#dottore is there too

[axisplazaradio]

silly things I've done the past few days

[vilapollo]

after my comms, I'll finally continue writing the zombie apocalypse abo au fic that's been plaguing my mind

[rene-elric]

Tried drawing the halovian dottore idea i had

[degenerateshinji]

you hit friendship 4 and he just gossips about his ex job

[boundinparchment]

Essence

Behind you, Dottore clicked his tongue against his teeth, and continued rooting around in the cabinet. This wasn’t the first time today. In fact, it was the third after an errant vial rolled from a top shelf and broke earlier that morning. You and your samples remained uncontaminated only due to Dottore leaning forward and covering both of you. Or: an accident with a questionable substance leads to a new experiment. Dottore/Female Reader. Accidental exposure to aphrodisiac; breeding kink towards the end, pwp. Divider by cafekitsune. Available on AO3 here.

“Don’t move.”

You froze, acutely aware of the source of heat and muscle against your back as Dottore reached above you.  

This wasn’t a new occurrence; every once in a while, either Dottore himself or a Segment needed to get into the cabinets above your workstation.  Extra vial trays, pipettes, errant extra microscope slides, among other items.  Things you used for blood and chemical analysis.  You were used to the briefest moment of keeping your head down, front pressed against the edge of your workstation, and feeling Dottore’s heat against you.

Funny, you thought, when he always came across as indifferent to everything.  The Segments were a few degrees warmer, no doubt due to their components.  Their presence was akin to touching a hot pan out of the oven with nothing between your skin whereas Dottore, the prime origin point, was porcelain warmed by fresh tea.

Behind you, Dottore clicked his tongue against his teeth, and continued rooting around in the cabinet.

This wasn’t the first time today.

In fact, it was the third after an errant vial rolled from a top shelf and broke earlier that morning.  You and your samples remained uncontaminated only due to Dottore leaning forward and covering both of you.

You hadn’t caught a glimpse at the label but the contents hadn’t seemed harmful.  Dottore, although not melting, was far from pleased.  He barked to take better inventory of your workstation as your eyes traced the pink substance that soaked his hair, feathery mantle, and immaculate white coat.

He had since removed his formal trappings and appeared all the more graceful for it.  

A breath tickled your scalp as he placed his free hand on your waist, holding you still.

The touch sent jolts through you, as if you were standing in a field during a thunderstorm.  Dottore kept his hand there and you tried to keep your breath from hitching, his finger flexing occasionally.  Was he testing whether you were ticklish?

His breathing was unnaturally slow in return, pressing against you further with every inhale.

“What are you looking for, Lord Harbinger?” you asked, neck craned low.  

It was best to continue to work.  Before you were samples of primordial water.  The substance glistened in standing vials, each awaiting their next step.  

You felt him shift forward and your hips met his properly.  He had, quite effectively, sandwiched you between him and the counter.  A dull yearning sat low in your belly and you doubled your efforts on the samples in front of you.  

To say you did not find your supervisor attractive would be a lie; like most, you often wondered what lay beneath the bird-like mask, literally and metaphorically.  The lower half of his face was charming, home to a well-shaped jaw and a set of lips that were, at times, distracting.  The conversations held between you often led down other avenues.  It was clear to you that few, if any, would ever be a match for him in how he saw the world.

The thought that crossed your mind was bold: someone like him did not need a matching piece, an opposite to dilute him.  A mind like his needed the challenge of one who complemented his thought processes.  More like a fine wine pairing rather than a Hydro slime dousing a flaming flower.

When Dottore didn’t respond, his body tense against you and hand tight on your waist, you spoke up.  Was he ill?  

“Lord Harbinger?” 

You shifted in the hopes that your moving might break his thoughts.  Dottore inhaled sharply and pushed you forward again, chest and hips pressing against you further.  His other arm was still raised, as though he hadn’t quite finished in his search high above.

“I said: don’t move.”

The words were hissed against your ear and you felt the tip of his mask against your scalp.  His chest rose and fell in harsh, stilted motions and you swore you heard him mutter something into your hand when he squeezed your waist again.

Against your backside, you now realized why, precisely, he’d requested your stillness.  The dull pangs from earlier became aching throbs at the apex of your thighs.  You pushed away the thoughts, reminding yourself biological reactions were simply part of being human.  The position you were in was one many would envy.

“I cannot find the tincture that is usually kept here.  But the longer I stay, the worse this problem will be,” Dottore whispered into your ear.

His voice was always so alluring and now it was one of the only parts you could focus on.  Blood drained from your extremities, keen on flooding other parts of your body.

“What was in that vial, sir?”

“Cherubic sea hare venom and whopperflower nectar, stabilized by a single Agate gemstone, finely ground.  All batches of it were purged.  Or should have been.”

An interesting mixture, you mused, as Dottore’s raised arm came down and reached behind you.  You heard a telltale click and then watched as he rested the familiar mask off to the side, next to your tray.  When you went to turn your head and look over your shoulder, his now-free hand found your jaw and pulled your gaze back forward.  Through his gloves, his touch felt feverish, scalding.

“Eye contact will make it worse.  Do as I ask.”

His voice was tight, breathing ragged now, nose buried in your hair.  Archons, you’d had fleeting thoughts of him but this was torture.  Here he was, struggling against whatever he’d come into contact with while trying to work. All because of an accident that wouldn’t have occurred if you didn’t need to work exactly at this location.  Fate was a cruel mistress but this was sheer misfortune for both of you.

“Those substances are hardly volatile on their own, sir,” you offered.

He always enjoyed discussing ideas and he encouraged an environment conducive to it among your peers.  Distracting him might help.

You wanted to move your hips, as though friction would give you any kind of relief, but remained as still as possible.  He wasn’t giving you much of a choice and the longer you stayed still, the more aware you became of everything else.  You were acutely aware of your own wetness, your uniform pants already sticking to the apex of your thighs when you felt him twitch.  His presence was overwhelming on a good day when there were several feet between you.

“The whopperflower nectar is a good base for any mixture but tends to result in disorientation and temperature changes depending on its source,” he said into your hair, his other hand falling to grip your waist.  “Agate, of course, contains the power and passion of the pyro archon.”

His hands tightened, squeezing right at the junction of your hips.

“And the sea hare venom?”

This had to stop at some point, though, right?  None of those substances ever left behind permanent effects.  On their own, they were relatively harmless, but if synthesized together in the right dose, would…

Dottore nuzzled your hair and then worked his way down to your neck, lips ghosting the shell of your ear and the tender spot beneath your earlobe.  

“Enhances one’s awareness of their partner’s needs and changes in pheromones.  Along with an increased stamina.”

“Partner’s needs?”

Your heart pounded as it was but seemed to miss two beats at his wording.  He was already specific and precise.  Purposeful.

“This substance only works when the subjects already have an attraction to another individual, a pre-existing bias.  It is similar to tunnel vision, an obsessive focus on the other with decreased inhibitions.”

You gasped as he pressed against you further, his hardened member against the curve of your ass, situated perfectly.  Heat rose from your chest to your face as you finally put the pieces together and your own arousal caught up with you.

“And you, my dear, keep moving despite my warnings.  Are you eager or were you contaminated as well?”

You stiffened at the realization that, lost in the headiness of it all, you’d been bucking against him the entire conversation.  Your body had a mind of its own and your mouth ran dry.

“I—“

You knew you hadn’t gotten a drop on you.  Somehow that felt all the more shameful.  He needed help out of this situation and all you’d done was chase your own arousal, relished in the moment.  Even if he walked away now, he would still likely require relief and release.  Still be plagued with thoughts of you.  The way forward was obvious, wasn’t it?

“I want to help, my lord.  My mind is clear.  Would it not be beneficial to…see the experiment through?”

The tiniest bit of tension seemed to ease as he flexed his fingers.  Did he like that, you wondered, the way your skin sank beneath his fingers?

“The results might be promising.  But I must warn you…”

Before you could formulate your next thought, Dottore’s hips pinned you in place as he pushed away the objects in front of you with little care.  No sooner had the fleeting consideration for your samples crossed your mind, you felt open-mouthed kisses on your neck, hasty and hungry.  You arched your back and leaned into him, closing your eyes and tilting your neck to give him better access.  

“This will only be the first stage,” he whispered.  “And there is no going back.”

You did not trust your vocal cords as he found a particularly sensitive spot near your ear, stifling a moan and keeping it in your throat.  His hands remained flat against the surface of your work station, further pinning you, surrounding you.  Dottore lifted his head from the curve of your neck long enough to reach out and drag back a pencil and a nearby sheet of paper.

He managed to scribble something in shorthand that you recognized as observations of his symptoms and a basic outline. You had suggested he treat it like an experiment, after all.  

You felt his cock twitch again as his other hand freed itself from the surface to skim the edge of your uniform top.  A low growl rippled through his chest and he paused only to pull off his gloves; as soon as he was free, the pencil was in his hand again and he was grazing the pads of his fingers over your stomach.

