#il dottore x you

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ When someone tries to imitate you or take your place 

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone 

(tw: general mentions of violence and intimacy, swf. Old ask suggested by the lovely @pandaquick, better late than never)

Your position in the Fatui is a much more personal and delicate matter. You are not just some high-rank advisor or soldier idling within the Zapolyarny Palace, nor can you be defined as another Fatuus. You are someone of a different echelon - a Harbinger’s beloved, safeguarded with the utmost honor conferred by Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. It is no secret your significant other would utilize a whole army to protect you, but what happens when someone, in their foolishness, forgets that?

✧ Pierro was the first to notice that someone tried to imitate you. An individual of high status endeavored to emulate your work and areas of expertise. Subsequently, this individual began to adopt aspects of your appearance, from hairstyle to clothing. However, the breaking point occurred when this foolish person attempted to purchase an identical jewelry brooch to the one you frequently wore. It was a similar piece, one gifted to you by Pierro.

Except that imitator missed one important clue - Pierro orders you custom-made silver adorned with deep-cut sapphires that would put the Tsaritsa’s crown into shame. A one of a kind piece.

This cheap attempt to imitate you and usurp your spot was what forced The Jester to abandon his silent observation. His gaze has long caught the envious glances directed towards you whenever you accompanied him on meetings, whenever he linked his arm with yours, whenever he generously kneeled beside you to put his coat over your shoulder and keep you warm from Snezhnaya’s cold - the same individual, always seething with resentment. Thus, it was time for the Director to silently act. 

He kept tabs on this person via a network of spies, gathering intel on their behavior and intentions. And with the most skilled spies raised from the House of the Hearth, it didn't take long to have a whole pile of evidence right on his desk. And with the simple snap of his fingers, he effortlessly orchestrated the apprehension and subsequent banishment of the culprit, sparing no unnecessary words. Hearsay will not be tolerated in the Fatui, but to see some lowly scum tarnish your reputation by cheap mimicry then it’ll be his responsibility to weed out. 

“Pierro, dearest, What's wrong? You seem so deep in thought.” - Your gentle murmur broke The Jester's train of thought. As he lay in bed, your head resting on his chest and his arm draped over you, he reminded himself that he was in the comfort of your love. He doesn't have to mull over the bloodied ordinances when he feels the warmth of your skin underneath the covers.

“Apologize, my divine. It seems my mind was drifting to troubling thoughts. But it no longer matters when you're here.” - Thus, he gently planted a kiss on your forehead and tucked the covers around your body which harbored marks of his devotion earlier that night.

✧ Il Capitano clutched the hilt of his sword in resolution. Something was wrong and he could see it. The Harbinger was in the middle of his morning spar with you, a regular training session where you and the Captain warm up as a routine. He stood in a defensive stance, his movements fluid yet measured as his sword received blow after blow from your weapon. You, on the other hand, moved like a silent tempest, your strikes precise yet frustratingly urgent.

It was unlike you to be so unsteady, noted Capitano to himself, especially when fighting. Despite the unspoken patience, an undercurrent of concealed despondency and anger laced your body language. 

“Alright, my dear, I can feel your unease. What troubles your heart?” 

You shook your head, panting as you almost faltered. You insisted on continuing the training session, but it was clear your brave facade was almost crumbling. 

“It would be foolish to continue. And I care about your well-being. Please, confide in me, my beloved.”

You tried, you really did. But before you know it, your lips pursed into a thin line and a flood of tears escaped the moment you shakily lowered your weapon. Now the Captain was on full alert, rushing towards you and gently supporting you before you could hide your tearful face in shame. With an arm around your trembling form and much persuasion - you relented and shared the source of your frustration. A newly enlisted soldier had undergone thorough training under the tutelage of Il Capitano, and their impressive advancement was unmistakably evident in their unwavering dedication. However, this individual began to devote more time to the Captain, delving into military intelligence and climbing the ranks. You genuinely felt joy for the new recruit, truly. Yet in timid humiliation, you had to confess you felt obsolete as if your power alone wasn’t enough for a harbinger of his caliber and ranks.

“Ah, my dear, you are far from weak. My time with the trainees is merely a duty, a part of my job as the 1st Harbinger. But when it comes to you, my dear, your might and wisdom are incomparable. You don’t deserve my ranks, you deserve my life laid before you.”

But whatever gentle words of affection were coming out of the Captain, your next words of truth made him halt at once. “... At least, that’s what the recruit told me when we spoke. That I'm weak.” 

“...What did you say?” 

The gentle armored hand on your shoulder now tightened in restrained anger, fury flaring within his chest. Capitano now understood: your tears, your sudden insecurity, your doubt, your silence… It wasn’t coincidental. This recruit who was so conveniently rising in the ranks made sure to aim not just for the Harbinger. Specifically, you; to sow self-doubt onto you and hinder your precious relationship. Someone was deliberately bullying you.

You looked up at Capitano’s dreadful silence, asking him what was wrong.

“It… seems, my dear, someone has crossed an unforgivable line. One that would cost them their life dearly. And I am to blame for not noticing when harm and doubt came your way. I must amend this transgression for your forgiveness.”

You blinked in response, not having time to comprehend the severity of his words; It’s hard to respond when your beloved suddenly kneels and bows like a knight on duty. In the end, Capitano ushered you to take a day off and let your mind rest easy.

The next day, Capitano returned home early but was eerily silent once more. He stayed with you the whole day, like a hawk overlooking his nest, his arms crossed but his touch gentle. Although he claimed nothing was wrong, you received news that certain recruits were gone, and any upcoming soldiers that would come into his care would receive even stricter training from now on. That day, you wondered why some Fatui soldiers feared talking to you. Not to mention the armor around Capitano’s knuckles seemed faintly red-tinted.

The Fatui organization was a constant battle of powers and ranks. But to climb the ladder and meddle with the life of The Captain was a personal offense, one that would result in quick and unapologetic bloodshed. Nevertheless, he made sure to remind his soldiers about that. 

✧ When one of the folks working under Il Dottore as a lab analyst approached you, you didn’t expect them to call you names so suddenly. You stood there, confused and apprehensive at the sudden barrage of insults from the stranger. But they explained:

“You don’t do anything when helping during research, you know! I don’t even know how The 2nd tolerates you when you’re this useless. I’ll tell you what, quit your special-treatment act, and don’t come back to the lab. The Doctor is better off with someone of his level of intellect.”

You didn’t fight or defend yourself, you didn’t even insult the assistant. Instead, you smiled simply  - “Very well, I won’t. Good luck.”

That day, you turned and left. The frustrated lab analyst was left in confusion but thought they succeeded in eliminating the only obstacle left to get closer to the elusive yet powerful Harbinger. After all, what the hell do you even do at his lab? You exchange a few words with Dottore, maybe sporadically point at what to do, and remain seated in the back, resting as if you were the Tsaritsa herself. The audacity. How come Il Dottore never kicked you out?

Well, it didn't take long for this person to find out.

The next day, naturally, Dottore couldn’t find you when he proceeded with work. You were neither at his study, nor at the lab, nor at your favorite corner of the library. It was barely noon, and receiving your warm greetings was his routine. And the Doctor always follows the agenda.

“Where are they?” 

His question was brief but pointed, and his subordinates knew exactly who he was referring to. They could sense the tension in his voice. The only individual privy to the reason for your absence smirked smugly and responded.

“Hmph. It seems they decided not to come, Lord Harbinger Dottore.”

That was their first mistake because The Doctor caught on to the haughty smirk coming from his new analyst.

“And you know so certainly how?” - he quickly gestured to a nearby Fatui servant with a flick of his wrist. “Send in servants to check in on my behalf. I wasn’t informed. If my darling is feeling tired or unwell, bring their preferred refreshment immediately, and ensure it is warm.”

However, this displeased the new lab assistant, as even while you were away, Dottore was still dotting on you as if it was his second nature to do so while he was busy with work. Thus, they cleared their throat and spoke up:

“They… barely accomplished anything in your presence, doctor. So I advised them to leave, to which they agreed. Pretty straightforward, s-sir.” 

“Oh? Did you, now” - A burning rage, like never before, flared up within Il Dottore. With clenched teeth and a rigid jaw, his voice oozed with venom. But any seasoned lackey working under Dottore knew that this was the calm before the storm. Because soon, an echo of shattering vials and slammed objects would ring out from the laboratory. And in your absence, nothing would prevent the doctor from showing a bit of despotism. 

Much later that evening, after everything was set and done, the servants informed him of your whereabouts. Il Dottore briskly made his way through the Zapolyarny Palace to find you. Spotting you tucked away in a secluded nook of the palace, he hastened over, anxious to ensure your well-being, fearing you might’ve withdrawn due to the influence of some blabbering lowlife. 

“Dear! There you are… No one has the right to speak to you like that ever. Are you alright? My dearest, why did you not tell me immediately?! I would’ve-”

Dottore’s frustrated rambles come to a halt when you place a finger on his lips to shush him. You didn’t look despaired, in fact, you looked calm - “Zandik? Did you have another tantrum in your lab while I was absent?”

The doctor gulped, remembering his place. Calming his senses, he placed his hands on your waist and ushered you closer to his arms.

“... Perhaps. But I had to. How could I be certain that no one had harmed you? Why did you comply with that impudent fool? You should’ve gone to me first.”

“Well, it was unpleasant to hear the insults, sure. But…" - you glanced apologetically and a knowing smile returned to your lips. "I knew you'd find out and deal with the issue very quickly." 

✧ You and Pantalone were an odd couple. You didn't hail from a rich background, nor were you well-versed in the art of business and finance. You were more proficient in adventuring, your travels taking you to all sorts of journeys and commissions, a polar opposite from your beloved Pantalone. This led to raised eyebrows among the aristocrats of Snezhnaya. How can the richest man of Teyvat, who lives and works in prestige, be associated with such a simple person as you? For some, this gave the impression that they had a better chance of winning him over.

Thus, once upon a night, Pantalone was invited to a luxurious soirée. Here he was, clad in his finest suit, silver rings complementing his equally expensive optics. But to the Regrator, the jewelry adorning him was the least of his concerns - because you were the most precious gem in this gala. You accompanied him, although reluctantly, feeling out of place amidst the grand assembly of extravagant guests and the languid orchestra.

“Pantalone, do we have to…? I know you said this is not a business party, but there are so many guests already lining up to talk to you.” 

“Oh do not fret, my sweet. Evening galas like these are where the real negotiation and connections entail. But I know the details bore you, so I promise we won't stick here for too long. Besides, I get to introduce you as my one and only!”

That's exactly what you were afraid of. As a company of some esteemed noble ladies adorning elegant gowns, you had difficulties matching Pantalone’s polite smile. Overwhelmed by the scrutinizing gazes of some guests, you politely excused yourself to the bathroom. Pantalone was concerned, thinking of following you, but that was exactly what the guests wanted. 

You spent a long while by the hallway alone, trying to stabilize your breathing. The muttering of guests enjoying drinks and strolling was faint, but you could hear some people nearby:

“How can the 9th be with someone like them…? Surely it’s a joke.”

“A charming, rich man like him, and he can have anyone he desires. Yet he wastes his time on a simpleton?”

“Someone was definitely in it for the Mora, maybe he hasn’t seen real class. Quick, let’s go talk to him while he is alone.”

You stood with your back to a wall, and for the first time, uncertainty crept in. With fists clenched by your side, you reprimanded yourself that you are not alone. You came here with your significant other - and he, above all else, knows that gossip has no place in your shared private life. Hence, gathering up your courage, you raise your head high and strode back into the gala.

Pantalone, unfortunately yet expectedly, was surrounded by the same foul-mouthed nobles who wished to impress him. They prattled on about his financial success, while ladies fanned their folding fans and stood too close for his comfort. While they humored him, The Regrator cast hurried glances around the gala in search of you. Where are you?

“Lord Harbinger, may we offer you more champagne? I am sure this expensive bottle is up to your taste.”

The 9th attempted to hide his frown at the woman's tone, his stomach unwilling to ingest any drink some excessively elaborate name. “No thank you, I’d rather decline. I am waiting for my dear. I promised her a dance later this evening.”

“Oh, please sir, I insist. The night is young and there is plenty more for-” 

Before the woman could continue, your voice cut through the air; calm, yet unmistakably firm. “He said no. Simple enough to understand.”  

A hush fell over the gathered guests, the weight of your words settling like a sudden gust. Only Pantalone beamed with a genuine smile. “Ah, dear! There you are,”. The Harbinger was about to step back towards you, when the same lady suddenly blocked his path, her back facing him while her tone edged with defiance.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid the question is directed towards Lord Harbinger Pantalone. I am sure you wouldn't know the pleasure of tasting a 500,000 Mora champagne from Fontaine.”

You recognized the snark in her tone directed towards you, and you couldn’t deny the anxiety twisting in your gut as eyes narrowed in your direction. However, with a shake of your head, you reminded yourself who you truly are and simply said: “Sheesh, lady, you spend that much on a drink that tastes worse than sparkling water? To each their own, I presume”

Her smile vanished. The guests stared in stunned silence, but it was Pantalone’s genuine laughter that pierced the tension. The sound was rich and real—because only he knew how adept you were at humbling an overconfident aristocrat with a dose of blunt truth. That’s how Pantalone managed to push through the crowd and circle his arm back around your waist, leaving the astonished onlookers behind.

