out a soft groan on top of you. you brought your hand to his hair, hushing him softly and running your fingers through the dark locks as you tried to get him to settle down and go back to sleep. 

you watched, amused, as his arm dropped to the bed next to you, hand landing right on top of where dottore was resting his. the older man stiffened, eyes darting down to where their hands were connected. you smiled to yourself. 

“give him time,” you said quietly, eyeing dottore from the corner of your eye as you finally rested back against the pillows, ready for whatever little sleep you would have before pantalone inevitably disrupted it when he woke up sick. “it’ll take a bit for him to process and verbalize what he feels for you. it took him months with me… but you’ll find he’ll be very pleased when you start hanging around more… actually spending the night instead of leaving as soon as you’re finished.”

dottore sounded irritated as he sighed but he was making himself comfortable next to you, so you considered it a win. 

“and if you’re wrong?” he asked.

“i’m never wrong,” you said proudly, scowling as dottore scoffed. you side-eyed him heavily. “now go to sleep, you have to deal with him first.”

--

[kallesque]

the conflict of the mind — four.

cws // mentions of blood and experimentation.

╰┈➤ dottore x reader: further developments. FIC MASTERLIST HERE.

𖤐 He levels you with a sharp-eyed gaze, one that pierces through you and deciphers the very fibres of your being as if you’re nothing more than a string of equations. “Surely you understand me, Composer.”

You recall hours of practice in an empty concert hall, rewriting notes over and over to soothe your insatiable self-expectations. Aching wrists and numb fingers streaking blood on cello strings.

“… I do,” you admit.

Despite all things, you eventually find yourself falling into the familiar rhythm of routine once more. As far as promises go, Dottore makes good on his word— you are spared the ordeal of having to facilitate his experiments again, much to your relief. He insists, however, that you remain in his office as you work, silently daring you to challenge him in the space after the statement.

You don’t.

In the end, you find yourself skirting the edges of his attention, tucking yourself into the corners of his office and busying yourself with the tasks he gives you. Halfway through tidying up his notes and documents, careful not to crinkle the edges of the papers, you’re faced with the realisation that you’ve taken on the role of some sort of personal assistant.

You’re not sure why he’s entrusted you with this. Was this another test? Or were you simply not a liability to him— easily disposed of if anything went south? You switch off your train of thought before it can head down that avenue. Dottore doesn’t seem to complain about your work, so you decide to take it at face value and try not to overthink it.

Days pass with relative peace and you’re grateful for the respite. Aside from treatment sessions and mealtimes, you don’t see Dottore at all— you can hear him just beyond the office door, however, the sound of equipment clattering and (occasionally) voices speaking reaching your ears with relative clarity. It’s not your intention to eavesdrop but you hear things nonetheless— promptly trying to forget them immediately after.

Delta comes in once and watches you from a corner of the room with such frightening intensity that it takes everything in you not to shrink away. You’re not sure how long he remains there, red eyes piercing into your bowed head as you work, but eventually he mutters something that sounds like a declaration of how boring this was and strides out, the slam of the door masking your ragged exhale.

Perhaps you’d forgotten that this was his office, but the fact is quickly reestablished one day when the door slams open and he steps in, covered in blood and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

You jump at the sight, nearly dropping the sheaf of notes you’d been about to lay down. “Dottore,” you say, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “Are you… alright?”

He draws himself up to his full height for a moment before his shoulders slump again, and you really do drop the notes this time— on the desk, thankfully— rushing forward in time right before he staggers.

You drape his arm over your shoulders to hold him up, your other arm looping around his waist for support as you shift him to the couch in the corner. You’re too engrossed in the task to notice how the blood smears on your clothes as well, but he does. 

Once you’ve settled him with some difficulty, you hover there for a moment, lips pressed thin in concern. “What do you need, Lord Harbinger?”

“I’m fine.”

You pause, eyebrows drawn together. “But the blood—”

“Is not mine.”

You can believe that, but your eyes are suspicious as you glare at him, taking in the unnatural pallor of his skin and how the scars that show from the edge of the mask seem more pronounced than usual in conjunction to the gore splattered across his face. Specifically the one across his lips.

Dottore smirks when he catches you staring, the corners of his mouth turning up. Your eyes instantly rip themselves away and you fight down the embarrassed flush that threatens to rise. “But you—”

“Composer,” he holds up a hand to halt you. “Just quiet down and give me a moment.”