Every touch felt as if you were being held above a fire, the flames licking and searing but never leaving a trace.  Your breath left your lips in short, staccato gasps and you shivered, relishing the soft jolts that ran through you.  

He squeezed your hip again on occasion and his fingers dipped beneath the edge of your pants, tracing the lines where your clothes left their mark.  The pressure behind you eased only enough for him to fit his hand between both of you and head lower, grabbing the soft flesh of your ass.  A low moan rumbled behind you as his fingers delved a little further, skimming your outer lips.  You were soaked, his touch gliding over you; you wriggled against him and felt his teeth skim your neck in warning.

“Eager indeed,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear.  “I could already smell it but this is a pleasant surprise.  Have you had thoughts of me, my dear?  Have you fantasized about this?”

Your cheeks burned and Dottore chuckled, his fingers prodding your hot, soaked core once more before withdrawing and cupping your ass again.  He obviously had, otherwise neither of you would be here in this predicament; after all, Dottore stated the substance only worked precisely because there was already a cognitive bias. 

You whimpered as his hand let go of your plush flesh and reached around, fingertip hovering over your swollen clit.  Dottore touched you just enough to cause a squeezing ache through you, your swollen walls demanding more.

“I have, Lord Harbinger,” you panted.

He made another notation as he withdrew his touch, the pencil snapping in his hand just as he finished the last flourish, the last of his restraint gone.  He cast aside the remnants with a flick of his wrist and tugged your pants down just past your hips.  Dottore didn’t bother to do more than unfasten his belt and free himself from the confines of his trousers, bare cock situated between your wet thighs.

The Harbinger pressed a hand to your back and pressed you forward, bending you over the surface, all the better to expose yourself to him.  He leaned over you, sheltering you, as he aligned the head of his member with your entrance, running his length across your lips.  A gasp left you at the sound of your slickness.  Whatever shame you had the decency to feel was gone, replaced with only a blinding need to be full, complete.

He sank into you slowly, his cock stretching your swollen walls with each shallow thrust, his hands fisted so tight his knuckles were bone-white.  You shuddered when he brushed past a particular spot every time, the edge already much closer than you expected.  An icy jolt ran through your core, walls clenching from the pressure of being pressed against the table.  Dottore hissed and his strokes grew long and full, nose buried in the crook of your neck as the sounds and scents of your coupling filled the air.  

At least this lab was more secluded but you long since lost control of any thoughts about being caught.  

“The timing could not have been better,” Dottore murmured, his pace increasing.  “How perfect.”

You meant to ask but he drove into you harder, the edge of the table pushing into your diaphragm, preventing you from speaking.  The impending bliss was already making you see stars and the lack of air was only enhancing the coil tightening deep inside.  You stifled your moans, although perhaps there was no point, as teeth grazed your ear and neck.  Hands reached for your hair, your waist, your hips as he continued to thrust, white hot heat searing across your vision as the pressure finally snapped.  Dottore groaned as you fluttered around his cock, squeezing and pulsing.  

His rhythm never changed through your aftershocks and he sent you over the edge twice more, legs quivering.  All thoughts of documenting his observations seemed gone now as he sank his teeth into the curve where your neck met your shoulder.  With a few quick snaps of his hips, Dottore shuddered atop you and you felt a shooting warmth, filling you to the brim and then some.

Dottore remained inside you, body covering yours.  His hands massaged your hips as he pulled away from your neck enough to press his lips to the open skin and lick away the blood.

“Decreased inhibitions indeed…” you muttered, tongue heavy.

You tried to shift, or at least stand straight slightly.  Your back was beginning to protest and between the man inside you and the table, catching your breath proved difficult.  Dottore chuckled as he ground his hips into yours, his cock still hard and buried deep inside you.

“We’re far from done, my dear.  Stage one is not over yet.  This substance can take days to wear off.  In that time, I’m certain I’ll obtain the results necessary to move right into stage two.  Taking you on your back might improve the timeline, though…”

Your stomach sank as you managed to turn your head and cast a look through your peripheral over your shoulder.  All you caught was a glimpse of a wide smile and glittering ruby eyes staring down at you.

“Oh, did I not mention that?  It’s quite convenient that your body is ready, based on your pheromones; I cannot stop until we’ve guaranteed success.”

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ Based on the most common Dottore content I see (and obsess with), so choose wisely...

(Also, artists that can draw horror art style of Dottore - please teach me 🙏 you have my utmost respect, because it's harder than it looks to nail the vibe.)

[horrorsboyfrie]

Loser!Zandik being crushed on by Popular!Reader

(masc terms on reader+ it's the typical corny social butterfly × weirdo shit, queer edition, honestly + Zandik displays traits of autism + a little murderous♡)

Zandik, as per usual, was spending the night's time in the library. It was quiet, for the most part. While a lot of his fellow peers were focused on finding answers for their own satisfaction, even those who viewed their values and research to be above everyone else's had someone to keep them company; for that reason, they often chose to borrow the necessary books and study in their respective dorms, or the dorms of their friends. Some did indeed prefer the setup of the library's sections and desks, but even so, the peaceful atmosphere was not interrupted by them.

Zandik sat on a table at the very ends of the room. He had a pile of books to his right; some half opened, and others neatly stack on top of each other. He had his notebook and pens nearby, taking notes of anything he deemed crucial knowledge for his personal projects.

Not long had he been entangled in his theories when a specific group of students decided to make an appearance. They could be heard from miles away— and it just so happened that they chose to sit on a table to his right. Malicious intent, no doubt. These people tended to act as if Zandik was some foreign species to be studied; as if he was a sort of a subject that needed constant supervision.

Of any day to endure the constant speculations and disgusted or concerned expressions towards him, today was not the right one. Nothing too horrific had happened to him, not something that would matter to an average person, at least. It's just that he slept wrong, causing him to wake up with slight neck pain, which played a role in worsening his already short temper, which in turn made his sensory issues towards his clothes, especially his socks, far more insufferable than they had to be. He was one unexpected move away from having a meltdown.

Yet again, he managed to ignore the obnoxiously loud 《whispers》 that sprouted out of those filthy rat-filled mouths of theirs, as Zandik's already-overwhelmed mind decided to call them.

Unfortunately for him, the multiple different voices started chanting even more nonsense as you walked towards the table— he could see that you were dreading it. Was everyone so damn bothered by his existence? You were known to be such a sweetheart— contrast to majority of boys there— by those who've interacted with you, but to be fair, none had a reputation quite like Zandik's, so it's no wonder you resented him, as everyone else did.

"Why'd we have to sit here?" he heard you emphasize. He looked your way; he could see the grins on the faces of your friends, the way they seemed to be picking on someone, hushed whispers, mentioning his name time after time, as if he wasn't barely three chairs away. Gods, his patience was running thin.

"Can we just switch seats?" He listened as you practically begged your friend, who was sitting on the complete opposite end of the table. As much as he may have claimed (to himself, seeing as he had none to actually confide in) not be a man driven by emotion, his worse sensory days were tempt to be a catastrophe in every way possible. He left soon after he heard those mumbles; he was too sensitive for his own good, even if he dismissed that fragile soul of his with walls of anger and apathy.

Your friends seemed to notice before you, the fact that he was no longer in the room. All you got was endless teasing about how you've missed your chance or about the fact that you probably 《intimidated》 him. Bullshit, no? You sighed as the group split up again, each going ahead to do their own thing. The only true reason they decided to meet up here was to force you into talking to him. That did not quite work out, it seems.

You hurried to leave as well, when you noticed a small pen on the ground. That must be his; you always see him writing with that specific shade of blue. It's not like nobody else in the whole Akademiya owned the same one, but he was sitting on the table you found it under. You decided to hold on to it. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to finally have a conversation with the guy!

On your way back to the dorms, you noticed him nearing his own room. Maybe now's the time to return him his belongings— especially considering how he seemed to be searching his pockets. His face was indifferent when he realized he didn't have the pen on him, but his hands were trermbling; a hint of anxiety perhaps? One could only speculate. You decided to leave him on his own. He probably wasn't up for company or conversation anyway.

The following few days weren't quite like you expected. Usually, you'd manage to get at least a glance your way by him; laughing at stupid jokes, bumping into people or objects that you could have easily avoided, accidentally saying things a bit too loud. Nothing worked this time. It's as if he purposefully was avoiding you; a fact that got confirmed after you tried walking towards him. He saw you—he made sure you saw his look, he held it for a couple of seconds— and then he walked away. Fuck, there's no way this guy wants anything to do with you.

Weeks later, you had grown to forget ever owning that pen of his; actually, you started using it for yourself. If you can't give it back, then why not use it for yourself?

Zandik, despite trying his hardest to keep his stares away from you and your friends (and pretty much everyone else in that damned building), couldn't help but notice that his long-gone favorite pen is under your possession.