“Ah dear, you’re a savior. I apologize I dragged us into this unpleasant company…” - he confined to you apologetically as you two walked away. “You always knew how to be sincere in your honest way.”

“It’s not like I meant to pick up a fight…" - you sighed. "I simply couldn't bear the humiliation, Pantalone. I'm aware that some people give me strange looks when I'm with you. They regard me as if I'm some peasant standing next to a powerful Fatui harbinger. That I'm nothing. That's why I couldn’t just hide, I had to step up to defend myself.”

“Oh, darling… My sweet, precious darling.” - The two of you left the manor that hosted the soiree, the chill night breeze muting the faint sound of guests and replacing it with a symphony of cricket noise from the garden nearby. Pantalone's fingers intertwined with yours.

"You are not just 'nothing' - you're my everything. You did not come from riches, and neither did I. You of all people know that. Would I really hold respect for some rich fool who didn't know an ounce of hardship when Mora was all they had since birth? No, dear, I wouldn't."

With a tender hand, he rested his palm on your waist, gently guiding you along the cobblestone path as if leading you into a slow waltz by garden roses in the night.

"Besides, you should never be ashamed to seek out my help. Although I must admit... Your tone earlier - oh my. Use it on me more often, darling. I wouldn't mind." 

[grimmweepers]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄: OCT 3RD

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yandere!dottore x assistant!fem reader

— ♤ 𝐜𝐰: obsessive yandere behaviour, emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation, stalking, build up to smut is longish sorry, reader is gullible, dubcon, no preparation, pussy slapping (once), he calls you sweetheart, pet, pup, unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, power imbalance, biting, 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It started with curiosity.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice as you confidently sat in his office, explaining why you would be perfect for the job, or perhaps the way you held onto the belief that he was a good person. But once Dottore saw how much you lit up when he offered you a position on the spot, he knew right then he needed to keep you close. 

This new revelation almost terrified him. 

Your voice was so innocent, clinging to him like honeysuckle, and that warmth behind your smile—it was too pure, too untainted. It had to be locked away before the world could tarnish it.

If you had paid attention, you would’ve noticed how his gaze lingered a little too long when you spoke; how his questions would dive deeper the more you got to know him.

You were ignorant of how much Dottore had deeply ingrained himself into every facet of your life, playing the role of the emotionally distant boss who eventually found comfort in your company. He saw that flicker of trust in your eyes and allowed you to believe you were the only person who could see the real him—“the man behind the mask who bled his heart and soul to you when nobody else was looking.” 

Everything was calculated. Subtle. You had become his latest obsession—a sweet, little experiment where the only result he deemed acceptable would be having you wrapped around his finger. So he made sure he was the first you turned to when things went wrong, planting seeds of doubts about everyone you knew. 

“Forgive me but your friends don’t seem to understand you.”

At first, you dismissed his comments but over time his critiques took root. You saw flaws in people that seemingly weren’t there before which made you wonder if it was truly only Dottore who had your best interest at heart. Gradually, you began to rely on him as your only confidant. Your rock. But it didn’t stop at just your relationships. Dottore had inserted himself into your daily routine, providing solutions for problems you hadn’t realised he created. After minor inconveniences and projects falling through, he was always there to pick up the pieces.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

And every time he did, you felt more indebted to him.

Dottore strung you along for years, feeding you enough affection to have you tethered with him while subtly isolating you from others. And when he finally made you his girlfriend, it was less a declaration of love and more of a confirmation of his control over you.

But you didn’t need to know that. 

You are his precious masterpiece, sculpted into the ideal partner—no longer the person you once were but a reflection of his twisted desires. 

When calling him “Doctor” transitioned from a professional title to something you moaned whenever he plowed you with his cock, it was difficult for him not to start touching himself at random hours of the day. 

Fortunately for him, he could simply just find you while you were working and suddenly, there was something hard pressed against your ass! It always satisfied him a great deal knowing how willing you were to please him, no matter the time of day.  

Sometimes he pitied you for never catching on so the first time you went astray, he was somewhat glad that his little darling wasn’t so dense.

“Dottore, I’m finding it difficult to get through to you. I feel suffocated. I’m worried about us.”

He glanced up from his notebook, almost affectionately, “You’re overthinking it, my dear.”

“I think we need some time apart," your words tasted bitter. "I just… need to clear my head. I’m sorry,” you felt guilty for even suggesting it.

“Time apart?” he repeated with a false frown, dropping his book to look at you wholly. “For how long?’

“I’m not sure.”

A tense silence hung between you, and you tried to steady your breath.

“Darling, you’re not making any sense,” he blinked.

“It makes sense to me,” you protested, “I wasn’t asking.”

Truth be told, he was more amused than angered. Although, he wondered what it was that finally provoked your sudden notion. Sure, disagreements were more frequent but it had been so long since this all began. He thought his tactics would be something you were used to by now. Perhaps you were starting to see everything for what it truly was.

Perhaps not.

Your voice was trembling but you were firm in your resolve. Dottore liked that you thought you had a choice, so he entertained you by letting the last of his smile fade from his lips, eyes narrowing in your direction. 

“So a break, then? If you think that will benefit us, I understand. But I’m not a mind reader. If something bothers you, you have to tell me, okay?”

His words seemed to melt some of your worries away so you couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Could you really doubt someone so patient, so willing to give you space when you needed it? 

“Really?”

“Of course," the lie effortlessly slipped between his teeth, "I respect your boundaries."

You nodded as you squeezed his hand and before you could turn away, his grip tightened. “Before you go, let me remind you that I love you, so very much.” 

And without warning, he kissed you. It was lingering, with no remorse, disguised as a parting gift—as if to say he know you’d be back.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you said, feeling conflicted. 

“Doing what?” He questioned.

Dottore knew exactly what he was doing. 

———

Weeks had passed but your time away from him was restless. Days felt semi-wakeful and what emerged was not clarity but the creeping sense that the world was conspiring against you.

It was like your life had taken an irreparable turn. Work became a constant setback, and friends you thought you had made you feel isolated and adrift. Even your home, which once felt cozy and safe, was starting to feel clinical and cold. 

And who would be the one to orchestrate your misery other than the Doctor himself? That vendor who suddenly couldn’t get your orders right? A bribe from Dottore. The neighbours who started fighting at all hours? A couple he had manipulated into conflict. Even your small office, a place that once made you feel so productive, now felt claustrophobic and stifling thanks to subtle changes he made while you were away.

Each of these inconveniences wore you down, making you long for the comfort and stability that only Dottore had ever provided. 

So when you received a short and carefully worded letter from him, asking how you were, you felt a surge of relief. You didn’t hesitate to see him that very evening, desperate to talk in person.

Before you knew it, you were falling right into his hands.

On your feet, you headed straight to the entrance of his lab and stared at the door before you gave a knock.

“Come in,” he said from inside.

The moment you saw him, he greeted you with that charming smile, and suddenly all the frustration from the past weeks melted away. You rushed into his arms, burying your face into his chest, “I missed you.”

He held you close, stroking the back of your head with practiced gentleness, “Ah! You’re finally back. I can’t say I’ve been happy without you.” 

If he was beaming out of satisfaction, you were blind to it. You were too distracted by the need to hear him say it back, to say that he missed you. But instead of the words you longed to hear, he merely held you tighter.

Looking up at him, your eyes searched for reassurance, “Did you miss me?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss on your forehead, “Of course.”

“Everything’s been so hard,” tears began to well up, “I can’t believe I distanced myself when I needed you the most.” 

He was always enthralled whenever he was right.

“Let’s not dwell on that, shall we? I’m here now so don’t fret.”

His words felt like a balm to your wounded soul and you clutched onto his coat as if he might vanish if you let go. You could not refuse him and he wouldn’t allow that option to exist. Dottore watched you, elated with himself, “Come,” he said, taking your hand towards his familiar private quarters, “I have something for you.” 

After closing the door behind him, his gaze remained on you, “I was hoping you would see me sooner rather than later,” he started, guiding you to the couch where the two of you sat. “We have much to catch up on.”

Dottore wore his grief convincingly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate crystal necklace that flickered like ice in the light, “I don’t want to lose you again.” Your heart skipped a beat as he put it on for you, the weight of it cold against your skin. When you relaxed your guard, he leaned in and whispered in your ear, “I can’t lose you. I won’t.” 

You thanked him for the gift but felt him craning your head to the side.

“It’s ice quartz," he purred, "For the pure love I have for you. For the healing that I hope it brings to your troubled heart. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause—a thoughtful stillness, and without another word, he kissed the exposed skin of your neck as if you beckoned him to. 

His lips were impossible to resist, each kiss slowly claiming you as he trailed his way to your mouth. You allowed your hands to explore his hair, messing up the neatness that once was.

Dottore wasted no time, the moment his lips met yours, you felt his hungry tongue and how it tasted of false apologies and something sickeningly sweet. He kissed you like he was starved—like he'd wanted his mouth on yours for weeks.

"Do you still—" he lightly pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, "—feel suffocated?"

Yes, you wanted to say. But for an entirely different reason now. This type of suffocation made your head spin and left something tingling between your legs.

"No," you finally answered against him. A string of saliva connected the small space between your lips. You relaxed under him and he took it as a chance to shuffle himself between your thighs.

"Hmm, I'm glad," he smirked before forcing another kiss out of you. Between gasps for air, his impatient hands found the hem of your blouse, unbuttoning it as he pushed you on your back. You pulled him down with you because you refused to part from the sinful way his lips collided with yours.

Piece by piece, layers of clothes began to disappear until you were left with nothing except the necklace he had given you. 

Spread out like this, you were ravishing, like a fine piece of art and the sight of you went straight to his cock. It throbbed in his slacks and you could hear his breathing growing uneven. At that moment, he could’ve taken you like an animal but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Mmh!” you moaned in surprise as he cupped your breast, fondling your sensitive nipples and practically anywhere else that was available to him. He was so precise in everything he did, it was no wonder he was in his profession. 

The time you spent apart had left you already aching for him so when he dipped his fingers between your quivering thighs, he felt your arousal. You were hot and puffy and embarrassingly wet.

Dottore began to toy with your clit and it pulsed under the pads of his fingers. You moaned instantly. But he was excruciatingly light with his touch which only made you desperate for more friction. You whined and even though the sound of it made his heart beat quickly, his face was unreadable.

“Patience,” he urged. Dottore waited for you for weeks and you had the nerve to whine? At the very least you could have made up for the time you robbed from him. 

You intended to listen. You really did! But when his fingers teased the entrance of your hole, your body acted before you could think and suddenly, your hips rolled towards him. He had barely even touched you before he stopped. 

Tsk, you heard from him, clearly disappointed by your lack of control.

Instead of continuing, he gave your pussy a sudden slap which left you whimpering. 

“Why—!” You trembled, feeling its stinging aftermath.

Why?

Simply put, he decided he wasn’t going to bother with what you wanted. 

In exchange for running away from him, he would show you that not everything was served on a silver platter. Seeing you go from distressed to dependent on him only excited him more. No one riles him up in the way that you do so he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer. 

“Stay like this,” there was something deranged about the smile that appeared on his face. The clinical white glow of his quarters dulled his pale skin yet his teeth glistened through his lips. You felt a chill and it wasn't because of the cold air.

He pulled away and you were immediately drawn to the tight bulge pressing against his pants. Dottore noticed. He knew you were watching.

"Now open your legs for me," he said, breaking you out of your daze. You shifted pathetically under him so it was ultimately his large hand, splayed across your thigh that held you in place. You saw his erection twitch when his eyes fell on your hole, drenched for him and all.

After quickly undoing his trousers, he pushed his throbbing length inside you in one, deep stroke. Your hands curled into the cushions and you were prepared to scream—

"Perfect," he breathed. You didn't need proper preparation. He knew your body better than you did.  

Your voice was lodged in your throat as his girth stretched you apart and Dottore couldn’t help throwing his head back, curses falling from his lips at how well you hugged him. You were so beautiful like this. He couldn’t wait to fuck you back into obedience. It was your fault for being this way, really. You were just so malleable, so easy.

“Ah, look at you. So wet already, my little pup. Did you miss me that much?” 

“Yes, I did. Yes, I did, Doctor!” you whimpered, and he began thrusting as if rewarding you for your response. His hips slammed mercilessly into yours at an unexpected pace, and you couldn’t even think about any of your frustrations anymore — each time he slid in and out was like erasing all the concerns you had before this. 

“Dottore,” he corrected you. “You call me by my name today.” There was a slight strain in his voice as he fucked you but that was better than what was going on with you. With each thrust bucking into your sweet spot, you could hardly talk. 

The coat on his back ruffled behind him with each erratic movement. It was almost humiliating how he remained entirely clothed as he rammed into you. Your bare skin was on display yet not so much as a zipper and his disheveled hair was out of place for him.