You subside. “I’ll be right back.”

He watches you leave the room, hears the taps in his laboratory switch on and off. You return with a bucket of warm water and a clean cloth you’d found folded in a cabinet, walking over to him again.

“What are you doing?” he asks, vaguely amused as you sink to your knees in front of him and dip the cloth into the bucket.

“What do you think,” and you can’t hold back the sarcastic edge in your reply, ducking your head to avoid eye contact as you wring the excess water out. “You can use this to clean the blood off your face and hands.”

“No.”

You raise your head, looking at him for a moment. “You’re going to walk around the Palace like this?”

His grin widens, and you catch the gleam of teeth. “I never said that. Aren’t you supposed to be making yourself useful?”

The breath you’d been taking chokes itself in your throat when it dawns on you. “What.”

“Do it for me,” he beckons, the undercurrent of amusement never leaving his voice. “Go on.”

You grit your teeth before you can say something irrevocably reckless.

Coming from someone who was on the brink of collapse mere minutes ago, your arrogance truly remains unscathed, Lord Harbinger.

Instead, you move to comply, fumbling to remove as much of the sanguine that stains his gloves as possible— though you’re sure they’ll still need to be sent for proper cleaning— before dragging them off his hands entirely and setting them down to roll up his sleeves, hoping your fingers don’t tremble as you sponge at the skin there too. Most of the blood is on his clothes, so you’re spared from trying to remove much of the damage, though you’ve gotten better at not wanting to implode each time your skin makes direct contact with his.

Regardless, you’re arguably nervous when you move up to his collarbones and neck, the damp cloth staining crimson as you clean off the blood there too. You don’t let your hands linger, barely allowing yourself to look at him as you polish the silver ring of his harness until it’s clean again. The tension rises between the both of you until it's practically suffocating, and the water in the bucket tints pink as you wring it out and dip it in again.

When you glance up again, you freeze.

Dottore raises an eyebrow at you, the mask he’d just removed dangling from his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is matter-of-fact and decisively imperious.

“Wouldn’t this make your ministrations easier?”

Condescension aside, you hate that he has a point.

Tentatively, you reach forward. The cloth is soft against his cheek as you work, bloodstains soon reduced to nothing but a diluted smear against the once-pristine fabric. 

Only unlike earlier, this time you can’t look away, your eyes outlining the contours of his expression, tracing the scar tissue on the upper half of his face— the majority of which seem to be the products of a nasty burn, from your appraisal.

This time, when you feel the razor’s edge of apprehension that sets your nerves alight at his proximity, you realise with sinking horror that it is not fear.

All while scarlet eyes burn into you unflinchingly, searching you. 

You finish wiping his face clean of blood, somewhat in a state of shock from your newfound realisation, preparing to stand and back away hastily. You haven’t even risen when he speaks, still kneeling on the floor. “Are you revulsed by my appearance, Composer?”

I don’t like liars. You’ll do well to remember that.

His expression is blank, completely unreadable. You want to die. 

“I am not.”

“You know better than to speak mistruth to my face.”

“I’m not,” you protest weakly, and heat floods your cheeks as you force the words out. “In fact, I think you’re…”

He pauses. Looks at you, mildly inquisitive, waiting. You’re reminded of a snow leopard before it pounces on its prey, all elegance and sharp teeth. “Don’t mumble. What is it?”

“… Rather attractive, Lord Harbinger.”

You tack the honorific on as an afterthought, the sound of it watery and rather faint. As if it would soften the blow of the sheer mortification you’ve just delivered upon yourself.

Head lowered, you don’t expect his fingers to grasp your jaw, tilting your face up again towards his. You definitely make an undignified little sound at that, however, if the gleam in his eyes is any indication to go off on. “You’re not lying to me,” he states, and you can’t tell if he sounds perplexed or smug. 

Words fail you and you opt to shake your head silently instead, the movement vastly minimised in his grip. Dottore leans closer to you, and you’re paralyzed in a dizzying blend of captivation and consternation, unable to do much else but struggle to keep calm. When the slant of his smile meets you, the racing thoughts in your mind instantly flatline.

You don’t even realise he’s stolen the washcloth directly out of your grasp until he’s pressing a (relatively clean) corner of it to your cheek, imitating the motion you’d used on him earlier as he drags it dangerously near to your lips, other hand still clasping your jaw firmly.