After the very last class of the day, he decided to give you a visit; your fate had been decided by him already. He's done what he's done in the Eleazar hospital and got away with it. It wouldn't be hard to add another body into the endless pile of disappearances; he knew how to keep suspicion off his shoulders.

Perhaps it was a bit too far. He was letting his rage get the better of him; but gods, he really hadn't felt at ease writing with anything else. "His death would make no logical sense to my goals," he sighed as he reminded himself. "What sort of researcher puts his emotions above his values?" He groaned— frustrated both at himself for considering such a solution to his problems, and at the situation itself.

Times like these, he'd go to his special place to sit and think; it was a big tree, near a lake. Children would often talk about their encounters with the Aranara there. At first, he only ever visited that place so he could find one creature and take it for himself, but he grew quite comfortable being there.

He grabbed the opportunity by its hand once he spotted you all alone; sitting with your back against that very same tree that he favored. As if you had a seventh sense, you turned around to see him. He wasn't quite prepared to be greeted with a smile. It caught him off guard; why were you, of all people, showing any form of sympathy for him?

"I was hoping you'd be here" you said, handing him the pen that he has been desperately trying to get a hold of again.

[stapledfish]

there, dottore's robo shoulder thing that's definitely alive and not just a decoration. As you can see it's a cute pet, yup yup.

and definately in scale too

[gum-iie]

hear me out for like 3 seconds guys

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part eight: in which you're forcibly removed from your comfort zone by none other than the resident ginger, and you meet a certain someone's alter ego(s)

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will not be romantic interests)

notes: surprise surprise, the burn is still slow!! mentions of blood, gn reader with a dosage of snark that probably exceeds the recommended value

series masterlist

author's notes: *daddy's home plays faintly in the background, slowly but surely increasing in volume as i approach you on a hoverboard with a comically large witch's hat on my head and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses on*

word count: 4725

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

It was, by all accounts, supposed to have been a completely normal lab session. You were planning the reaction route you’d take to test the enzyme you’d synthesised and the various ways to ensure its effectivity other than the rate of the reaction and the yield as you waltzed through the door (the inscriptions were glowing a pretty purple-pink hue reminiscent of sakura blooms that day). The redox apparatus from two days prior was sitting exactly where you’d left it, nothing out of the ordinary there. The abnormality came in the form of a segment currently in the process of detaching the round-bottomed flask where your product had accumulated from the condenser; the first thought to register was the sheer audacity for anyone to even contemplate touching your experiments, while the second, this is my chance to study the constitution of these ‘segments’ up close, wasn’t far behind. Glancing up sharply, your flask still clutched in his un-gloved hand, (a voice in your head shrilly protested his lack of adherence to safety procedures) the segment began moving away, no doubt to disappear to wherever him and the rest usually stayed. With more agility than you thought you possessed, you rounded the workbench and grabbed him by his sleeve.

“You. What are you doing with my condensate?” You demanded, grabbing the flask from between his fingers and setting it down on a stand. Now that the imminent danger of your work going to waste was neutralised, you took the time to analyse this segment of your supervisor’s while you had him cornered. This version of Dottore was at least five years younger than the one you were familiar with, probably from his late Akademiya years. And he wore no mask, leaving two brilliant scarlet eyes on full display, rimmed with pale blue lashes and dark shadows beneath them. The segment coughed and fidgeted, trying to find a way to escape your clutches.

“Hold still,” you ordered, reaching up to touch his face. You were startled by the smoothness of the skin, having expected something cold and metallic. How in Teyvat did he pull this off? You tilted the segment’s face this way and that, looking for hidden wiring or steel plating or anything else that would belie machinery, yet you found nothing. You gave his cheeks an experimental squeeze, and were further surprised when your fingers dug into what seemed to be soft skin, then dropped your hands, stumped.

“Huh. You look very human.”

“Prime did tell me that was the intention,” the segment agreed, flushed in the face and still trying to discreetly push past you.

Even his voice didn’t sound robotic in the slightest, riddled with natural dips of tone and perfect inflection for the context. Your eyes took in every detail, every movement, still failing to spot anything that would’ve given him away as a machine.

“Incredible. Did he give you a name?”

“No. Prime wouldn’t waste a second thinking about something so inconsequential.”

If you weren’t mistaken, the segment sounded almost bitter, staring blankly down at the wall with those striking eyes. You felt a twinge of pity; being a clone for Dottore was probably a thankless task. “Would you like one?” You offered, not unkindly. “If your system permits that sort of input, of course.”

“I- I have no use for such things.” It was strange to think that your Doctor, impenetrable and unmoving as he was, had been capable of stuttering to the point where he himself recalled and implemented the trait.

“How about Theta? I’ll need to distinguish between you lot somehow.”

 “It’s of no difference to me,” the segment- Theta- mumbled, before shooting you one last look, then disappearing in the split second it took to turn your head in his direction. You wondered where he’d gone, and why he was so wary of you.

Oddly enough, you didn’t see the Doctor for the entire morning and well into the afternoon. It was far from ordinary for him not to be in the lab the moment you arrived, (you suspected he slept there, if he even slept at all) muttering under his breath as he worked and occasionally ordering you to hand him the wrench or scalpel or graduated pipette in a tone so entitled it tempted you to bash him in the head with the very equipment you handed him. Still, you couldn’t deny his usefulness. Having two pairs of hands was always easier than one, especially when the other pair was as experienced as they came; you could bounce any question off him and receive a convincing answer, even if he could never resist throwing in a mocking remark about ‘how shameful it must feel to have such a rudimentary fact slip your mind.’

However, you had much better uses of your time than fretting over the location of your boss, such as extracting a sample of noradrenaline from the brain of a body so fresh you half expected the eyes to open in the midst of your operation. Even after such a time-consuming procedure, the Doctor had yet to make an appearance. You wrote it off, assuming he wouldn’t be present that day, and ate all the fruit tarts you’d brought while boring holes into your notebook with your eyes and trying to determine what exactly had gone so wrong amidst your calculations that the percentage error was at an unforgivable fifty seven percent.

“One hundred cubic centimetres of sulphuric acid sounds unreasonable,” a voice from over your shoulder remarked. You blinked, refocusing on the sheet of paper. A whispered curse slipped past your lips as you registered where you’d went wrong; the decimal point of the volume of acid was indeed one too many zeroes to the right. You twisted to see who’d given you the hint.

It would’ve been incredibly easy to mistaken this segment for Dottore himself,  but he lacked the jagged scar spanning from above the mask to his chin and cutting right through the corner of his lip. This segment’s face also wasn’t as harrowed, unlike Dottore’s hollowed cheeks and deathly pale complexion. You probably would’ve missed the difference yourself, if you weren’t so accustomed to the tiny details of the Doctor’s countenance. The segment grinned lazily.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?”

Oh, for the love of-

You shoved him away with a roll of your eyes. Not quite as Dottore-like as his appearance suggested, then.

“You segments are rather friendly today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Since Prime isn’t here to hassle us about disturbing you, we thought we might as well make use of the main lab.”

A frown formed between your brows as you mulled over his response, absent-mindedly scratching out the mistakes in your calculations.

 “Main lab? There’s others? And why would the Doctor forbid you from utilising it on my account?”

The segment leaned over, resting his elbow on the workbench and his cheek in his hand as he watched you. “What do you mean why”- a delighted expression crossed his face, and his resounding cackle made you look up apprehensively from your notes. “Oh, what a scream. You mean you don’t know?”

The notion of ‘not knowing’ made the scholar in you bristle. “Don’t know what?” You snapped, crossing your arms and turning to subject him to the full force of your glare.

“You’ll find out soon enough, lovey,” he replied with another laugh. You scowled.

Patronising piece of-

“I heard you even gave one of us a name,” he said, interrupting your furious train of thought. “I didn’t think you were so besotted.”

You clicked your tongue dismissively, waving him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s counterproductive not to know the names of one’s assistants.”

It was the segment’s turn to bluster. “I am no one’s assistant!”

“Mhm. Be a dear, Gamma, and pass me the dichloromethane so I can make some aspirin for the inevitable headache you lot are going to give me.”

Muttering and grumbling and secretly preening over his namesake being a highly dangerous electromagnetic wave, he slid you the bottle and even a measuring cylinder and pipette to boot. You rewarded his extra efforts with a small smile, and Gamma suddenly understood every nonsensical thought that Prime had experienced since you arrived in Snezhnaya.

Throughout the day, more and more of the segments appeared from Archons-know-where and took to hovering around you while you go about your business, or chattering and doing a fine job of distracting you from whatever you were reading, or even rushing to assist you. You didn’t complain; it was fascinating seeing these different facets of the Doctor. Most of the older segments are rather similar to him, although Gamma had a rather prominent flirtatious streak, while another you’d named Omega was more snappish and impulsive. The younger ones were unfailingly comical; Theta was so easily flustered and a little more apprehensive about explosive compounds than the rest, and Pi, whose name referenced the pastry that was such a direct contradiction to his character, was rude, arrogant and reckless.