Maybe he was too eager, you thought. Or maybe it was because he wouldn’t strip himself for the likes of you. Not when he was trying to remind you that being with him was a luxury. What he needed to etch into your subconscious was: 

You could get whatever you want as long as you stay and listen. 

Huffing at the sensation of being balls deep inside your pussy, he held you with a bruising grip on your waist, fucking you in a way that had you drooling. You were trying to remember a time when he wasn’t the one making you happy or giving you pleasure — but you couldn’t. Because it didn’t exist. 

“Dott…ore,” you called breathlessly, your voice mixing with the sound of your necklace clinking against your chest. He knew you very well, you had more to say than just the spilling of his name. He could see it in your damn eyes. 

Lowering himself to your neck, he rutted you even further into the couch, “What is it, my dear?” He asked, biting into you, feeling his hot and heavy breath fanning your skin. You yelped as his teeth clenched, knowing there was going to be a mark later. 

“I… love… you…” The words came out in a broken whisper, the sincerity of your confession made his cock twitch inside of you, precum already painting the insides of your hole. 

His tongue began to trace a slow and deliberate path from your neck to your ear, keeping his relentless rhythm as he did. “Is that right?” There was a cruel edge to his voice when he spoke. And you nodded back at him, feebly. Truthfully. 

“Then act like it,” he hissed, grip tightening as he thrusted sharply.

You shuddered underneath him—out of fear or pleasure, you weren’t sure but you knew you didn’t want it to end. You pulled him closer, winding your hands around his neck while he was deep inside you. “I’m— sorry!” you moaned, an apology slipping out in a haze. 

He almost growled at the sensation of you trembling around him, his crimson eyes searing into you, “No, it’s not your fault. I should have paid better attention to you.”

Another lie but exactly what you needed to hear to keep you going.

Lewd squelching sounds filled the room as he reduced you to a filthy mess. Even in your years of being with him, you had never seen him so untamed. Your juices were getting all over his trousers and if you knew any better, you would've seen how he got off on that.

You had almost forgotten where you were, though, at that point, you didn’t care about whether anybody else in the building heard. He fucked you hard and desperately, whatever he needed to do to keep his darling at bay, and you shamelessly cried out his name over and again. It was adorable.

“Dottore… I’m close—! Fuck. Fuck!” You swallowed your words as he pounded you. 

"Dirty mouth," he grunted, "Who taught you how to speak like that?"

He hovered above you, so close you could almost feel his hair tickling your face. "Nobody," you moaned quietly this time, feeling ashamed.

Every veiny inch of him was inside you and the more you felt of it, the less you thought. You just wanted to snap, to cum on him while he drove into you.

“Oh my, you're getting tighter,” he cooed, his voice deceptively gentle as he neared his own release. “Feeling good, sweetheart? Finish with me then…” 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, his pace became rougher, like a repeated reminder of who he was to you and his hand traveled to your jaw, tipping your head to meet his gaze. Amid your bodies thrashing, he could barely keep up with his own voice,

“No one will ever love you like me

or care about you like me

or fuck you like me. Do you understand, pet?” 

“Yes—! Yes, I do,” you panted as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips further into your sloppy cunt. In your lust-clouded daze, you were too weak to register the weight of his words. His sultry voice did a great job at masking the fact that he meant every single thing he said. 

Dottore’s face twisted into a more sadistic smile, letting his thoughts get the best of him. He relished in how little and helpless you sounded, how utterly pliant you were to his will. Everything felt right again and you were back to where he had woven you. With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he spilled his seed inside you, locking himself against you. 

You arched your back as your orgasm crashed simultaneously—you moaned collectively, and your walls pulsed around his cock like you were milking every drop he’s got. His hips stuttered, not giving a damn about the way your nails bit into his skin. Instead, he slammed his lips onto yours, devouring you in a messy, filthy kiss—a perfect match for the way he had just fucked you senseless.

Still panting, he clutched the side of your face, only gentler now. His thumb stroked your cheek as if savouring the moment of seeing you act the way you should.

“I love you,” he hummed, the words slipped from his lips like it was so natural to him. "I love you."

Of course, he loved you. Everything he has done for you was for himself. Everything has been catered to him. 

His sweat-speckled forehead shimmered in the dim light and as you looked up at him, your heart softened. The weight of him on top of you and the comfort in his embrace made you forget everything, lulling you into a peaceful state. 

You sighed, feeling a bit foolish for even creating a wall between you. In front of you, he seemed so fragile, like you were the only thing holding him together. How could you have thought he was anything but honest with you all along?

Now, everything felt perfect—perfect in a way that left no room for anything else. 

No room for doubt or escape.

a/n: imagine at the end of this you think it's over and suddenly his segments walk in

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

dividers by @/astrumaur

[aluraveil]

The Earring

TW: Use of a tracker, unhealthy relationships, yandere, the doctor himself, etc.

Pairing: Yandere Dottore x Reader

-

Dottore only wears one earring.

Many people have noticed that the mad doctor is missing one on his other ear. Dottore used to have a pair, but now one of them has gone missing. His fellow harbingers have noticed, but frankly they didn’t care enough to inquire about it.

Fatui agents under his command have seen it too. Nobody dared to inquire about it. Like they’ve always said, curiosity kills the cat. Except in this case, it literally means exactly that. Who knows what the harbinger might say if someone who clearly didn’t know their place asked about it? What punishment would they receive? And for that reason, that is why nobody has ever said anything about it.

The truth is, Dottore wears one earring on purpose. Where might the other earring be? Well it’s on your ear of course.

Dottore has thought of the ways to mark his ownership on you for the longest time. With each idea flowing in his head being worser than the other, he wanted to give up. But the sheer idea of other people eying his darling down makes his blood boil.

He knew that he needed a way to show everyone else that you belonged to him. But what could he even do?

The Doctor has seen how the other harbingers have marked their own darling with costly items.

The Doctor knew of the ways how the Regrator would mark his pet with materialistic items such as expensive jewelery and clothing.

But he didn’t want to follow the same approach when marking his own pet. He wanted to be different, he wanted to stand out. He didn’t want to do the same boring thing as the other harbingers.

Dottore would always insist that you wear your part. You’re hesitant to do so, but you didn’t want to disobey him.

The purpose of the earring was for marking you and tying you do as his. But there was also another part to it. The earring symbolized that Dottore would always be apart of you no matter where you went. Also, if you were to take a hammer and smash the earring open, you’d find a shocking discovery with it.

A tracker. One that could be used to know your exact location at all times.

You vaguely remember walking down the halls of the palace with the doctor arm in arm. Fatui agents would stare when they notice what’s on your ear. The other missing earring?

You personally thought the both of you looked stupid sharing an earring. But as long as the doctor wasn’t angry, then you were happy.

The fatui agents have wondered where the Doctor’s other earring could be. But when they found it on your ear, it all made sense.

Dottore only wears one earring. The other however, is used to mark you.

[tojistip]

The Doctor's Little Assistant.

ft. dottore !

sypnosis ; dottore rewards you for your hard efforts.

warnings ; top ! dottore , dottore is a warning himself , face fucking , power dynamics , boss n assistant relationships , degradation , slight praise , facials , light face slapping , lowkey rushed no bullying :'3

wc ; 1.6k. enjoy !!

Dottore's personal assistant. 

You're the only one allowed inside his lab, outside of his clones and his disgusting little lab-rats of course. You're one of the only ones he actually tolerates. You're always so good for him, tidying up his mess of an office when he doesn't ask and always bringing him extra coffee when you know he's running low on it.

He's almost certain he's not gonna kill you off like the others, he likes you.

He likes the way you immediately oblige like you even had a choice when he asks to experiment on you. "I'd be happy to, my lord." You say, giving him a smile and a nod. He knows that you're scared beneath your little act, he can just sense it, and he loves it. He gets off on your pain and fear, and he finds it amusing when you try to hold back your wails of pain. 

Dottore especially loves when you start to let tears run down your face because of how much it hurts. You're left trembling, sniffling every couple seconds as he unstraps you from the vivisection table, but you would be lying if you said there wasn't a part of you that secretly enjoys it. He's a sick and twisted sadist, and you like it.

He thinks you're so pretty with your tear stained face and ruined makeup. He just shakes his head when you complain about it as if you weren't the one crying.

Maybe if you had let him remove your tear glands and ducts it wouldn't be an issue.

Dottore brings you to the fatui meetings too, he knows it's not allowed but he could care less. when Pierro reminds him that, "Anyone who isn't apart of the ranks, is strictly not allowed into the meetings." Dottore ignores him, and he keeps you right by his side, and when he can see your legs getting tired, he orders you to sit on his lap. He doesn't care when you get embarrassed, and he certainly doesn't care that his co-workers look at you two either, his sadistic smile only grows larger.

"You've been a very obedient girl as of recent, haven't you." It was an observation, but you still nod your head as if he just asked you a question while you try to avoid looking at his face. "Stupid little thing. Look at me when I talk to you." Dottore growls. He grabs your jaw with a vice like grip to make you look up at him and even though you can't see his eyes, you can still feel them on you. It feels like all the air has been knocked out of your lungs and you're quick to mutter out an apology. "Of course, my lord.. 'm sorry." 

"Good girl." He praises as he pulls his gloved hand away from your jaw. "I'd say an award is in order, hm?" He says as he starts walking over to a swivel chair that's behind you. You want to follow him but in fear of being disobedient, you stay frozen in place. As he sits down, he calls out your name and you're quick to turn around to face him. 

"Crawl to me."

You stand there for a moment, processing his words, feeling the heat slowly creeping into your cheeks. "Yes, my lord," you manage to spit out. Despite the embarrassment, you comply, dropping to your knees and then shifting onto all fours, moving toward him as instructed. Each movement is deliberate, the anticipation building with every inch closer to him. Finally, you find yourself between his legs, facing him on your knees, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you settle between Dottore's legs, your heart begins to race due to anticipation. You can feel his gaze piercing through you and it sends shivers down your entire body as you wait for his next command.

Dottore smirks, relishing in the control he holds over you. "Always so good," he murmurs, his voice laced with dark amusement. "You know exactly how to please me." You lower your gaze, feeling the weight of his words like chains around your neck. "Thank you, my lord," you mumble obediently, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk only widens as he looks down at you, reveling in the power he holds. His gloved hand reaches out, fingers curling under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The leather feels cold and unyielding against your skin. "You look good on your knees," he muses, his tone dripping with sadistic undertones. "Maybe I should make you my desk pet."

You whine and swallow hard at the suggestion, feeling a mix of fear and excitement coil in your belly. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly and truthfully you don't even know what you're asking for. The way he looks down upon you, like he knows you're inferior to him, sends shivers down your spine.

He releases your chin and leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly to give you more room. "You know what to do," he commands, his voice cold and demanding. "Show me how compliant you really are, love."

Oh fuck.

The pet name almost kills you and it makes your breath hitch. You nod anyway, reaching up with shaky hands to unbuckle his belt. You can feel Dottore watching you as you do so and you can feel your face burning with embarrassment. But you push through, determined to please him.

As you pull down his trousers, you're met with the sight of his cock straining against his boxers. it sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can't let out a soft moan at the sight. Dottore's chuckle is low and menacing, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head. "Come on," he urges, his voice low and almost taunting. "You know better than to keep me waiting."

You comply and pulling down his boxers, freeing his cock and you can't take your eyes off of it. You lean in, pressing a tentative kiss to the tip and licking a long stripe up the side. Dottore's grip on your hair tightens, and he lets out a breath of approval. "Good girl," he murmurs. "Now take me in your mouth,"

You comply almost instantly. You open your mouth, taking his cock in slowly with your tongue swirling around the tip. Him in general but especially the taste of him is intoxicating, and you can feel the heat between your legs growing with each passing second. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, and his low groan of pleasure spurs you on.

Dottore's other hand joins the first, holding your head steady as you bob up and down. "Such a whore," he degrades, his voice laced with arousal. "You take me so well. You were made for this, weren't you?"

You moan around his cock, the vibrations making him hiss. His voice and his words a thrill through you, and you try taking him deeper into your mouth, wanting nothing more than to please him. Your pace quickens, your movements becoming more desperate as you lose yourself in the task.

Dottore's grip tightens painfully, and he thrusts his hips up, forcing himself deeper into your throat. "This is what you wanted, hm." He says, and though it was a statement, you still try to nod your head stupidly. In the process you gag, tears springing to your eyes, but you don't stop and neither does he. "That's right, gag on it." His groans grow louder, his breathing becoming more ragged. "You're so pathetic."

Your eyes water as you look up at him, the tears only serving to heighten his pleasure as he loves to see you cry. He smirks down at you, his thumb brushing away a tear that escapes down your cheek. "Pretty little thing.." He murmurs. "Take it, take it deeper."

He holds you there for a moment longer before finally releasing your head. You pull back, gasping for air, your lips swollen and wet with saliva. His chest is heaving up and down while you wrap your hands around the length of his cock. "I'm gonna cum," he groans, "Gonna paint your pretty face."

 Dottore pries your hands away from his cock and begins to stroke himself. You whine at the sight in front of you. "Please," you breathe out. He scoffs in amusement before slapping the tip of his cock on your cheek. "Open your mouth."