You’re dazed, discomposed. Music notes falling off the staves, harmonies played into disarray. 

“You had some of the blood on your face,” Dottore intones, sounding rather self-satisfied as he releases you. 

You want to slap the smirk off his face. You want to keep looking until you have him memorised as completely as your music, ingrained as deeply as muscle memory. 

The words are a distant thing on your tongue. “…Thank you, Dottore.”

You’re too dazed to realise that you’ve called him by his name twice today as you gather everything up and hurry out of the office. Anything to escape the way he’s looking at you.

~

He must take some mercy on you when you return, because he doesn’t torment you further. Sufficiently more collected, you give him a chilly glare that you hope masks the lingering heat of embarrassment simmering beneath your skin. “What was that?”

“I assume you mean my earlier state,” he grins, crossing his arms. You pointedly do not stare.

You’d never dream of questioning him about anything other than that. “Yes.”

Dottore sighs and gestures at you vaguely, the teasing air replaced with ruthless efficiency in the blink of an eye. “You’ve heard of Delusions, I presume.”

Who didn’t? Still, you remember something. “I’ve skimmed your notes on them briefly.”

“Yes, those.” He surveys you for a moment, pleasantly surprised that you’d taken interest in his research. He had been eager to see how far your curiosity would take you when given access to his notes. 

Furthermore, you expressed no protest nor did you brandish the accusation of blasphemy at him… he continues speaking. “This was simply the toll exerted on me by one such Delusion, as I was testing a prototype out. Wielding it results in a greater amount of power utilised in combat, yet the side effects followed suit, something I have yet to correct.”

You’re undeniably intrigued, recalling the scribbles in the margins and placing them as familiar. “But, Lord Harbinger, I was under the impression that the current archetype was more than adequate and was already being used widespread by the Fatui ranks.” 

“Tch,” he scoffs, gesturing at you. Understanding his request, you locate the notes that concern the topic at hand and pass the sheaf to him. Dottore flips through the pages as you pull out the chair at his desk to take a seat. “The current model is elementary at best, barely beyond basic function. If I merely stopped at adequacy in my work, I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

He levels you with a sharp-eyed gaze, one that pierces through you and deciphers the very fibres of your being as if you’re nothing more than a string of equations. “Surely you understand me, Composer.”

You recall hours of practice in an empty concert hall, rewriting notes over and over to soothe your insatiable self-expectations. Aching wrists and numb fingers streaking blood on cello strings.

“… I do,” you admit.

“Of course you do,” he says crisply. “Nonetheless, that’s all there was to this afternoon. I’ll have to go back to tweaking the manufacturing process of the Delusion after this…” 

Dottore launches into a spiel of theories and formulas. Whether you understand him or not— you merely listen to him as he debates prospects and wrangles the nuances of potential adjustments out, scribbling hasty amendments into the pages of his notes as he goes. You won’t say it, but you do find his voice pleasing to listen to.

You don’t ask about the blood on him. You don’t ask just how he had decided to test the prototype out. You have a feeling you won’t like the answer.

Traitorous, your mind flashes back to the memory of Dottore faltering, nearly crumpling to the floor, even if it had only been for a moment. If that was what a singular round of tests could do to him…

The Harbinger catches the look on your face when he slows, that unnervingly charming grin making its way back to his face once again. “Are you worried about me, Composer?”

You can’t lie to him, so you opt not to respond, gazing at him the same way a deer would at prospective headlights. 

The Doctor’s laugh makes your composure crack ever-so-slightly and you curse his name mentally for having flustered you so many times within the span of a single hour.

“How cute,” he tells you, and the distance between the couch and chair suddenly doesn’t feel like enough to properly separate the both of you. “It’ll take more than that to put me out of commission, my dear. Moreover, it’d be rather pathetic if my demise came at the hands of one of my own creations.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” 

Does his presence ever get less overwhelming?

“I hope you’re having fun,” you tell him scathingly, the words tumbling out before you can soften your tone with respect. Somehow, this only amuses him further.

“I definitely am,” Dottore purrs. You resist the coward’s urge to cover your face. 

“My lord,” you chastise. 

“Better than what you usually call me, but I liked it more when you said my name.”

You surrender and succumb, pressing your face into your hands and letting out a long, exasperated breath into your palms, refusing to look up. He laughs again and you feel it reverberate deep within you, rewriting the rhythm of your pulse. At this rate, you’ll never be free of him.

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