(“Since you’re such a bitter pill to swallow, I’ll call you Pi.” You grinned at your own joke. “No other aspect of you is remotely close to sweet, after all.”

Pi scowled animatedly, shattering the beaker in his hands from how hard he’d gripped it. “I won’t answer to a name given by a simpleton.”)

“Pi, clean the mess you made in the fume cupboard! Some of us have organic lungs that can’t handle toxic fumes, you know!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” he snapped back, then slunk off to do as you’d told him when you weren’t looking.

The youngest of the segments, who barely reached your waist and had yet to even speak in your presence, had taken to trotting after you wherever in the lab you went, weaving between your legs and staring up at you with wide eyes half-hidden by a mop of messy blue hair. You’d come immensely close to tripping more than once, but you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him at all, instead nudging him out of the way like a cat sitting in the middle of the hallway. The segments were helpful enough, even if you’d been talked back at more times that day than your entire career as a lab technician in the Akademiya supervising young recruits, and by the time you were contemplating the prospect of heading to the dining hall for a bite to eat everything was in order; reagents alphabetically stored in their cabinets, counters wiped and glassware washed, even the enormous, curved windows were polished to a high shine. You spared them an approving look as you walked past, arms laden with bottles of (carefully separated) acidic and basic waste, admiring the aerial view of the snowy forest below, draped over the mountainside like a shaken-out blanket. The young segment was still tailing you, a lollipop you’d fished out from one of your pockets in his mouth; his utter disregard for where he was stepping had put you on your last nerve, but every time you sat him down in a safe corner he’d stare dolefully up at you before reappearing in your peripheral vision a few moments later. It was a wonder you hadn’t lost your temper, really.

“Epsilon, I can see your reflection in the window,” you pointed out in an unimpressed tone to the segment who’d been on the verge of grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to startle you. He huffed and grumbled, shaking the hair out of his eyes and cheekily tipping the neck of one of the bottles you were carrying as though to let the acid milkshake within, so to speak, spill, then pranced away from your scathing glare with a merry tune on his lips. You didn’t know how the segments seemed so familiar with you, as though they’d known you all their lives; Pi somehow knew how much value you placed on your leather gloves, as he’d threatened to use them for chromium extraction when you didn’t let him take one of your fungi petri dishes, Gamma had off-handedly mentioned how it was a shame your ear piercings had closed up years ago because you couldn’t match with their fluorescent blue test tube earrings, and Theta wordlessly handed you a pile of the expensive cider wood parchment you preferred to use and hurried away before you could say anything. It was baffling, to say the least, but you appreciated the extra help. It meant you could skip off to have a rather overdue lunch without fretting over something or other you might have mistakenly left over a Bunsen burner, even if it was strange leaving the lab without the Doctor’s voice criticising your lack of commitment to your education as the door swung shut behind you.

You weren’t even surprised to find Childe outside, leaning against the doorframe and tossing a dagger through the air, letting it flip over itself before catching it once more. When you opened the door, he stumbled into you and the dagger slipped from his hands as he nearly knocked you backward; but in a rare moment of swift reflexes you jumped to the side to snatch it from mid-air before it could stab either of you in the leg, only for Childe to latch onto your cloak as he fell and subsequently landing you on top of him. For a long, drawn-out moment, you just stared at each other; one of your hands pressed to the floor near his head while the other gripped the knife a safe distance above you. You quickly noted two things. One: Childe was bony and being draped over him was overall an uncomfortable experience; the apex of each of his ribs dug sharply into your chest, and two: his eyes were a peculiar, beautiful shade, less like the sea and more like heavy velvet thrown over something that glowed bright and blue, dimmed by the weight of the fabric.

Childe was finding it difficult to process anything other than your closeness. Yes, you were even more breath-taking up close and yes he would’ve given anything to place his hands on your waist and pull you closer still, but he was even more enamoured by the dips and points of your knuckles where your hand gripped the dagger, the creases in your leather gloves around each finger and the oddly calculating look in your eyes as you appraised him. You could stab him, he realised with a rush, staring up at you. You could drive the blade down and lodge it between his ribs and he probably wouldn’t be able to react fast enough because it was you, and his blood would stain your cloak and blouse and a coppery taste would fill your mouth. He wondered if Signora was right, and whether you really would look better in red.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell, and Childe suddenly noticed all the other tiny little things he probably wouldn’t get close enough to see again. The notion that such things would remain secret almost made him panic, and it took considerable effort not to clutch at you as you rose to your feet and dusted yourself off. You extended your hand to him, and he allowed himself a split second of self-indulgence, the liberty of seeing your outstretched hand reaching towards his collapsed body as something more than it was; he let himself believe that you, so bright and resplendent in your every trait you might as well have been the moon, were offering him, a creature writhing in the darkness, salvation or even just a moment’s respite.

You hauled him up from the floor with a grunt of effort (he couldn’t possibly be as bony as he felt. All that weight had to come from somewhere), then took off your glasses and held them to one of the wavering white lamps, handing him the dagger.

“Hello, Eleven.” You frowned at the new scratches on the lenses and started rubbing them with the hem of your blouse, even if you knew it was a fruitless endeavour. “How long were you waiting out here?”

“Long enough,” he all but whined in response, slinging an arm around your shoulder and ruffling your hair. Your only protest was a half-hearted grumble as you shoved your glasses back on, and his chest warmed with the thought that you no longer instinctively rebuked his touch. “C’mon, Trixy. I didn’t think you were the type to ghost someone after a date.”

“What are you talking ab- oh, for heaven’s sake,” you said exasperatedly, shooting him a look as he walked towards the stairs with you in tow. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

He beamed so widely you nearly stumbled on the steps, blinded by the intensity of his glee.

“So you’re not denying it was a date?”

You sighed out an incredibly inappropriate curse, drowned out by Childe’s hearty laughter.

“You are an incorrigible man.”

“Well you went on a date with this incorrigible man,” he countered cheerfully and not without a healthy dose of smugness. That earned him a withering look, and you detangled yourself from his side as you walked down the corridor.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” you said with a shrug, laughing slightly when he let out an indignant splutter. Childe bristled, trailing after you with an exaggerated pout.

“You should apologise for hurting my feelings, Trixy.” “If I were to apologise every time I bruised your fragile ego I’d never have time to say anything else,” you teased, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. “Now come on, they serve an exquisite pumpkin soup on Wednesdays.”

You wondered at what point you’d become so friendly with the Harbinger, to feel relaxed enough to so casually poke fun at him. Maybe your self-preservation instincts were decaying. Maybe it was worth it.

“I don’t want to see that… Arlie again,” Childe protested. You looked at him sidelong.

“Oh?” You asked, feigning surprise. “Why not?”

Because she outranks me and I don’t like having to share your attention, he thought. “She beat me in a fight once,” he admitted grudgingly. It wasn’t even a lie; that bitter defeat was indeed part of the reason he felt less than ecstatic around her, though the atrocities she’d carried out to become the fourth Harbinger were impactful too.

 “Infighting between members of the same organisation should not be the norm,” you stated, shaking your head. “You Fatui are ridiculous.”

Childe laughed, tugging you closer by your linked arms to elbow you in the ribs. “You’re one of us ridiculous Fatui now, remember?”

“I am not!” You protested, affronted, before sighing at the self-satisfied expression on his face and changing the subject. “Tsk. So you refuse to speak to her just because you lost to her once? That’s immature, even for you.”

“No, no, defeat is all part of the battle. I don’t like that she refused a rematch.”

You hummed thoughtfully, chewing over his response.

“So you believe you’d win this time?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a shrug, steering you past the dining hall’s entrance. “It doesn’t matter though, does it?” He continued, as though the idea of combat for the sake of combat was the most normal thing he could possibly conjure. “Sparring with a strong opponent is the real goal. Say, Trixy. Are you any good in a fight?”

You snorted. “I’m a scholar, Eleven, not a warrior. And even if I was, I wouldn’t spar with you.”

His face took on an almost comically wounded expression. “What? Why not?”

“Because I know when I’m outmatched,” you replied dryly, letting him drag you along. A dejected expression you felt compelled to ease fell over his face. “Although I do have passable aim with a bow and arrow,” you reluctantly offered, and the change in his demeanour to unadulterated ecstasy was laughable.

“Really?! You’ve got to show me.”

“What? No, absolutely not.” Your reply was swift and decisive, but Childe was nothing if not meddlesome and persistent.

“No, no, no, you’re not getting out of this,” he jubilantly exclaimed, tightening his hold on your arm as if to prevent you from running off. “We’re going to one of the training grounds right now, and you’re going to do some target practice.”

“I’ll use your bloody head as a target if you don’t drop it, Eleven,” you threatened.

“Great idea, let’s try that too!”