You instantly obey, looking up at him and sticking your tongue out. You're gross and messy right now but you know he likes seeing you ruined, especially if he's the cause. You're watching him stroke his cock from above you, pressing his thumb to the swollen and leaking tip. 

Your needy whines must've been just what Dottore needed to drive him over the edge. He groans as he reaches his climax and his free hand reaches for your jaw with a tight grip to hold you in place. Thick ropes of cum soon cover not only your chest, but your face and tongue as well. You keep your mouth open in an attempt and in hope to catch more of his cum on your tongue.

As soon as he comes down from his high, his hand comes down to slap your cheek and command you to swallow the bits that landed in your mouth. You oblige. He takes one more good look at you before tucking himself back into his boxers and pulling his pants up. "Clean yourself up." He spits coldly, and you nod. "Yes, my lord."

"When you're done, there's some paperwork I need you to get from The Regrator's office. Once you get it, bring it back here and I'll reward you once more."

[kzrosa-writes]

needy little attention seeker | dottore x reader

prompt : dottore with a needy and clingy reader who wants dottore's attention

summary : despite dottore's busy schedule, you never fail to pester him for his attention. since your usual tactics weren't working anymore, you decided to try something else.

likes, reblogs n follows are appreciate! <3

Dottore sighed as one of his agents left his office. He was just brought the news of your latest little escapade, and he knew it was just about time for that.

You were always the ever-needy one in the relationship, always craving his time and affection. You knew that Dottore was a busy man; however, that never stopped you from committing your little antics. You did all sorts of things to gain his attention: from stealing his reports and documents to tinkering with his laboratory apparatuses, you tried it all. Today, it seems that you were aiming for a different approach.

Dottore wore his harbinger coat before leaving the Zapolyarny Palace, walking in the direction his agent had seen you leave from. The snowy forests were much chillier today, as the previous night had brought a blizzard to Snezhnaya. He trudged his way through the forest, silently cursing you for being so brazen and mischievous. He knew of your clingy and needy nature, but he couldn't help it that he had to conduct his experiments.

He saw a flicker of hope as he spotted a trail of footsteps in the snow-covered path. Crouching down to inspect the footprints, he let out a sigh of relief. Those footprints were yours, he's certain. And with that, he wasted no time following the trail.

After what felt like hours, Dottore spotted a figure sitting by a fallen log that resided by a frozen lake. He moved closer, slinking past the trees with caution. He spotted the chemical vial earring hanging from the left ear, and that was all he needed to know to confirm that it was you.

He cleared his throat as he walked forward, his arms crossed to his chest and a stern glare in his expression. "Care to explain what you have been up to this time?"

Startled by the sudden voice, you turned around to face Dottore. You swallowed nervously as you watched him approach closer, his strides confident. You let out an awkward chuckle as you scratched the back of your neck.

"Oh hey... Didn't think you'd find me that fast, my dear."

Dottore clicked his tongue in annoyance before helping you to stand up from the wood log. He spun you around slowly, checking you for any injuries. "Do you know how worried I was for you? Are you hurt anywhere?"

You shook your head, a sheepish grin crawling up your face. Dottore sighed in relief before engulfing you in a tight hug. Your body instantly melted in his arms, feeling his warmth radiate onto you, making you feel warmer from the harsh cold of Snezhnaya. His right hand made its way to your head, gently caressing your hair before planting a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"My love... I know that you're needy and that you want my attention. However, we both know I have my duties to tend to as a harbinger."

You sighed softly, a subtle pout on your lips. Dottore let out a small smile at the sight of your pouty and whine expression before ruffling your hair gently in an affectionate manner.

"I promise you, darling. I will give you my attention and my love once I finish my latest experiment." He said softly, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "But if you can't wait that long... I suppose you could keep me company inside of my lab. Only if you promise to behave."

Your eyes sparkled in excitement, a cheerful and enthusiastic smile on your face. You nodded eagerly, nuzzling your face into his chest. Dottore chuckled lightly before taking off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

"Let's get back to the Palace, my love. Shall we?"

— masterlist ・ navi ・ request rules

[kiwicopia]

MDNI | Themetober: Stitches

Mad Scientist!Dottore x Reanimated!Fem!Reader

CW: mentions of blood, mentions of murders, flesh tearing/falling apart, needles, sewing of skin, memory loss, slight deception, degradation (toy, whore), objectification, dacryphilia, slight master/slave dynamic, creampie.

tags: @sweetchildcloud @stygianoir

Themetober Masterlist

You were perfection to him. Well, almost perfect, that is. The memory loss was a complication, however, it proved beneficial in his favor. He brought you back from the icy grip of death—a feat he considered to be one of his greatest achievements—and stitched the remaining parts of you back up. Over and over, it was always a messy process, especially when the skin would tear a little too much for his liking, resulting in the process restarting from scratch.

Still, Dottore fixed you up—his sweet, little creation—donning the many skins of those he butchered. You had no recollection of your life before death, at least not yet, but you would eventually. When that would occur, well, only time could tell. For now, though, he kept you at his mercy, feeding you little lies about who you were and who he wanted you to be—for him. 

“Oh, darling,” he cooed. His hand cupped your face with feigned softness as he thumbed a bit of blood that trickled down the side of your face, caused by a broken stitch. “You have to refrain from tearing your stitches. Resources are running rather dry at the moment to be able to fix them so often.” The doctor’s lips curled into an amused smile as you pouted, disliking the way he chastised you as though you were a child. “Remember, graceful movements.” 

Dottore watched from behind his mask as you nodded, and the man soon made quick work of redoing the stitch. Resources weren’t too low for him to render him unable to restitch you repeatedly; he just hated the tediousness of repeating the task. Once finished, he placed the needle and thread on the medical tray before letting his fingers curve over your cheek. The feel of the stitches and different skin types held together caused a rush of excitement to come over him. 

You were his first reanimated experiment, and he oftentimes found himself unable to keep a clear mind. It wasn’t like him to have a desire to fuck an experiment, but you, oh You were an exception. The arousal he felt clawed at him further when you moved your hands to his chest, feebly grabbing hold of the collared shirt beneath his lab coat. 

“Again?” He questioned. An amused chuckle fell from his lips as he took your hands in his and moved closer, forcing his hips in-between your thighs as you sat on the examination table. “Your stitches will tear, but...” The doctor’s words drifted off as he thought about the idea a little more. “Compensation is due yet again.” 

His gloved hands released yours, allowing you to lean back against the table. How obedient, he mused. Your actions were like clockwork—the results of his constant training and deception—and he relished in it. Dottore carefully slid his hands up your clothed body, the skin beneath hidden from view due to the sheer gown you wore. He could see the way your nipples pebbled in response to his touch, and it pleased him. 

“Sweet doll,” he cooed. His gloved fingers traveled back down, with one slipping beneath the gown to rub at your cunt while the other worked to free his hardened length. “Mine to toy with, to do with as I please.” The doctor felt a sick pleasure at the way your legs parted even more, giving him more access, and he took it without hesitation. “A good whore for her master.” 

There was little to no preparation whatsoever after he lined himself at your entrance, forcing himself past your folds and deep inside your pussy. You moaned on instinct, head tilting back as his hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he fucked into you. You were such a beautiful and pliant doll for him; much better than when you were alive, truly. 

Dottore let the upper half of his body lean over you as he slowed his pace, pistoning into your cunt a little slower now. He could never attempt this when you were alive, when your flesh was warm and your smile sweet. No, you had to be like this—an obedient toy beneath him; a means to satiate all of his desires. 

His cockhead smacked against your cervix, causing his grip on you tighten and, in turn, break the one stitch that ran from three inches above your left hip and upwards, diagonally. It was an abrupt break, causing the flesh to tear slightly and slide down from the movement of his thrusts. The doctor huffed in annoyance, but it only made his pace quicken as irritation was soon replaced by satisfaction. 

Crimson eyes watched the skin wiggle back and forth, and his lips curled into an amused smirk. He could fix it afterward, but for now he would relish in this one-time occurrence. There was no reason as to why he enjoyed the sight of you falling apart like that, but he did. Perhaps it was some sick gratification in knowing that you were at his mercy—bound to crumple and be rebuilt repeatedly. 

The thought caused a groan to rumble in his throat, and his cock twitched against your velvety walls. At least your insides were still intact, and it was perhaps the one and only thing he was truly thankful for. Of course, he had no qualms about fixing that part of you, if the need ever arose. One of his hands moved to carefully push a leg back while the other remained at your hip. The position allowed him to reach deeper, with his tip kissing your cervix each and every time his dick buried itself to the hilt. 

“A good toy,” he groaned. His hips smacked a little more harshly against yours when he upped his pace, all while keeping his focus on your face—though he would occasionally glance at the torn skin curling apart. “I’ll fix you. Again, and again.” The doctor kept his movements quick and steady as his thrusts continued. Gods, you were tight for him; almost painfully, but even he liked that. “Malleable to all of my desires.” His other hand quickly moved your other leg back, causing the subtle sound of ripped stitches to make his cock twitch yet again. “Cry for me,” Dottore demanded. 

Like an obedient dog, your eyes shed a few tears, in which he quickly lapped up with his tongue—a unique modification he added into your reanimation process. He hummed at the salty taste before moving to press his lips to yours, relishing in the icy contrast with his own warm pair. The doctor’s body held you down against the table at this point as he continued fucking into you. His groaning grew a little louder as his breaths came out in quick and short intervals. 

He was close. The constant twitching of his cock against your gummy walls and the tightness in his abdomen were indicators of that, and Dottore continued until he final came. His balls tightened as his release washed over him in a euphoric wave, and he groaned a final time as his teeth bit down on your bottom lip, drawing the tiniest bit of blood in the process. His hips slowed as his thrusts gentled out, moving in a way that allowed your walls to be coated with his creamy cum. 

The doctor remained like that for a few moments, letting your cunt milk every last drop out of him before he carefully eased himself out. A hand quickly fixed the mask that hung a bit lopsided on his face before he scanned over your form, and his tongue quickly licked up your blood that remained on his bottom lip. Ripped stitches, torn flesh, it was all an easy fix for him—and he enjoyed every moment of your ruined state. 

Your memories would never return. Dottore would make certain of that. Trouble would ensue if you did recall what he did to you, but it was necessary. How else could he keep such a perfect and obedient toy at his mercy? An amused smile graced his features as he slipped himself back into the confines of his pants before reaching for the thread and needle, ready to repeat the process all over again.

[catscidr]

// what's the difference between scotch and whisky anyways //

i. note — /edit/ i said i would fix the formatting later and Now is later hi hellooo. sorry for not posting, i suddenly couldnt bring myself to write for more than five minutes at a time lmaoa ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) but i hope the dottore enjoyers like this at the very least. rn im working on chapter 3 of fbbts and a darker, separate dottore/reader one shot and a couple of jjk fics if anyone would even be interested in reading them lol. but in the meantime, here's drunken shenanigans ft everyone's favorite war criminal ii. includes — dottore x gn!reader, webttore (beta) and omega cameos. various mentioned harbingers iii. cw — fluff, crack sorta, alcohol stuff, dottore is ooc because he's Not Sober, everyone is clingy. fun stuff yk iv. wc — 3,5k -> ao3 link

It’s a popular stereotype that Snezhnayans are heavy drinkers, but the fact lies within the fatui. They’re shameless; whether it’s showing up to work inebriated or drinking on the job, they’ll hold onto the ‘snezhnayans have a high alcohol tolerance’ stereotype with clenched fists and a bottle at their lips. 

However, that fact only applies to the lackeys—agents that are stationed for hours on end without a break, agents that, at times, need liquid courage to face the horrors that come with the job. The Harbingers are an entirely different case. 

They balance each other, in a way. Where Tartaglia can down three shots of fire water and come out virtually unscathed, Damselette would rather not be caught within a hundred meters of a drop of alcohol. Where The Knave occasionally enjoys a glass of wine in her office, The Balladeer sneers at the choice of drink. 

None came together to go out for drinks, if not because of their job taking up a lot of time out of their days. No, none of the Harbingers were really close enough to let themselves be seen so vulnerable, if one dared drink themselves to the point of being unable to walk in a straight line. 

Thus, there had only been rumors circulating the halls of Zapolyarny palace. Hushed speculations spoken between coworkers, told with an air of excitement. No one has ever seen their Lords in a state other than wholly glorious, so it’s only human nature to wonder just what they would be like if their dignity were knocked down a peg—how they would be if they indulged in simple human vices. 

There are two kinds of Harbingers; ones that lack any rumors about their drinking habits, and ones that are so intriguing that if you were to strike up a conversation with a fatui agent, you would start theorizing about what kind of drunk they’re like before saying hello. Tartaglia and The Knave are part of the former, along with The Rooster and The Fair Lady. The latter consists of (unsurprisingly) The Balladeer, our sweet Damselette, and the two big shots at the top. 

Rumors of The Captain’s drinking habits are usually quite short-lived. People either have too much respect for him to speculate about something as childish as how he acts when he’s had too much to drink, or fear him too much to risk spreading rumors. 

But regarding The Doctor... 

It’s no secret that, even if he is eccentric and has a penchant for unconventional research methods, he has quite the loyal following. Agents will rally to defend him if they hear anyone slandering him, insisting that he’s reasonable and logical. ‘If you simply do your job, you have nothing to worry about’ is what they’d say. 

Although he’s amassed his fair share of fans within the fatui, they’re unlike The Captain’s loyal following; The Doctor’s subordinates are the first to whisper theories about their boss’ drinking habits. He’s only part human now, so maybe alcohol doesn’t affect him the way it does normal people like Tartaglia. Oh, but he seems the type to need to unwind occasionally, so maybe he has a secret stash of wine somewhere in his office? What if, in his free time, he creates various concoctions and cocktails to drink? 

Seeing as he understands science deeper than anyone else, mixology should be a walk in the park for a scientist as lucrative as him. 

Wrong. 

“Shouldn’t you be working?” 

The glare sent your way is nothing short of vicious. There stood in front of you one of his segments, the one with the infamous short fuse. “Why are you here?” 

You internalize the sigh you want to let out, deciding against making him mad when it seems he can’t even stand straight for longer than a few seconds. 

“Lord Pantalone dismissed me early.” You strategically omit why he let you go in the first place. “Where’s Prime?” 

As per anything retaining to Il Dottore, your relationship was unconventional at best. The term closest to what you were, if you wanted to describe said relationship, would be lovers—but... not quite? Still. Neither you nor Dottore cared enough to put a clear label on it, so you’ve resorted to letting people speculate— it can be quite entertaining to listen to people guess while being loud and wrong, anyways. 

You used to work under him as one of his many researchers. When you both started taking your relationship seriously, he threw in the idea of promoting you to being his personal assistant; that way he could (give you special treatment) have someone more competent than his last assistant take care of “menial tasks” like his tedious paperwork. 

You refused the generous offer, insisting that it would be unprofessional to work under him as his partner. After many late-night discussions (and stubborn headbutting of differing opinions) you both have come to an agreement in which you would work for Lord Pantalone as a financial planner. 

(You finally managed to convince him by bringing up how you could, hypothetically, pull some strings on your end in his favor—that you could persuade Pantalone to allot more funding for his research. If he had any shame left, it would have been embarrassing how quickly he shook your hand to accept your conditions.) 

Now, while you spent most of your time in an office in The Regrator’s office building near the Palace, you occasionally came by to drop off documents. Of course, you would use your short trips as an excuse to go see Dottore (even if you could do so at any time anyways, given how much authority he had.) 

However, sometimes you just want to work. 

You’ll leave the comfort of your cubicle to go see him and the extensions of himself, sure, but you still had a job to do. Papers piled up, clients grew impatient, and even your boss wasn’t immune to their nasty attitude whenever he held a meeting with a particularly irritating client. Thus, sometimes you wished you could truly focus, lose track of time and work until your wrist forced you to take a break. 

This wouldn't happen today, clearly. Seeing as one of Dottore’s lackeys rushed to your office to bring you to the Haeresys, you most likely won’t be seeing your desk until further notice. 

Now you were stuck with a cryptic Beta, trying your best to use what little knowledge about the clones’ machinery you managed to wring out of your stubborn lover. 

“Where’s Prime?” You run a hand over your wrinkled coat sleeve, keeping your voice calm and steady. Patient, else you’d be subjected to the segment’s indignation. 

“Dunno.” 

You sigh. Is he a scientist or a child? “You do know. Where is he?” 

“I told you I don’t know!” He throws his hands up, accidentally striking his mask in the way—effectively leaving it to rest at an angle on his face. Most of his mouth showed now, instead of the half you’re used to seeing. And the holes for the eyes don’t quite go where they should... 

Blinking, you take in the sight in front of you while he calms down. His crimson eyes were glassy, and his lips formed a permanent pout, vastly out of character for a segment that supposedly represented The Doctor at the most volatile stage of his life. Azure locks curled around his cheeks, though they were usually tucked out of the way. His clothes were all wrinkled, in a way that left you wondering if you shouldn’t tend to him instead. Dealing with his attitude is annoying, but it’ll be amusing to think about later, I guess. 

“Do you really not know...?” 

“No.” 

“Then, do you know why I was called to the lab?” 

“No. Yes... probably not. Uh,” he crosses his arms over his chest and loses his balance for just a second, “I think I do.” 

You raise an inquisitive brow, silently encouraging him to continue. 

“Give me a second.” Beta shuts his eyes, shoulders slumping. His mask was still crooked—you had half a mind to fix it, but held back the twitch in your fingers. After a few seconds he pipes up, uncrossing his arms to reach out to you. 

“Come.” 

The segment grabs your wrist and drags you into the hallways of the Palace, ignoring your yelp of surprise and the stares of various agents lingering in the halls. You pass by ornate statues and paintings, the sight more unfamiliar than not. 

“Beta, where are we-” 

“Hush, I can’t walk when you’re talking my ear off.” 

...Right. Something is definitely wrong. 

After about five minutes of running around like headless chickens you tug your arm back, making Beta turn around indignantly. You lift your hands up in front of you before he can speak. 

“Did you mean to bring me to Lady Signora’s office?” you ask, lips curled up into a small smile seeing his mask still laid crooked on his face. With a gentle hand you fix it, cold fingers grazing his burning cheek. 

“...” 

Beta’s brows furrow as he avoids your gaze, huffing dramatically. Poor guy, you mused. 

“Alright, let’s go to the lab, then. He must be there, right? Where was Prime last time you saw him?” 

“...his office, probably,” he murmurs. 

With a nod and a smile akin to someone doing some gentle parenting, you place a hand on his back and help guide him to Haeresys. The stairs were hard to walk down, but with just a bit of patience and a bit of Beta clutching your arm while shouting that you were trying to assassinate him, you make it down in one piece. 

You remove your gloves and place your palm into the scan, then input the lengthy password to open the laboratory’s large doors. They slide open, revealing the absence of normal researchers and noise. You spot Omega standing over the remains of a ruin machine with a clipboard in his hands and look back towards Beta. 

“Go sit, I’ll go ask Omega about Prime’s whereabouts.” 

The clone nods, trudging his legs along to lay down on the leather couch tucked away in the lab. 

As you put away your large coat and hang it up in the small rack near the doors and make your way towards Omega, you notice the slow rhythm of his handwriting—when he’s usually seemingly speedrunning writing down notes, he’s now leisurely writing away, unaware of your presence. 

“Omega.” 

The latter turns to you, masking his surprise with a small smile instead. “My dear,” he practically purrs, putting away the clipboard in a swift movement, placing the pen in his coat pocket. 

“I was alerted that something was... off, with Prime. Do you know where he is?” 

And where you thought Omega would pick up on Beta’s lack of decorum, you were sorely mistaken. The clone walks up to you with that same smile brightening his features, placing both hands on your shoulders oh so gently. 

“He’s in his office. But enough about him, I haven’t seen you in a while, beloved. Why must you keep me away from you?” he muses, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. You tilt your head to avoid being stabbed by his mask’s beak, raising your hands to press against his chest to make some distance. The action proved to be futile, of course. 

We saw each other yesterday, you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’ll get back to you in a moment, alright?” You offer him a warm smile in hopes that he’ll listen, seeing as he seemed to be quite... mushy. 

It works, and he lets you go with a curt nod, retreating to go... somewhere. You didn’t linger around long enough to figure it out, since you knew where to go now. 

Walking across the lab, you note how things seemed to be more out of place than usual. It couldn’t have been a researcher, they always had to clean up after themselves, courtesy of their boss. So, the mess had to be caused by them... 

You finally stand in front of his door, raising a fist to knock. A yelp leaves you as you’re whisked away, the door slamming shut just as quickly as it swung open. 

“Dottor-” 

“Can you fucking believe how inept these agents are? They dare speak to me with such disrespect after delivering the lousiest job I’ve ever seen.” Dottore rambles, pulling you deeper into his office. You observe the state of his workspace, namely the papers scattered onto the ground and the... bottlecap on the floor, right next to his trashcan filled with crumpled up paper...? 

“Showing up in the lab with their damn hands empty save for the half empty bottle of scotch they tried to hide. Idiots were too shitfaced to notice how I noticed.” 

“Okay, Dottore, what are you-” 

He gestures wildly as he speaks, his hands the only way for you to read him as his mask hid most of his features. The blue lines taunt you; though you’re tempted to take it off, you feel like he might just lunge at you if you did. 

“And then they had the gall to insist that the bottle was theirs when I confiscated it.” Dottore pushes you down to sit on the couch, a small oof leaving you in consequence. “Anything that enters this fucking lab belongs to me, I’m the boss, I decide what flies and what does not.” 

Absolutely unaware of your muffled giggles as you piece things together, he keeps ranting, turning his back to you as he stomps away towards his desk. “Not to mention these damn lackeys have had multiple warnings up until now,” he spits out. “Lord Harbinger, we’re sorry! We’ll clean up the lab to make up for this offense! Lord Harbinger, it won’t happen again! Who do they take me for, a moron?!” 

The higher pitch he uses to imitate (and make fun of) the agents almost makes you lose it. But you keep your composure, sitting demurely, listening. 

Dottore comes back with a bottle in hand, orange liquid swirling around the thick glass as he stumbles closer to where you sat. He joins you without warning, creating a dip in the sofa next to you—almost forcing you to lean onto him for support. His free arm drapes over the back as he sighs loudly, making you stifle a laugh behind your hand. 

A pregnant pause stretches between the two of you as his anger simmers down to embers. You lean forward, attempting to take a look at the label on the bottle in his hand. 

“What’re you holding there, love?” you ask sweetly. Glancing up you’re able to steal a peek at his eyes from underneath his dark mask—Archons was he absolutely gone. 

It takes him a second to respond, almost as if he forgot you were even there in the first place. 

“Whisky.” 

“I thought it was scotch.” 

“Same thing.” 

“No it isn’t.” 

“Yes it is.” 

“No it’s n-” 

“It is.” 

Maybe it wasn't the brightest thing to do, messing with him while he’s this inebriated. But it sure was entertaining. 

“Alright. Well, how much did you drink?” 

“A sip or two.” 

As if on cue, he brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a swig. Your grin widens, thoroughly entertained by the show; who else had the privilege of seeing The Doctor so drunk he could barely formulate something that made sense? 

You bring his attention back on you as you place a hand on his knee, leaning close. Dottore immediately snaps into place, gaze flickering down to your lips from the proximity. 

With a swift hand you grab the scotch from his hands, inspecting the amount still left in the bottle. If he said it was half empty when he confiscated it, then... 

“Dearest, did you drink a quarter of this bottle?” You're not even supposed to drink it straight from the bottle, either is what you wished to add, but seeing how defensive he was already, you figured it would just make things more complicated than they needed to be.

As if stung by the Tsaritsa’s delusion, he immediately stiffens and defends himself. “I did not, I told you I only had a sip.” 

The way his bottom lip jutted out was almost cute, if you dared to describe him in such a way. Compliments could wait though; you had answers to seek. 

“Mhm, a sip. Well,” you put the bottle down on a coaster on the coffee table and turn to face him properly, “what happened to the segments? They’re all a little... woozy.” Your fingers trail his arm, tracing circles in their wake. 

Dottore swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as he opens his mouth to speak. “We’re connected, albeit loosely. They could be affected by the few sips of scotch I drank, though I would have some work cut out for me if that were the case. I can’t let them be so weak after all.” 

The way he spoke sounded, for lack of better words, pouty. 

Was he... sulking? 

“And since we’re connected, I know you spoke to Beta ‘n Omega earlier.” 

He most definitely is. He's even slurring his words, now...

“Yeah? I was asking them where you were so I could check up on you, baby.” You chuckle softly, taking the liberty of putting his mask away. Bright, glassy red eyes stare down into you, and you hold back the urge to smother his face in kisses. 

“You didn’t have to talk to them, you could have just asked me.” 

“I was looking for you, so I couldn’t have.” 

“Why not?” 

You scoff, smiling as you adjust yourself on the couch. Dottore notices and takes the liberty of pushing you down, laying his head down so his ear is on your chest, cheek pressed up into you. “I’m sorry, I’ll ask you next time,” you respond. 

That satisfies him, enough to render him silent for a handful of seconds before he speaks up again. 

“...I need to get back to work,” he huffs. 

You bring a hand up and run it through his disheveled locks, careful not to tug at the small knots in the hair at the back of his neck. Twirling the hair of his mullet you hum, noting how his weight seemed to grow heavier as the seconds passed. No way is he going to get any work done if he falls asleep here. 

“Take a break, you deserve it. In the meantime, you can think of a suitable way to punish those stupid agents from earlier, right?” 

A quiet hum is all you get in response. You look down expecting to see his unnerving red eyes to be staring up at you, but you’re met with the sight of his features completely lax instead. Azure hair pools around his face, settling on your chest where his face rose in time with your breaths. 

You would have dimmed the lights and turned off his computer if you knew he was going to keep you hostage on the couch. Though you can’t really complain at the turn of events; it’s rare for Dottore to be the one to initiate skinship in the relationship. 