Even as you lamented his utter insanity, Childe steered you to the west wing of the palace where you’d never been before. Upon looking around, you concluded that all forms of combat training happened there; the sound of crashing steel and muffled gunshots, interspersed with the occasional crackling, sloshing or rumbling from what was probably from Vision holders practicing how to utilise their elements in battle. The silver in the walls was twisted into different patterns from what you’d become familiar with, abstract depictions of battles long-past and a whole wall of solemn, important-looking text gleamed almost menacingly, commanding the attention of any who walked past it. From your passable fluency in the Snezhnayan tongue, you deciphered it to be an oath of sorts where the reader swore to carry out a myriad of jovial things such as turning the snowy landscape into a ruby’s facet with the enemies innards or their own, and wreaking havoc within the heavens until it rained scarlet. All in the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.

Wow. Bloodthirsty much?

You eyed the oath distastefully, missing how reverently Childe mouthed it as he led you into an empty archery range. Rows of targets stood on the other side, pockmarked and their paint scratched, with a few of them sporting an unfortunate red-brown stain. You were grateful that there was no one there, at least; if you were a little rustier than you remembered then there was no one to witness your mediocrity other than Childe, who was presently looking through the extensive selection of bows and chattering about the various advantages and disadvantages of different models. You riffled through one of the many quivers of arrows scattered haphazardly about, admiring the high-quality steel of the heads. Some of them even had meticulous patterns along their shafts, no doubt hand-painted, and you appreciatively traced a particularly striking golden dragon with tiny, methodical scales spanning the entirety of the arrow, ending at the head where the dragons jaws were open in a roar.

“Well, Trixy? What bow are you going to use?”

You glanced up from the quiver, twirling the dragon arrow between your fingers, eyes skipping over the countless bows laid across the stands. You noted the ones tossed carelessly across them with a disapproving glance, and eventually picked the one that was the most similar to what you remembered using, long-limbed with a straighter taper and made from wood you recognised as Yumemiru from the distinctive diamond-shaped whorls.

“Why that one?” Childe asked, mesmerised by the sight of you in his element with a weapon at your fingertips. What were you thinking about when your hands reached for that particular bow? Did you have any specifications, preferences in regards to size or even the type of wood it was made from? Were your eyes drawn by the faded blue leather wrapped around the handle? Would you prove to be better, smarter, quicker than he was? The thought sent his heart racing and his brain spiralling with the prospect of having you as a competitor, an opponent.

“Does it matter?” You replied with a shrug, testing its weight in your hands. “I’m no expert when it comes to the craftsmanship of weapons. The bow I learned to shoot was probably older than me with a string practically on its last life.” You frowned slightly, looking up at him. “Why do you ask? Is there some sort of technique or guideline I should follow?”

“No, no, don’t worry about doing something wrong,” he reassured, his back to you as he assembled a quiver of arrows. You lowered the bow to stare at him, flabbergasted that he’d so quickly and accurately read the involuntary hesitation in your answer.

“Usually we have beginners start with a compound bow, but you probably have your own inclination by now,” Childe continued, oblivious to your astonishment. “What you’ve got there is a longbow,” he added, tossing you an archery glove. “They’re generally more difficult to master and harder to use.”

You pulled off your glove after making sure his back was still turned before replacing it with the one he gave you, and then picked up the bow again with new interest.

“I see. And yours?” You asked, nodding towards the one he had picked, white wood gracefully curved and narrowed at the tips.

“This one’s a recurve bow. They’re better at close range and generally need more strength to draw.”

Childe couldn’t help but be entranced by your contemplative expression, all furrowed brows and a distant gaze as you took in the new information. He had to agree that you really were a scholar before all else; the pensive look you so often sported might as well have been made to be worn by your features. In your eyes, even an archery range became an experiment, a mystery to untangle. You sighed and turned to face the targets, nocking the arrow and drawing the bowstring back to touch your chin. Childe watched as you adjusted your aim, mentally evaluating your form, then let the arrow fly. He let out a low whistle of appreciation when it hit the centre with a satisfying thunk.

“Clearly your aim is more than just passable,” he remarked with an excited glint in his eye that you didn’t quite like.

“Accuracy is all I have,” you replied with a shrug, lowering the bow and gently pressing your fingers into the indent the bowstring left in your chin, perfectly aligned with the barely-visible scar there. You’d forgotten how tender the skin could get. “I doubt I can still hit a moving target, for one.”

“But you can get the bullseye every time?”

“Not every time,” you corrected, making your way to the target to pull the bow out of the wood. The painted dragon really was a masterpiece, and you took a moment to admire it before heading back to the archers’ stand. Childe grinned and followed after you, bow temporarily forgotten.

“So most times then?” He pressed, trailing closely behind you.

“Where are you going with this, Eleven?”

 “I still think we should spar,” he replied brightly, so close he was practically breathing down your neck. “We’ll make it so that if you manage to shoot me even once, I go down, or we could”-

You twisted around to poke his chest with the fletching of the arrow, cutting him off. “No.”

“Please?” He implored, rounding on you whatever direction you turned to avoid him. “Please, please, please?”

“No!” You repeat, louder and with the full force of your irritation. “I’m not dying before I get this damned certificate!”

There was a beat of silence as he stared at you, slightly aghast. “You think I’d kill you?”

“…I don’t think you’d do so on purpose, no,” you conceded, taking out your pocket watch. “But your strength exceeds mine to the point where fearing for my life in a duel wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable to assume I’d ever hurt you,” Childe groused, continuing to block your path every time you tried to move past him. “Stop trying to get away,” he added, bending over to pinch your cheek. You stared at him, utterly at a loss for words, then quickly smacked his hand away with an irate grumble.

“I need to get away, I still have lab work to do.”

Childe flapped his hand as if physically shooing away the idea. “You work too hard, Trixy. Take a break.”

“And what do you think this little exercise was?”

“A chance to impress me with your archery skills, of course,” he replied without missing a beat, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. You rolled your eyes with a quiet huff of laughter, pushing past him, and he dutifully followed after you.

“You’re not very difficult to impress, are you?” You teased back.

Only when it comes to you, he thought wistfully.

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

taglist:

@viridian-coffer, @vvzhyxx, @darifes, @whore-of-many-hot-men

@aenishas, @lovel3tter, @randomidk-123, @autistic-deer

@luvenus702, @zoriaisasimp, @ra404, @crownohomo

@diamondcookie45

if i missed you somehow please message me directly, bold means i’m having trouble tagging you! to be added or removed please comment on the masterlist post of this series <3

[fatuismooches]

Weird thing I always imagine. Idk if they’ve been invented in teyvat but let’s say they have so….rollie chair Dottore. Specifically if he’s taking care of fragile reader in his office, just cleaned their arm in preparation for needle, but wait that needle is over on his desk, that’s okay he’ll just wheelie over !! Idk just imagining him rolling from desk to desk to grab some papers and whatnot is so scientist/doctor coded

The only reason Dottore owns one of these rolling chairs is because you were the one who bought it in the first place (very much persuaded by Pantalone's luxurious one.) The Doctor prefers a regular ordinary chair, as that's what he's worked with his whole life and sees no reason to change, but that's also probably because he could care less as long as it doesn't break. You, however, are of the opinion that spinning chairs = fun. You replace his main chair with the rolling one. Dottore still doesn't care. He's much more in the habit of simply getting up whenever he needs something. You sit in his lap and try to push him to get it to roll but you're not strong enough for that of course. The mission is mostly unsuccessful. Mostly. He does sometimes unintentionally roll when the distance is short, and then just continues since he's already doing it. You find it very entertaining, and he does admit to the convenience. (Foxttore loves the chair the most. Lil shit refuses to get off it sometimes.)

[spiteful-lvsts]

•And I’m The Perfect Sacrifice•

• Final Guy!Reader x Slasher!Dottore

• AMAB Top!Reader x Bottom!Dottore

• Summary: In a turn of events, you find your cabin trip ambushed by a masked killer, and you remain as the final survivor.

• Warnings/Content: modern/college au?, dottore is referred to as zandik, mentioned violence and deaths, unsanitary (blood as lube), wound fingering, slight orgasm denial, slight dacryphilia, body worship, both reader and dotts are kinda deranged, porn with feelings?, hurt/comfort?, masochist!dottore

• Notes: whoops too many dottie drafts, this is partially inspired by final girl by graveyardguy, technically webttore? i think his mask would fit more than the bird one

The killer is pinned beneath you, held down by your weight, arms restrained above his head. The stench of iron is prevalent, a reminder of what happened, of the corpses that lay just inside the room. You could kill him now, injured as he was from your earlier scuffle.

And yet, you can’t. You won’t.

Because you knew him. Knew his face, despite the mask, despite of the blood and viscera painting him now. And oh, how you’ve missed him, that some part of you ached to devour him whole.

“Zandik,” you softly murmur, “Oh Zandik, where have you been?” He’d been missing for months, since his home burned down. Only to show up now.

He squirmed underneath you, a halfhearted escape attempt at best. “Don’t act like you suddenly fucking care again,” Zandik grit out, red eyes flickering between you and the window. “You didn’t look for me.”