It was quiet, but you managed to hear the low dear? that left his lips. You hum, not wanting to speak as to not break the quiet atmosphere lulling you to a sense of peace. 

After a minute of silence, you decide to repeat yourself—this time a little louder than before. “What is it?” 

Another minute passes, just as quiet as the last. The sound of his slow, deep breaths fills the room, accompanied by the low scratches of your nails on his scalp. His hair parts where your fingers tread through it, and you quietly note that you should trim his hair soon. 

Il Dottore’s poor alcohol tolerance will always be a mystery to the public, because there’s no way you would ever let anyone in on the way he cuddles up to you when he’s had too much to drink. 

[screamingcrows]

Welcome to Zandicktober's masterlist and slight information! I'll be adding links to every drabble and the polls as they're posted. A link to this post has been added to my main masterlist!

Again; keep in mind that while some of these have suggestive themes and are various degrees of explicit, they will not all be pleasantly framed. This is an event about putting a fictional guy in Situations™️, some of them will be uncomfortable.

Risse and Petal, I appreciate you two so much for helping me get enough ideas for this

I will do my very best to add all relevant warnings on individual posts as 'cw thing' and 'nsfw' or 'dark content' on this list as I add entries. Day 26 has reader described with breasts, otherwise neutral. Please block #zandicktober if you want to avoid my daily posting. Masterlist under the cut

Do the titles say anything about the content? You'll know soon enough.

Thirty minutes

Dignity

Light

A new person

Drops

Predator - Chosen to become a fic

Poll One

Solutions

Fall

Take a chance

Unnecessary expenses

Predicament

Study break - Chosen to become a fic

Poll Two

Lingering

Hush

Science rizz - Chosen to become a fic

Experiment

Coarse and gets everywhere

[Deleted this one - there's nothing today]

Poll Three

Nectar - Chosen to become a fic

Tinkering

Field trip

Peep - Chosen to become a fic

Mutual interest

History

Poll Four

Ideas

Enough

Surprise!

[iiotic]

"..WHO ARE YOU?"

in which you meet a rather strange creature while being in dottores lab; sketchy shit.

before you read -> swearing, sketchy shit idk, gn reader, intended romantic, short, not proff read

word count: 0.7k

I randomly got motivated seeing this fanart of dottore (the right one) also thank you for all the requests I will be making them soon!!

you and dottore have been very close over the past years, you've known him in your akademiya days. he used to be really sweet, easily flustered yet so sassy; of course it's not like he's not sweet now, it's just that things change. intimate or romantic encounters with dottore is very rare, even though you practically live in his lab, staying here to monitor if he's eating enough food or sleeping at least 6 hours a day.

you sat in the mode secluded side of dottores lab, something similar to a storage room where he keeps all the supplies he needs for his experiments. you needed some time alone, your social battery got worn out rather quickly today and you needed to relax. you bought a new book lately, the world making quickly interested you so much, it was like you're hypnotized, nose in the book and nothing else matters.

that was until you heard a strange sound coming from outside the door. a strange feeling ran through you, the atmosphere eerie. you have no idea what's going on.. so many years of being in his lab yet it was the first time of you having this strange feeling.. the door creaked as someone walked into the shadows.

".. hello?" you call out, maybe it was one of dottores clones trying to pull a silly prank on you?

no response.

you hear footsteps coming in your direction, quickly closing your book you tried to see who just came out from the shadow. you relaxed a bit seeing that it was one of dottores clone.. or not?

the being looks like dottore when he was studying at the akademiya with you, but why was he just standing like a ghost in the darkness? does he even know you see him?

"do you need anything?" you asked quietly, almost unsure. no response. as he slowly walked over to you, you realized that he indeed wasn't a clone, you have never seen a clone look like that. he had absolutely no face, it was terrifying, his face or.. the place that his face should be at was completely black.

it was like you couldn't utter another word, you froze in your spot, eyes widened as you were hypnotized by this being.

he finally stopped right infront of you, he was slightly taller than you. he stared at you like if you were the pray and the was the predator, he slowly started leaning down to look at you face to face, and he slowly caressed your face with his cold hands while still staring at you intensely.

you wanted to say something, run away but you couldn't.. you just couldn't like you didn't have the ability to do it.

he is still uncomfortably quiet, he doesn't say anything. can he even do that without a mouth? his hand slowly slides down from your cheek to your neck. he started off gently but grantly increasing his pressure on your neck, soon enough you started to choke, you couldn't do anything, you felt so helpless, so terrified of the creature before you, it was not the zandik you loved.

you fell to your knees as you heard someone call out your name, you breathed heavily, looking up to see that it was indeed dottore. not the faceless one the ruthless, terrifying one; it was your lover.

"why are you just laying there? i was looking for you everywhere, let's go." he said in a hurry as he montioned you to follow him.

you stood up, looking around the room, your breathing slowly becoming normal. you cleared your throat and started slowly walking over to dottore who was waiting for you near the door.

"are you okay?" he whispered.

"..yeah."

...

what the fuck just happened?

© 2024 iiotic. — do not steal, translate or repost any of my content onto any other platform

[hexesandroses]

Fade away with you - Il Dottore x Female Reader

This is based on a post I shared earlier today. Very short but I had to get it out of my system (one day I'll explore this idea a different way but that's a problem for future Ella to deal with). If I see anyone beneath the age of 18/ageless blogs liking this post, I'm blocking you. It's on sight. Also on AO3.

NSFW. MDNI.

Dottore hadn't known solitude until he met you.

You appeared in his life like a Padisarah blooming in spring; a creature so lovely and sweet that he could not believe you could be his. You were all-consuming, you were otherworldly. Your words awakened in Dottore parts of himself that he thought nonexistent; your touch set his entire body aflame and made him understand just how ravenous he had been his entire life.

He had never considered it before - that he could be hungry for something like this: you lying bare beneath him, hair splayed out on the soft pillow, eyes pooling with tears as you took him in. Gracious, generous. Dottore had not known intimacy of this kind before but you showed him all that he had been deprived of. Was it wrong to want more? Should it bother him, that the feeling of your walls enveloping his cock so sweetly was not enough?

A thought that would not leave his mind no matter what he did. Dottore ached with the desire to fill you until he was all you knew; to take and take until you had nothing left to give; to merge your souls into one, forever intertwined, never to be separated by the omnipresent island in the sky. And you would let him - you were kinder than he could ever be, sweeter than all the dandelion wine in Teyvat.

Dottore thrusted in and out in time with your wanton moans. He couldn't remember when his rationality had been overtaken by such desperate want, but that had ceased to matter the moment he slid into you. You were his only respite from a world which despised him - your body a haven he could have never dreamed of.

Archons, and why didn't he meet you sooner? Why did the stars mock him for five hundred years before finally allowing this to happen?

You whined when his cock brushed against that particular spot. He knew you were overwhelmed; your legs, wrapped around his waist, twitched every so often with a plea for release. Dottore reveled in that, too: that he could see you at your most desperate and prolong the sweet torture that he knew you so loved.

"I can't," slipped the miserable confession past your lips, "please, Zandik..."

He brushed damp locks of hair out of your face with a careful hand, kissed your tears with a softness he never knew he possessed. Dottore's gaze was nothing if not fond as he took in the sight of you.

"You can take it, dear," he murmured, slowing his thrusts to an agonizing pace, "Be patient."

It was a lot to ask of you when Dottore himself was on the brink of losing all self-control. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, bringing him closer and closer still; as if the proximity between you would force him to move at the pace that you favored. Had you forgotten, in your haze, that Dottore much preferred these slow, tantalizing strokes? That the sight of you writhing impatiently fueled his lust more than anything?

His lips trailed your skin: beginning with your jaw and stopping at the crook of your neck, where Dottore bit down in time with a sudden, harsh thrust that made you moan loudest. He went as deep as he could - squeezed by your walls in a way that made him groan against you. Intoxicating, divine. You would be his undoing.

"You're teasing. It's- it's too much."

Dottore chuckled softly. "Is it? Can't you take it?"

Fool. Terrible, fatuous fool.

How you'd melted every ice wall that shielded his heart - a shriveled thing, rotten to the core. Never had he yearned so deeply to mark you, to show the world that you had proven him worthy of being desired.

"I need more, Zandik," you said, words coming out in gasps as he pushed in and out, in and out. "I want to come."

Whatever resistance he had was crushed into dust. How could he deny you a thing when you had given him life?

"Anything you desire." He said, before pressing his lips to yours in a fervent kiss. His hands roamed your skin - your hips, waist, breasts, the pads of his fingers brushing against your hardened nipples, eliciting a sigh that sent shivers down his spine. He couldn't get enough; even when your hips bucked against his, even when your fingers tugged at his hair as he thrusted deeper, harder. His hunger for you was bottomless - a mere taste was not enough. Dottore wanted to become one with you; like the ley lines buried deep in the earth.

You broke the kiss first, but Dottore did not spare you the moment to catch your breath. He dove back in, thirsty for more, his heart nearly fluttering when your mouth welcomed his again. Could you feel it, the adoration he held for you? Did his rough kiss convey everything that you made him feel? If you were to open your eyes in that moment, you would have seen the passion with which he kissed you: in his creased brows and eyes closed shut. He focused everything he had on wordlessly telling you, mine. You're mine and mine alone.

He kissed you until his lungs betrayed him. Dottore rested his forehead against yours, the feeling of your warm breath on his swollen lips setting him on fire. Your body had tensed where it was pressed against his own - a sign of your impending release.

His hand moved down to your core, thumb slipping past your slick folds to rub circles against your clit. The moan that slipped past your lips as a result was an exhilarating melody that he could never tire of.

Dottore wished to see you as you came; to catch a glimpse of your expression, twisted in pleasure utterly unbearable. But he couldn't muster that strength, for his own release was creeping closer, turning his movements sloppy, the thrill of the moment too great to bear. He could only hear your voice, the slapping of skin against skin, could only feel the way you took him in - you consumed him with no mercy. Everything you did had formed cracks at the edges of a mask he spent five hundred years carefully crafting.

It was only when you stilled beneath him that he slowed his thrusts. You clenched around him for a brief moment - eliciting a hiss - and then you came undone with a cry that Dottore could feel in his bones.

He nearly forgot about his throbbing cock, still buried deep inside you, for Dottore couldn't tear his gaze away from your face. All coherent thoughts escaped him until all that was left was the same mantra he repeated each time he looked at you: mine, mine, mine.

[alaska-mii]

ventriloquist.

if the doctor took a shot at procreation that did not involve the blueprint of his own genetics.

else, the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde if hyde seperated the good from his evil. [il dottore/reader]

this is purely indulgent. have no expectations and i hope to at least leave you flabbergasted. comment or send a note (pretty please?)

cw: descriptions of bodily harm, character death (minor plot device), creative libreties when it comes to how the segment system works

--

Everlasting winter seeps the vigour from those unaccustomed to the endless barrage of blizzards. When there is little else to be done, he observes the unraveling of lesser minds, the horror in their visages when the shadows morph into monsters borne from the palace's coldblooded regality.

He scoffs at such displays, for the specimens they have picked apart within the laboratories are more than enough to ensure total mental devastation for those spineless scum.

Needless to say, it's mirthfully ironic that the phantom haunting the palace halls does the opposite. A being given life amongst the sterile madness many have borne witness to before death, by hands that have served as executioner.

It is the cause for a sickening buzz of enthusiam in the fields of machienery and dissection and every persual of knowledge in between, a fevered wave that swept through darkened chambers and left an ecstatic glow in its wake. A marvel beyond marvels, they gush, for they have fabricated synthetic life. Bizarre, riddled with the libreties taken for a prototype. Yet, its flesh wraps around built bone and heart pumps nonhuman blood and. You are able to breathe.

Some have already denounced it from their attention, for it does not benefit their utmost agendas. Like insects to a light, so many others still are simply starved for a chance to have their ways with the source of all the zeal. An uninterrupted, thorough study of all its intricacies on first-hand account.

Fate was the revered scapegoat fools pinned their troubles on when, in actuality, they should have forsaken the butcher. He was above both the condemnation and praise of destiny, but he finds it deliberately designed, how you effortlessly fall to his lap.

The great halls twisting farther from the gates to Zapolyarny Palace are dimly lit, aglow only by the grace of the elemental energy pulsing within every crystal of ice. There are no guards stationed this deep into this cold fortress, for here is where Her Majesty harbours Her cherry-picked soldiers.

Noise from both the industrial and departmental iron fists the Fatui wields is far. Here, he roams for the frozen tranquility and the lack of anything with the ability to talk. Here, he finds you.

The first time he happens upon one of your escapades, he does not immediately drag you by your hair—if only to sift through the abnormal sheen of each strand—back to where more of him are eager to do the same. He, instead, waits, eyes fixed on the alcove you've tucked yourself into, and observes.

You are considered defective, to the indifferent, for possessing the inconveniences of humanity. For being so utterly, grossly imperfectly perfect. A mere mirror of mortality, so similar to them.

He sees what they mean. The rise and fall of your abdomen is irregular, as if you need to remind yourself to pump air into your lungs. Everything you do is intentional, conscious. The only subconscious prompting you exhibit is the instinctual urgency for survival.

As you are now, you show no signs of abandoning the little pocket of privacy you've convinced yourself into having for the simple fact that nobody has, as of yet, plucked you out of your hiding place.

How stubborn. For as long as you are confined within these glacial halls—as they are the only world you have known outside that of confused suffering—you will likely deny the necessities that await you at the laboratories, with his Segments.

You will refuse to undergo experimental agony at their probing hands again, even if that means rejecting basic subsistence, so long as you are away.

After all the trouble that went into your creation, well. An intervention is due.

"The plaster gives you away," he idly says, tracing his eyes over the bandages springing down each polished limb. The material starkly contrasts the peculiar pallor of your skin, from both afar and closer scrutiny.

Predictably, you startle from the perturbed stupor that blended you into your surroundings, the inanimate quality of a vessel unused to the functions of life. Through this action alone, one can tell that you are not of mankind.

A likeness to an unearthly mannequin with the makeup of humanity to hide its artificial truth.

Should the only exposure you get barring himself be the myriad of servants and recruits reckless enough to roam where they should not, you will never truly be normal.

“There is an abnormal shine to your skin. Highly reflective,” he remarks. Then, if a bit indulgently, “Are you made of plastic?”

He recieves no reply. The adrenaline of discovery persists to rush through you, backed into a literal stone corner as you are, so he cedes to simply contemplate you. It would be unwise to provoke a frightened animal, no matter how unthreataning. It's rather dissapointing how you failed to notice his approach, but one must start somewhere. You must still be acclimating to sound to heed the rustling of the tapestry.

With the lack of a response, he does not bother to pretend at subtlety while he surveys. The telltale aspects of their research—harrowed eyes and sullen, skeletal bodies; bloated, pulsing mounds of skin gushing Elemental residue; writhing graveyards of lacerations and exposed entrails narrowly considered alive—are nowhere to be found on the being before him; from the crown of your head to feet clad in soft leather, you are virtually untouched by the burdens of this realm. No inflammed blemishes on any seamless stretch of skin, not a single jagged scar from some overtly-rehashed childhood trauma.

A poor reflection of the vulgarity in humanity. You truly are a plastic doll entirely of their craftsmanship.

Being called a blank slate would be far behind you, however. He is not blind to the indications of bodily harm on your person, the excited cuts traced along the sheen of your arms and legs beneath snugly wrapped plaster.

The most damning, perhaps, are those glossed, glass eyes that speak of untold horror. In lieu of anything beyond basic bodily reaction to danger, he sees the recognition of potential agony in the unmoving rings of your irises. He is held in your vision—or, perhaps, realistically, it is the other way around—and he sees fear. Internally, he laughs, for what kind of creation fears its creator?

That, for some unrational reason, agitates him. It's sensible, he supposes, for you to be fundementally afraid of those sharing the same visage as your tormentors. He would have given you an experience to understand the concept of self-preservation, otherwise. Perhaps he would have acted upon the thought of dragging you, partly to see if you would struggle, back to the pool of predators, toothed with needles and a greed for answers to the questions your existence produced, were you so imperceptive to thoughts that involved your suffering.

Arbitrary. It would be wasteful, his time alone with you is already tremendously scant.

It is nigh imperceptible, enshrouded by the shadow the tapestry casts as you are, yet he notices the blink nonetheless; it took you just beyond the average limit to resume breathing and twofold that to will away the unavoidable onset of dryness. The minute shift in your eyes, portraying what he believes to be your rendition of curiosity, makes all the difference.

He forces himself not to smile, reels himself to a semblance of neutrality, but your wariness does not falter. Clever thing you've proven to be, he has to remind himself that you haven’t yet been taught to speak.

Conviction settles, smoothing over the initial doubt. He seldom acknowledges—let alone appraises—trivial things such as decor, but he endeavors to commit the canters and folds of the palace ornamentals to memory, the dark nooks you seek to see sanctuary in, if only to unearth your fruitless search of solace every time.

--

The color you see most is red.

When you came to be, your eye was pried open. Had they not done so, you would have never dared to open them, only ever knowing darkness. It made your shiny skin slick with the very same terror of their red eyes and red-dipped hands that had your heart thumping around your chest with the need to hide.

If they did not make you feel a pain that aches like the ugliest kind of red so much, you even think that you would have thought it nice.

Some of them cover their faces, even if it does nothing to hide the prickle of their stares. The masks save you from seeing the shade only they seem to have. It is how you know the man who found you was one of them.

Before they showed you how to breathe on your own, you had a mask of their own. It pushed your mouth open and pumped air down your throat, into your lungs.

You do not miss it. You have nothing to hide.

After the encounter with one you have not seen before, another calls you back to those rooms with sharp smells that stings your nose, with sharper, glinting lines that sink inside you and resurface with more red.

Their mouths move, pointed teeth glinting in the nauseating lights, making sounds you do not understand.

You think they are trying to ask you where you have been. If it was a good idea, knowing that you would just end up here, with them, all over again.

If you knew how to, you would ask them why they brought you here. How they made you if they did not know what flows from your beating heart to fingertips that do not feel like yours. Why they keep you alive if only to force upon you a fate worse than death.

If you knew how to move the flesh in your mouth, to clink your teeth to make words with meaning, you would ask them why they did not spare you the curse of singularity and just make you another one of them.

Made your hair pale blue, teeth that can hurt instead of clatter when it happens to you, made your eyes red like theirs.

For now, all you are able to do is choke out noises with a mouth you do not know what to do with when the metal lines sink too deep.

—

The second time he finds you, the whipping winds of Snezhnaya have blown elsewhere for the afternoon, like a colony of carnivores stalking its next hunt. Soliditary animals bear better results from the chase as they need not share the fruits of their labor.

Although the pale rays of the sun dwindle through the overcast skies, many have taken to basking in the brief reprieve the weather has given them in the last dredges of autumn. How one could ever find the unescapable fields of white above and below comforting is beyond him, with or without the storms of knife-like ice bridging the gap.

The second time is not as innocently accidental as the first. He had been anticipating the next opportune moment to intercede. The bottomless, manmade wells of your eyes have been occupying a better portion of his thoughts.

Unnoticed beneath an airy archway, he finds himself enthralled in the benign sight before him; perched in a patch of unfiltered sunlight from a window too small to wriggle through, in an uninhabited nook resting unused on an overtly opulent wing granted to those only of his perstige, is you.

He has seen you drenched in the dark, like watery ink staining over parchment, with remnants of fear persistent in how you beheld him. There was cloying rapture in your ruination, intrigue to be found in how you were created with an underlying wrongness yet they still find ways to taint you still.

Now, utterly engrossed in a bubble of wonder, fear is nowhere to be found on your sunbathed form. The dilluted hues of the fleeting daylight washes over a body he has never before seen so alive. A steady stream of muffled sun spills around you, an island parting a river in half, only emerging when the tides are favorable. It mutes the shine of your skin and you look terribly healthy.

It casts a faint halo—a dying ember or a brewing blaze, only time will tell—around your sillhouette, around a being not quite mortal yet far too polished a figure to be anything short of otherwordly. Had Celestia not been so loathesome with life, the coronation for your ascension to godhood would have been disgustingly glorious.

It caters to a certain satisfaction, watching curiousity ebb into those glass eyes and flow forth from unsure appendages that your conciousness has yet to settle into like ill-fitting articles of clothing. The childlike wish to explore is written in starry signs on your face, streaked with lovely lines in the uncrackable curve of your ever-so-slightly widened eyes.

There is pride that is always present when the product of his research comes to fruition, but somehow, seeing unsynchronized fingers stutter towards a stray crow that sweeped in from the window overhead is diferrent. Unprecedented.

The bird is a haggard pest, cocking its head at your approach, beady eyes perpendicular to yours, and he has never seen you so enchanted. Never has he had the opportunity to ever drink in the sweet, novel nectar of your wonder. Never has he seen you free from the misery that muzzles you so, as constant as the life they breathed into your lungs.

The crow skips away from your reaching fingers and he ponders if you knew how much smiliar you are to the skittish animal, only you were eathbound and unable to take to the skies. You perservere, however, captivated by the existence of the smaller lifeform and its freedom, having recovered from the unsurety when it unceremoniously flocked into the room.

Its wings flutter provocatively, a telltale sign of the bird’s wish to take flight. You pushed the animal too far, startled it to a point of irreversable distrust, and now this novelty will slip through the window and your fingers like liquid, as if it was never there.

A figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your own desire to fly. To break free and harness the tempests, fleeing from the world and all that roots you to the ground.

You realize your folly, or perhaps simply came to the realization that this ebony oddity will soon disappear as swift as it made itself known, and dart your hand out as a last, desperate attempt at understanding how it mastered the winds and scorned those enslaved to gravity.

The tip of your forefinger barely brushes against a feather when a beak repels the insolent indiscretion, hooking beneath the nail as it pecks down.

Skin breaks, blood drips in weak rivulets. It lashes to and fro in a cawing heap of indignity and you do nothing, reverting back to the frozen surrender from before.

A silent forfeit.

Dots of red curl down the inside of your hand. He watches the first drop fall to the stone below, then moves.

You only shatter the solemn stupor of staring at your bleeding finger when the lack of animal shrieks finally reach desensitized ears, but by then he is long gone. In his place, he bestows upon you a gift; the mutilated carcass of the crow, feathers ripped out and beak broken open. A warning.

Framed with a weeping pool of blood, its wings are torn into crude halves, crookedly splayed wide in stark constrast to the crimson. A blotch of lumpy ink in the margins of a paper. A mistake.

Hours later, after the sun retreats below the blanketed horizon and the swarming storms begin blowing whips of the weather through the rattling window, the splatter flakes on the cupped palms of your numb hands. There will be a scolding, for carelessly allowing its dirty talons near an open wound, for the state of your index finger, for clasping the mangled crow carcass so closely to your clothes.

Hours later, it will be catalogued that your glands are indeed capable of producing crystal clear tears. The overflow stains your cheeks and warps the glass of your eyes. They will condescendingly coo over you, heal your pecked hand, only to slice open more of your skin with beaks sharper than any predator with an animalistic fervor all over again.

—

In the heart of the solstice, when the moon loiters the longest, the echoes of night terrors haunting the barracks drown out the screams of the unfortunate. The others know this well, and perhaps the begging of the damned peels from the Haeresays louder than its usual volume in summer evenings.

Alas, idling agents often delude themselves to more nonsense for the rumor mill when they huddle together for warmth, and every whisper eventually reaches him. The majority of the humdrum is about their lives outside the Fatui—despite it being against conduct to share personal information—gossip about the Harbingers' pastimes, and so on.

There is a select pool of hushed stories, spread by those cursed—or blessed—with an authentically personal account, however, that he freely, actively savors in.

A ghost roams the inner halls, they claim, a victim of the vile experiments those scientists partake in.

The wiser fools know better than to discuss the deeds the Doctor committs, lest they share the same fate as the poor soul. The spirit seemed so pitiful, though, that they cannot resist sharing their grievances.

I hear the Second himself had a hand in their death, more prattle on, rattled. Refrain from approach! Haven't you heard of what became of those who wandered too close to the labs…

He hears all and amuses himself with their ignorance. Naturally, quiet thing you are these days, you listen as keenly as he.

Your creators have taken the stunt you pulled rather lightly. Were your fate left to him, he would have the stainless soles of your feet burned for daring to bite the hand that feeds.

In that regard, he isn't quite in a position to complain, enjoying your escapades far more than he had initally expected. You make a rivoting game of hide-and-seek; a childish play he never bothered himself with, muddy roughousing that failed to ever appeal to him.

Each time he ambushes you, you sport more signs of their influence. In the gaps between your chases of a dilluting desire of freedom, the influx of interest in you brightens. Correspondingly, there comes the need to have a stake of authority on the identity they forged, wholly built with and upon their efforts.

Thus, they are so meticulous when it comes to you. There is nothing in the dingy dredges beneath the castle that is more precisely handled than their very own prized project. Your constitution is similar to that of theirs, except all your needs are adaquately met: ample food, water, and clothing, because heavens forbid that you perish at the hands of something as mundane as a cold; an infliction they discovered you were capable of.

That isn't to say you are swimming in luxury, however. While you are obsessively fussed over like a beloved taxidermy, and educated through miscellaneous means since a widely accepted agreement is wildly unlikely, there are those that take advangtage of your vulnerability.

You are taught that the insicions inflicted on your fake flesh—never permanent, for what good is there in shredding the canvas of a masterpiece—is inevitable. That you would do good letting them ply substances of all kinds into your mouth, delighting in every crack of the inanimacy you cling to when the pain of being alive is too much.

Anything that cannot be regained will be cleaved off in an endevour to know your limits. You will be bent, battered, and broken. They are severely adamant of keeping every part of your material body inorganically original. They strike scars that will mend with the intention of altering to their fufillment.

Which leaves your malleable mind as, unfortunately for you, free teritorry. They aren't so reckless as to leave you mentally unsalvegable, but that mouldable, cognizant, tantalizing mound of flesh that lies between twin elastic ears is far too tempting.