Frowning, you reached up, fingertips skimming the edge of his mask, feeling him flinch. “...Not by choice.” You only say, like it’s a quiet, mournful thing.

There’s no rebuttal from him, so you continue. “Then, won’t you at least let me see your face? It’s been so long,” your fingers trace the leather straps connecting the mask, “I’ve missed you, Zandik.”

“...You won’t like what you’ll see,” He protests weakly, but it’s not a direct refusal. “I’ve changed, I’m not the same person you knew before.”

“I loved you then, I love you even now.” Your voice is soft, reverent even. And Zandik trembles at your admission, averting his gaze. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. It was supposed to be just simple, petty revenge, for what happened to him at the Akademiya.

And yet, you were an outlier. As you always were. He didn’t expect you to be here, of all places, and a part of him seethed when he first saw you tonight. Thinking you had replaced him, so easily, so quickly.

A warm touch breaks him out of his reverie, your hand gentle upon his face, as you waited for him to answer. Ironically, Zandik can’t find it in him to truly hate you, not when you’re like this. Still covered in drying blood, eyes full of worry for him, despite knowing what he did.

So he answers you, not verbally, still he twists his neck and head to bare you his throat. The metal clasps gleam in the moonlight. An implicit invitation.

Two sharp clicks echo in the room, barely undercutting the tension. Zandik can’t bare to look at you as you discard his mask, eyes and hands clenched shut as he awaited your judgement. Something sour in him curdles at the thought of being rejected by you, he’d never been one for other’s opinions, but when it was you...

Instead your warmth remains, letting him lean into your touch. Eyes fluttering open to meet yours, “There you are,” your hands cup his face, thumb brushing over still-tender scar tissue, and he has to suppress a whine at its sensitivity. You were always so damnably gentle to him.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper again, earnest as you always were. Even now, even splattered in blood and gore, what remained of the rest. Zandik realizes then, that even if the world shuns him, condemns him a sinner, that he loves you.

“...I’ve missed you too.” His voice is quiet, smaller than he’s ever been. Suspended in this fragile tension, he can’t help relaxing just the smallest bit in your presence. No longer restrained, he was sure if he ran, you’d let him. Though some small part of him wanted you to follow him.

In the (almost) comfortable silence, his gaze slides over to the corpse in the room. Their eyes clouded over, frozen in fear during their last moments. In truth, whoever they were didn’t matter, what mattered was that they had to suffer for what they did to him.

Why did they get to live, unmarred by the consequences of their actions. Going about their days as if they weren’t as bad as he was. Zandik’s hand twitched, thoughts spiraling as rage threatened to bubble over. You were part of this trip, weren’t you? Were you going to betray hurt him, as they did?

He wants to— needs to ask, were you still lying to him? He wants to believe you, he really did, but some traitorous part of him still doubts your sincerity. “Why were you here in the first place?”

A dark expression flashed by your face, yet as quickly as it came, it was gone. “Same reason as you, I’d think.” You smile, sharp and dangerous, with a hint of teeth. And Zandik swallows, throat bobbing as heat pools in his gut. Anger dissipating at your statement.

Between the two of you, you had always been the kinder of pair. But oh, Zandik was quickly finding out how much he enjoyed this more... dangerous, side of yours. He can’t help the flush crawling up his neck, across his face to the tips of his ears.

Against all rational thought, Zandik finds himself grabbing the front of your shirt, pulling you closer to him. Your lips come together clumsily, messily, the taste of iron shared between you as his sharp teeth clips your lip. Zandik relishes the noise of surprise you make, even as you wrench control from him, drawing a whine from him as your tongue traces the inside of his mouth.

When you pull back, he’s panting, dazed and breathless. “Please,” Zandik breathes out, already half-hard as you gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. Hands gripping your shirt tighter, unsure what to do with himself.

You blink, slow and languid, “Here? Now?” Your voice is quiet, but it leaves him trembling as he nodded. The ache to devour him is back, laid beneath you as he is now, and you can’t deny how much you wanted Zandik as well.

Your clothes were almost an afterthought, torn off of each other in the throes of passion. Though, in all honesty they were probably unsalvageable, from your previous altercation and all.

The low light obscured many things, but here, exposed only to you, Zandik was the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen. Scars and all, as your fingers trace the burns covering his body. Perhaps sometime later, you could really take the time to appreciate all of him, this desolate cabin hardly seemed appropriate for the task.

A shock of pain shoots through him when your fingers accidentally dig against the gouges in his side, reopening the wounds. Something electric sparks through Zandik as his mouth falls open in a startled moan. Maybe it was from delirium, or blood loss, or both, but his cock throbs at the feeling.

Startling at the noise, you almost began to ask if he was okay. Only to be cut off, “Do that again.” He orders, and he sounds... not hurt, or mad, more curious than anything. It’s not like you didn’t notice the effect it had on him either, with how hard he was pressed against you.

So you comply, not that you could’ve denied him anything, and oh, how lovely he looked as his spine arched. Hips twitching in search for friction. Your name, a bitten off whimper- a plea on Zandik’s lips as he squeezed his eyes shut from the pain, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

His blood coats your fingers, warm and wet, he doesn’t ask for you to stop, even as your nails dig into him. You swallow the saliva gathering in your mouth, briefly tucking your face against his neck, you could hear Zandik’s heart hammering in his chest.

“D’you think you could cum from this?” You murmur, more of a joke than anything but at they way he whined, well, maybe you weren’t too far off.

When you pull your fingers from the wounds, it was almost cute how he glared at you, whatever impact it would’ve had was lessened from the beading tears and the flush across his face. “I didn’t tell you to stop—” he begins to complain, after all, he’d been so close before you stopped. But quieting when you press a kiss to his lips, unbearably soft in comparison.

Your bloodied hand trails down his body, leaving a streak of red, stopping when your fingers just barely tease his hole. “Wouldn’t you prefer to cum from this instead?” You ask, and Zandik shivers from your tone, eyes flickering to your neglected member, precum smeared against his thigh. Blood wouldn’t be nearly enough to ease the burn, but something in him craves it.

“Please,” his voice cracks, and the sheer want in his voice makes the heat in your gut intensify, “Make me yours, need them all to know you’re mine.”

The stretch burns, blood-slick on your fingers barely soothing it. Regardless of the pain, Zandik relishes in it, a choked moan making its way out of his throat when your fingers crook in just the right way for him to see stars. You work him open with a tender patience, in contrast to his own impatience, rocking his hips down into your hand.

Pain and pleasure mix into something intoxication, his mind growing muddled from the ministrations of your fingers, and the sweet nothings whispered to him. Still you remain an infuriating tease, despite the tenderness. Just barely brushing against his prostate with each movement of your fingers, not quite enough for him, but just enough to leave him yearning for more.

His dick was hard and useless, leaking pre onto his abdomen at each movement. “Hngh-! Would you j-just get on with it alreaDY—!!” Zandik’s complaint turns into a shriek at a particularly harsh jab from you, his walls clamping around your fingers at the rough treatment.

You rub soothing circles into his uninjured side, murmuring sweet nothings to him, even as your hand doesn’t stop moving. “Mm, I promise I’ll make you feel good soon. You can hold out for me a little longer, can’t you darling?”

And you sound about as earnest as you always were. Even with that playful lilt in your voice, even as you looked down at him with an expression full of love and lust.

All Zandik can do is let it happen, head lolling back as he surrenders to your whims. All too aware of your ministrations, the kisses peppered against his skin. The promise of something more the only thing keeping him from losing his mind fully.

Logically only a few minutes at most would’ve passed, but with how high-strung he was, it felt like hours to him. When you finally pull out your fingers, it was almost a relief. But it left him so achingly empty.

All his thoughts had faded into a pleasant buzz while you toyed with him, only to be brought back into focus at the feeling of your cockhead prodding at his entrance. At some point Zandik found himself wrapping his legs around your waist, an attempt to drag you closer into him, to fill that aching emptiness. His own arms winded around your shoulders, nails digging into your back as he anticipated what was to come.

It hurts when you finally push in, no amount of preparation could’ve prepared him for it, even with the aid of his own blood. Still he can’t help but crave more of it, rocking his hips against yours, urging you deeper. “Hah-! Mngh-” his breathing comes out short and uneven, already drooling from just this, “T-too mu-aH-!” His body jerks when your hand suddenly wraps around his length, blood and pre mixing, leaving caught between two points of pleasure.

You kiss away the tears falling down his face, letting him whine and gasp as you trailed kisses down his jawbone, to his neck and collar. “You’re doing so well for me...” you murmured against him, mouthing along his skin, hand slowly pumping his dick in tandem with your movements.

Zandik keens when you bottom out, your hips flush against his ass, your cock a searing heat inside him. Through the tears gathering at his lash line, he could see how well you filled him out, how his stomach bulged from your size.

Perhaps some other time you two could be gentle with each other, to be as lovers were, but tonight there was only an animal need for more. Case-in-point, the way Zandik squirmed impatiently, whining cutely for you to move already, sharp teeth worrying his bottom lip.

It’s not as if you were unaffected either. The way his walls fluttered around you, all warm and tight. Squeezing just the slightest tighter whenever you nipped at his skin.

Regardless, who were you to deny him? With how pretty he was under you, oh he was gorgeous objectively and to you, but the image of Zandik all flushed and teary eyed? You just wanted to ruin him.

The drag is a painful, pleasurable burn as you pulled out. Tip just barely remaining inside him, before you snapped your hips forward, drawing out a choked off scream from him. Eyes rolling back and body spasming, mouth falling open into an ‘o’.

Angry red lines bloom across your back, Zandik’s hips bucking in response to your ruthless pace, sobbing with every well-placed thrust against his abused prostate. You only pull him closer to you, fucking deeper into him, nails digging into the gash in his side as you gripped his waist. The pain shooting straight to his dick and the part of his brain that left him pleading for ‘Gngh! More- moremoremorepLEASE-!’

He’s half delirious from blood loss and arousal, only able to focus on how full he was, drool dribbling down the side of his mouth. Obscene noises echo throughout the room, the sounds of your groaning and Zandik’s whines intermingling. Your own noises were muffled against his body, teeth itching to bite down, whatever remaining self-control you still had waning.

You’ve said it before but god, you loved him, and what was love to you but a desire to consume? And Zandik was baring his neck to you, oh so lovingly.

Your teeth close around the junction between his neck and his shoulder, relishing the way he wailed, how his nails dug painfully into your back. The taste of iron fills your mouth as skin splits under your incisors, sweeter than any honey.

It was just too much for him, the feeling of your hand on him, the shock of pain flooding his system, just you you youyouyou-!

His climax hits him unexpectedly, vision briefly whiting out from the intensity. Hips bucking as he came, ropes of white cum splattering across his abdomen and between your fingers. Your thrusts don’t stop, and neither does your hand, intent on milking him dry.

Zandik sobs through his orgasm, thighs trembling even as they weakly tightened around your waist, fat tears following down his face. Barely registering your tongue laving across the bite, an apology of sorts, not that he minded it. His dick twitches in your hand, painfully sensitive to your touch.

You weren’t far from your own climax either, pace growing erratic inside him, his walls a vice around your throbbing cock. All you could think about was how good he felt. Your hands move to grip his waist, hold practically bruising as you rutted into him, a familiar heat pooling in your gut.

A couple more thrusts before your hips stutter to a stop, flush against Zandik’s body. He moans at the warmth filling him, spreading through him, as you came inside of him. You practically collapse on top of him at the end, the both of you sweaty and gross, but satisfied nonetheless.

When you try to pull out, he shakes his head, tugging you closer. “N-not yet,” he slurs, “Wanna keep you inside, don’t wanna go yet-” babbling something incoherent as his arms wrap around you again.

How cute, you press a kiss against the side of his mouth, sweet and tender. “Alright, ‘m not going anywhere,” you murmur, voice low, making him shiver, “I’m not leaving you again.” You capture his lips again, and he opens his mouth obediently, whimpers muffled against your mouth.

Zandik can taste blood on your lips and tongue, his blood, and he can’t help himself feeling warm all over again. Dazed as he was, he can’t help grinning maniacally against you.

In the morning, or maybe just later, you two would have enough to talk about. Plans to run away, cleaning up any evidence of yourselves from the cabin, packing up your belongings, the works. But for now, you two can just indulge in a moment of intimate quiet with each other.

Perhaps in a week, or maybe more than that, the authorities would be called regarding a missing persons case, students of a prestigious university. The case will go cold, from lack of evidence, and it’ll become its own local legend. How a party of students died mysteriously one night, no trace of another person or anything of that sort, despite obvious foul play.

Some would wonder how it led to the incident, after all the cabin was well maintained, despite its remoteness. It was unlikely for its utilities to break. As far as anyone knew, none of the students tried to call for help that night, or even tried to leave. Theories are made, yet no answers are to be found.

But ah... if the phone lines were cut even before the killer was there, or if the car driven into the woods had its tires slashed in the dead of night? If the doors were conveniently unlocked?

Well, that’s between you and Dottore.

[blushouyo]

autopsy

[ink-blot-thoughts]

Okay just played the Sigewinne quest and hear me out: mildly more evil Sigewinne AU (cause fuck you fight me she is terrifying) where the only doctor willing to teach a melusine was THE Doctor.

Il Dottore gets accosted by the world's cutest psychopath demanding he teaches her and goes "Oh this is gonna be fucking hilarious".

Cue Dottore's dramatic corvid themed ass striding up to commit the horrors tm while a cutie patootie little melusine skips behind him giggling at everything.

People go from "omg did he kidnaps that girl?!?!" To "dear fucking god she's worse" the second she opens her mouth.

The Harbingers have to go through the mortifying ordeal of anytime they mention their terrifying Doctor, people go "Oh Yes I've heard of Dottore", and they sigh and go no... her and take out a picture of a chubby faced girl with bunny ears.

Her world lore is every horrifying experiment of Dottore's has some adorable little sticker attached.

[sitraxis]

(scaras your Mew)

Also on Twitter

[kaixserzz]

The Fox, the Crow, and the Bunny.

ੈ♡˳ Il Dottore and Gn!Child!Reader *ೃ༄

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author's note ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

something sweet. dedicated to @idyllic-affections thanks for writing my kaveh rq n this series is inspired by ur acc.. realized i strayed from the real purpose of this fic and made it too long, so just think of it as a 2 in 1 special lol,, (also hi sorry for using dottore he's like my muse and i love writing him) also i hope yall get the meaning of this shit lmao (ref to the scara quest tale)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ cw: strictly platonic/familial, reader is 8 years old, basic dottore warnings, mentions of death, dissecting animals and injuries, implied dottolone (barely), a little ooc but it's canon to me

Dottore's office was once a sacred chamber inside the Fatui headquarters.

While not relatively as pristine as his laboratory, amidst the chaos, there was order. Everything was in its designated place, even though his desk was a nightmare to whoever laid eyes on it (spilled coffee too busy to clean, now dried onto the wood of his table, piles, and piles of documents and papers stacked haphazardly on one another, a disarray of pens and pencils occupying every available niche, and vials filled with who-knows-what dangerously teetering on the edge).

Hazards lurked at every turn within his office, presenting a far-from-presentable façade that seemingly clashed with his position as the 2nd of the 11th Fatui Harbingers. Yet, one might ponder, does the doctor truly concern himself with such matters?

No, not at all. He doesn't have the time to clean everything or keep them in such an organized state. He simply knows everything is in place, and the mess scarcely holds him back (he hires maids once in a while, when the mess gets too much, and in 1 out of 5 maids he hires only makes it out alive).

Yet, what truly imbued this room with a sense of sanctity? For within these walls, he unearthed his genuine solace and tranquility.

In this space, silence reigned supreme. Isolation was his companion, a cherished serenity he embraced. Here, his thoughts danced, inventions took form, and ideas flowed onto paper alongside intricate equations. Occasionally, he'd pass out on his desk and drool all over his papers. This room stood as a shelter inviolable, reserved solely for those few instances of urgency or the presence of a fellow Harbinger.

All other members of the Fatui instinctively bid their time, patiently awaiting his emergence from the sanctum of his office before venturing to approach him. For within its confines, the Doctor was impervious to disruption. No one disturbs the Doctor.

That was before you came along, of course.

The office, ill-suited for a child of your tender years, harbored a minefield of hazards. Within its walls lay various artifacts, concoctions, and intricate machinery, a perilous realm unfit for the innocent curiosity of youth. Regrettably, your presence inadvertently disrupted the serene harmony that had long enveloped this space, unsettling the Doctor who, by nature, dislikes abrupt shifts and deviations from what he was used to.

When you first arrived in his office (he didn't want you inside of it, after all, he wasn't exactly fond of children, but he had no choice) you were immediately injured after stepping onto a shard of glass that Dottore has completely ignored. You tried your very best not to cry for the sake of not irritating Dottore further, but he wasn't very gentle with your wound either.

He took note of keeping his vials away from the edge of his table.

Then a bunch of books topples over you. He puts them into the shelves now, and you helped him organize by using the Dewey Decimal System, to which you had read from a book.

Then, while he was explaining his recent idea (rather enthusiastically) to you, his hand accidentally slammed against his files and flew straight to your face. You also helped him organize his papers.

And then it was cleaning his desk, offering him DIY pencil holders you've made just for him. You've also invented a mug that prevents the liquid inside from spilling (he thinks it was a rather brilliant invention, he no longer has to worry about spilling on his desk).

And then it was putting his rather precarious possessions somewhere else, outside the vicinity of his office and far away from your grasp.

You were very eager to help him in any way possible, and for a child, you quite enjoyed receiving chores. Yet, your contentment was uncomplicated, drawn from the privilege of being granted entry to his treasure trove of knowledge, replete with a limitless collection of books, materials, and tools.

Dottore always thought that you'd be such a nuisance to him once you entered his office and sully the peace he has always known within his office's enclosed haven.

But he didn't expect to welcome your presence at all, on such short notice, too. (Deep inside, he felt a strange warmth in his chest whenever you'd tug on his coat, asking if he needed any assistance with organizing his office. He wonders what it was, though.)

So, here you were, amidst the symphony of pen strokes etching against paper, a solitary melody resonating within the confines of his office.

Contrary to his expectations, the calmness he believed would dissipate upon your arrival had, in fact, been amplified by leaps and bounds. As he observed from the corner of his eye, you reclined on your stomach, legs swinging idly behind you, immersed in a world of creativity. Strewn across the floor, an assortment of crayons bore testament to your artistic endeavors, while he diligently attended to the papers handed by the Fatui.

Then, as if hesitant to break the comfortable silence, you tried to catch his attention with a soft 'psst!', then covered your mouth with your tiny hand to suppress your childish giggles.

The corners of his lips twitch in irritance amusement as he turns his head toward you, his pen on the desk. You broke into a much bigger grin and held your drawing close to your chest, not wanting to expose it just yet. "Hey, Dotdot!" You whispered to him, and he can't help but roll his eyes smile at the nickname you've given him. "Can I show you what I drew?"

Dottore emitted a contemplative hum as if grappling with the decision of whether to engage or remain absorbed in his thoughts. Your evident impatience manifested in a pout, prompting his response. "Well, fine," He yielded, beckoning you forth. You beamed brightly as you swiftly rose to your feet and bounded toward him, your landing generating a muted grunt from him. A steadying hand rested on the desk, enabling him to regain his composure, after which he settled your giggling form comfortably within the space between his legs. "Now then," He put his hands on your shoulder, "What is it you wished to share?"

With another giggle from your ceaseless childish amusement, you gave him the piece of paper. Big, round eyes sparkling against the light of the room looked up at him expectantly. Dottore received the drawing from you, his gaze lingering over its details, drawn into a moment of shared curiosity and wonder.

It was him, and you, holding hands, depicted with earnest effort and the imaginative touch of your youthful artistry. Around you were a bunch of other versions of him, his segments, though you've only drawn five (since they were the only ones who have interacted with you so far). Each had their names labeled beneath them, but Dottore absolutely adores that you've labeled him as 'Dotdot' instead (you've also drawn Pantalone holding your other hand and labeled him as 'Pants', adorned both figures with encircling hearts).

"Truly remarkable artwork," He stated with a smile, his words accompanied by the sound of your jubilant cheers, "This masterpiece deserves a place of honor, a spot where all can admire it. I can already imagine the joy it will bring to the other segments once they lay eyes on it."

"Really!?"

"Of course, I do believe they enjoy your company, little bunny."

As he carefully set the drawing on his table, your inquisitive gaze caught his attention. With a tilt of your head, a gesture he knew all too well, you asked him a question, "Why do you call me that?"

"Hm? Call you what?" Dottore grabbed you gently and settled you onto his desk. Positioned face to face, at eye level, his intent was clear—to engage with you as both an adult and a child, a balance you seemed to relish.

"Bunny! You call me bunny lots,"

"Oh? Do you not like it?"

You vigorously shook your head, "No no, I love it! I get called nicknames, but they're all mean." You furrow your brow as you reminisced, pouting at the awful memories. But then you broke into a big smile again, "But yours is new and cute! So, why do you call me that?"

Dottore's grin widened, revealing his sharp teeth, a sight that enthralled you. Your hands instinctively moved to his cheeks, your eyes filled with wonder, and he welcomed the touch wholeheartedly. "Ahh, ever so curious, aren't you, little bun?" He teased playfully, giving your nose a gentle boop! with his finger, and your giggles were a delightful response. "You see, I call you bunny because you embody its spirit—small, swift, and an endless source of vibrant energy.

You also love to hop onto people a lot."

"I love giving surprise hugs! I'm too small, so a jump, so I can wrap my arms around them a bit higher!" You huffed as he chuckled at your explanation. "What are you, then? What animal?"

"Oh? I've never thought about what kind of animal I'd be... Hmmm..." Dottore mused for a while, his expression thoughtful. Eventually, he arrived at a decision. "A fox, I think. Crafty, shrewd, and sly. A creature that prowls with a purpose and possesses those distinct, sharp teeth." As he said that, he grins once more to show his sharp teeth, then lunges for your finger, mimicking a bite, prompting you to gasp and pull back with a joyful squeal.

"And speaking of bunnies..." His tone took on a mischievous edge, causing your eyes to widen in anticipation. Suddenly, he swooped in, grabbing your legs and lifting you high into the air. "I might just gobble you up!" Dottore's playful pretense of chomping down on you elicited a cascade of laughter from you. You pushed at his head, trying to escape his 'gobbling' jaws, your legs kicking playfully as you enjoyed the moment.

"I don't think you're a fox, Dotdot!" You quipped, retaking your seat on his desk. Playfully swinging your legs, you mused aloud, a soft humming accompanying your contemplation.

Dottore raised an intrigued eyebrow, "Oh? And what am I in the eyes of my little bunny? Perhaps something more fearsome?" He inquired, looming over you in an effort to intimidate you.

Instead, your eyes lit up brightly, and you joyfully clapped your hands together. "Oh, I've got it! A crow!" You exclaimed with a triumphant smile.

A bemused frown replaced his grin as he processed your unexpected response. "...A crow?" He echoed, clearly puzzled by your choice. "Of all animals?"

And you merely smile at him, giggling at his confused reaction, "Mhm! Yeah! A crow that talks on and on and on." Your hands followed your words, almost hitting him in the face, "A crow that is death and prey over rotting corpses, but a crow that saved me! I thought Dotdot was an angel, but angels don't have black feathers, scary smiles, or red eyes."

Your words painted a vivid picture of your perception, a whimsical and deeply personal perspective on his nature. Dottore nods along, intrigued, as you rambled your thoughts to him, not even chastising you for grabbing the beak of his mask and playing with it.

"You're a crow! You're very smart, and clever, and creative! You're scary to other people, but not to me! I love corvids, I used to feed them bits of animal after I dissect them, and they always bring me something shiny. They were my only friends, and now you're my friend too!"

He doesn't understand the gentle warmth that began to unfurl within his chest as he remained attentive to your words. While unfamiliar, this sensation wasn't entirely unwelcome... "I beg to differ, my dear bunny. I am unmistakably a fox,"

"Then you're a crow pretending to be a fox!" You pout, stubbornly crossing your arms. "I think crows are way cooler than foxes. They can fly! Plus, you can't call yourself a fox when you resemble a crow more than a fox!" You pointed out, a triumphant smirk on your lips.

Well, you do have a point. He does wear a beaked mask, coupled with a bird-like shoulder embellishment bedecked in exquisite black feathers.

"Should I then consider donning attire that better befits a fox?"

At the notion, you fixed him with a mock glare, your cheeks puffing out in an adorable display of discontent. "Nooooo! I prefer Mr. Crow!" you protested with a playful whine, punctuating your words by delivering gentle punches to his shoulders with your tiny hands.

He chuckles at your small tantrum, and he swiftly gathers you into his embrace. Your arms naturally encircled his neck as he rose from his seat, carrying you toward the door, your precious drawing clutched in your hands. "Very well, very well, my dear Mr. Crow it shall remain," He conceded with a playful tone, his steps filled with an easy camaraderie.

Victoriously, you shot him a smug grin, to which he rolled his eyes at.

"Do you wanna know something, Mr. Crow?" You mutter in his ear as he walks past one of his segments.

"Hm? What is it?"

You made sure to whisper it very quietly, hoping the other segments won't hear you. "Between you and me, I think that your younger segments are like rats!"

He didn't know what came over him, he released a hearty, resounding laugh, its volume surprising not just you but also the other segments who happened to be present, each momentarily taken aback by their own affairs. Such an outpouring of mirth was rare for him (only when he was inside his dark, cool lab, alone with experiments).

A sense of pride swelled in your chest as you grinned widely, his laughter infectious as you burst into a fit of giggles. It was a scary laugh, maybe it was just naturally like that, but to you, it sounded very happy. "They bit me once! I was just poking their face."

"Perhaps give them a treat before you approach them," He says, calming down as he continues his trek toward your room. "This gesture might just soften their demeanor."

"What, like cheese?"

"Oh, little bun, that'll drive them even more mad once they found out you called them rats."

You share another grin with him, finding a cozy spot to rest your chin upon his shoulder in contentment, "Good! I think they're funny when their faces turn red."

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛❛ If you like this a lot, consider reblogging! I’ll appreciate it very very much! Don’t repost and/or translate my work anywhere. ❜❜ ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