He is sure that the winding bandages that envelop more skin every time he has you for himself match the contradictory net of lies woven within your skull. Undoubtably, the day he calls you daft is the day the experiments and lies have shaken you beyond saving.

The day you are summarily tossed aside like a memento that has lost its value, finally left to rest, will not be for many moons to come. That, he is certain of.

Alas, he can't quite tell if you are acivetly pursuing or preventing such a notion.

--

A period of time that he does not care to enumerate passes. The third time he finds you alone, you are curled on the wooden frame of a sprawling window within one of the many libraries the palace houses. The one you chose was disgustingly grandeur—a resplendent chandelier streaking shadows across your form, shelves made of marble, books merely props among the opulence.

Instantly, he knows something is amiss as he takes your chin with the slightest lift of his index finger and thumb, having grown bored of watching from afar.

You still beneath his touch and obediently, forcibly relax, long accustomed to such scrutiny. He is eternally displeased that they have not yet found a means to read every thought that flicks through your eyes as they will it, but such a milestone would only be a testament to the enroaching of your expiry date.

The fidgeting is new. You are still static in a way that befits a purposless spirit, but have slightly settled into a body you lacked the chance to grow into. An outlet for the developmental adjusments you are undergoing.

The incriminating back-and-forth of your nails and the wayward slide of your gaze, glass eyes slid away from his, tells him whatever secret you hide will be better left to fester. A bud that he, decidedly, intends to let bloom its sordid petals until he picks it at its peak. He wants to know what scandalous flowers you are capable of bearing.

He concedes, satisfied. With an final indulgent tap to your left cheek, alight with the blindingly white snow outside, your eyes unnaturally motionless where they refuse to meet his. He seats himself near the tips of your folded legs, replacing the rest of the library from your sight.

There is something wrong about your already muted pallor. You are naturally still, but today you are listless. It would seem he caught you in the aftermath—or, perhaps, midst—of an ongoing test.

He eyes your confusedly downtrodden face, as if frustrated by the amounting weight of your own body, if you were even capable of such an emotion. It would seem that one of them hadn't taken too kindly to your frequent dissapearances and made the decision to tighten your leash.

He doesn’t bother prying more clues from you. “What have they done to you?”

As if heeding the command of string, you lift your right arm, brandishing a thick tube portruding from the meat of your limb. He follows its path to an imposing intravenous stand he hadn’t noticed before, hidden in the velvet folds of the curtain.

Well, that is something. A Segment with a short fuse finally decided your frequent dissapearances trespassed the line of disobediance.

Hitching you to an IV is certaintly an effective impairment that will also make for endless entertainment, watching as you drag it around like an unwilling pet. Were one to look any further than the surface, the circumstances portray you with the collar instead.

He does not find this unreasonable. You have taken to exploring Her Majesty's vast algid domain, how a last of its kind species might roam the territory of a new era, still under the illusion that you might find a unreachable crevice they won't be able to extract you from. Had there not been so many of him to share you with, you would not know anything outside of every morsel he sees fit to handfeed you. Nevertheless, he finds the privacy you're so desperate to maintain far more interesting.

The common consensus is that the knowledge of your existence reaching any of the other Harbingers at all is undesirable. Thus, they are always there to reel you back.

Some more forcefully than others.

He coaxes out a solemn affirmation to return, lest you canter too far to the wrong side of the knife's edge. You and he both know that how he treats you, no matter his ulterior motives, is better than a harsh jerk of your wrist, a cruel scratch to resistant skin, every new set of stitches after a bout of chemically induced unconsiousness.

He considers the inanimate company you've kept, which may as well be a heavy metal weight, and the tube, chainlink bounding you to it. The fluid encased in unlabled glass is evidently a mild sedative, concocted to render your escapades brief and less far flung. Why they do not simply shackle you to the maw of their dingy realm is beyond him, but perhaps he and his Segments' sentiments for treatment are not as dissimilar as he fancied.

Vainly, he would prefer you confirm a speculation he is already certain of. He ensures there is no lingering mirth in his voice as he says, "Tell me."

It takes a few moments for his words to reach you. A negative of this solution, in this particular scenario.

"…fatigue," you reply, if a bit unsteadily, the words unseemly on your tongue, "increased hunger and thirst."

Throat hoarse with unuse, you fumble with your consonants, linger inconsistently on your vowels. You struggle with control over your own tongue, teeth clacking together, and it does not escape his notice.

Rationality abandons him, then, as he is overcome with the profound urge to steal you away to an unreachable crevice that will harbour you both. There will be no need for you to be taught the constraints of language, for every sound you make with that tongue—forged by their, his, hands—is saccharine nectar to his own. Every cut and bruise on your body will be of his doing, and you will worship the blotted reds and blues and purples as he does the cavas he rapturously paints upon.

The sheer amount of will he must invoke to reign in any idication of his desire, made more urgent with how you look ever-so trepidatious at the lengthening silence, is alarming. Taxingly familiar, yet not quite. He twitches to hold, cradle, squeeze. He does not invision gouged eye sockets nor infested decay.

The whitening knuckles fisting the fabric at your lap, slightly weaker than usual, is a flighty tell of yours, one of many, that he has memorized. It is the reminder he needs to compose himself. Just barely. "They have you on sedatives," he manages. "What you feel is induced lethargy, likely to negate your tendancy to flee."

The dejected crinkle to your face suggests that you thought as much. It endears him so, concerningly, that he nearly regrets lying if only to console you. Instantaneously, he annoyed with his own thoughts.

For a brief moment, he leaves you to ruminate this new restraint to inspect his own thoughts. That surge of such potency, an all-consuming blaze, setting aflame compulsions to act upon vehement impulses. This is a disturbingly reaccuring experience as of late, and he is certain that you are the one holding the match, no matter how unwitting.

He wouldn’t be so bothered by a wholly emotional occurance such as this, were it not so irritatingly tangible. It springs forth through his nerves, itching to lunge and ravage. Reduced to physically tampering down impulses and mentally extinguishing that encompassing intensity is maddening, and worse, familiar.

He is reminded of a point of interest, hightened by the anticipation of discovery and an overtly chatty Amurta Dastur. An anomoly. An overly determined presence that refused to keep a wise distance from him, cheerfully provoking him to debate about this topic and that.

Familiarity bred contempt.

The demise of Sohreh was sealed the moment she believed ocassionally riveting conversation could sway him into ever viewing her with romantic interest.

That same swarm of indescribable emotion that sprawled forth when she smiled a moonlit smile of pity for him, for the detatchment she foolishly misinterpreted as lonliness, was what spurred him to reach for her neck. Meagre plates of miscellaneous foods toppled over, forgotten, and eyes that were blinded by sentimentalities widened in shock, soon clouded with what he could only interpret as betrayal.

She thrashed in desperation at first, a instinctual preservation for life driving kicks and placating blabbering, but he watched as she sent a last, pleading look to him filled with nothing but disgustingly misplaced sympathy.

It only inspired him to constrict his fist tighter around her wind pipe, focusing on the ripple of her final breath through paling lips. Eyes rolled obscenely back into her head, her nigh permanent blush bleeding into a icy blue. Head tilted away from the waxen moon, parallel to his own as he hovered above the corpse he created.

The creases in her cheeks from that absurdly happy smile, rivaling the blinding beam of the sweltering sun, only made him ponder how they would fold were it torn from the full flesh of her face.

You are a life born from death and persistently claw for one free from the latter. An object that tries so hard at humanity, that perserves even at the edge of complete corruption, reduced to the whims of those that brought you to being. A sapling burgeoning still in a barren wasteland. He wants to see it flourish.

The familiarity is disconcerting. He does not want to lay lacerations on an empty shell nor shape a deteriorating design. Should you meet your end, it will not be by his hand.

He does not want to see you, in all your miserable mortality, die. The realization is thunder after the calamitous lightning. How inconvenient.

You will be his undoing.

This is worthy of concern, knowing his other selves could possibly experience the same burn to lay waste, depending on the lucidity of their mentalities. The only difference that leaves him at a disadvantage is the fact that they can hew and hack and heal to their hearts’ content, with your one-of-a-kind existence as their terribly loose justification. Although he has no intention of putting a scalpel to your skin in any clinical capacity, he craves to see you unravel in ways no more noble.

There is nothing to be done about his current lack of an outlet for his impulses. He, however, needs to find a means to an end that does not involve yours. Quickly, lest the itch to fist around your throat becomes untamable. If he finds temporary reprieve in antagonizing you—a mistake he would never have made otherwise, as he finds cultivating attatchment far more effective for control—then so be it.

“What are you hiding from me?” he decides, less questioning and mostly accusatory, worsened at the sheer disbelief at how you ever thought you had the privellage of privacy.

The glass exterior breaks and the effect is instant. He is both relieved and irked at how it pacifies him so to watch that predictable fear prompty overthrow the peturbation that seems to have taken permanent residence on your features. A primal reaction you have dubious chances of ever relinquishing, given the routines of probing that mark your days and skin.

Oh, well. An intervenion was predetermined and planned, after all. He would have rathered a suitably detached position where he may observe from afar, but he had been forced to dispose of that idea in its entirety. He'd have relished witnessing whether you would act like a dog with a bone or an unfaithful lover, shamefully stealthing about. Now, you would merely have to adjust accordingly to an audience who has an inkling of the plot.

He sighs, vexed, unwilling to know if you sputter out a flimsy excuse or surrender yourself to however he decides to punish this misdeed, despite how enticing the latter seems. "Learn from this. You would do well accepting the fact that constant survaillance on your every action is unavoidable."

It's humourous how your lips purse minutely, courtesy of being caught redhanded. He suspects, mildly humored, that you were confident in your ability to perserve a semblence of clandestinity. Whatever could be so important that you do not immediately confess your misdeeds?

“…will you tell the others?”

He sees the flicker of wavering hope in your eyes, perhaps the sting of wry loathing directed at yourself for ever allowing something as useless as having faith. He recalls the blatant distrust on your expression when he first met you, the feral exhaustion of an old street cat. You are sprouting; retracting cut claws, inching ever-so-slightly closer to his outstretched palm. Seeing such a sight before him is pleasing.

“As if,” he amusedly scoffs, sated. Disclosing the existence your temptingly private pastime is sure to guarantee a burnt bridge. Rebuilding another would be tedious and the original is particularly charming. “You’ve come so far from the illiterate fawn stumbling about the palace pillars. Or have I overestimated you?”

He has nothing to gain should he even imply you withheld anything at all within that bleeding-heart skull of yours; they would pick your brain like a murder of crows, uncaring if a morsel or a feast awaited them inside.

“You have not,” is the rushed reply. The sound of your voice, reassuring, pleasing, thrums something addictingly irrational beneath his skin. A gloved knuckle twitches and he dismisses it, refocuses.

It’s droll how fine a line it is; he can’t decide if you are hoping like the guilty or pleading like the sentenced.

Silence hangs in the chilled air between the heavy velvet curtain and the frosted glass panes, harassed by a stirring storm. He lets it, deliberately, if only to let your fears fester just a while longer. He contemplates whatever could possibly cause you to muster up the nerve to delay the unavoidable bloodshed; be it yours or that of this mystery.

It could hardly be one of those overly haughty scientists working in the division. The self-proclaimed scholars tend to believe themselves of more importance than the lowly station they were assigned to and topple over the cliff’s edge to the serrated shallows below. They rarely resurface from the repercussions of their failures.

They shouldn’t be so dissapointingly dim—although, he supposes, he never had any high expectations to speak of in the first place—that they even consider the notion of meddling in an expirement privy only to the Doctor himself. It would be more probable that you have sealed a tedious death for a member outside his jurisdiction.

“You do realize that you are condemning yourself and this secret to the consequences of your actions, yes?”

You recede, limbs locking up, marble eyes unfocusing as if you do not want to face the truth either. He notes this as a defensive tactic you use every so often; when there is nowhere left to run, you retreat into yourself. Knowingly or otherwise, he has yet to conclude.

He wonders if what troubles you so is the memory of the crow. Wonders if you think them immune to mutilation. After all, they have no feathers to pluck and have blabbering mouths where a beak would have been. Altogether a lifeform with skies of potential yet lacking the means to reach them without aid.

No matter. After this silly charade of yours, ending on his terms alone, you will learn.

—

These days, there are three things you cannot forget.

One is the cherries their eyes char when you follow their rules. They all have them. Rules that overlap and go against each other, but even so, you become the perfect pupil. Even the bright apples at the center of the masks some wear seem to flare a little brighter (darker?) when you do exactly as they say.

That gets harder, though, when multiple are with you at once, which is often. Their dissapointed corrections feel like hundreds of blunt branches at your skin.

You do not know if the painful pang to your chest is scarier than the warm, fluttering feeling in your stomach when red does not shed after the curved glint of pointy teeth.

You attest it to the fact your flesh is spared. Not to any other reasons besides.

Two is something you must not ever falter in maintaining. They will not break you beyond repair, you have been told. As such, you are terrified of what fate befalls you both if (when, in truth, but you have not lived enough years to learn from past mistakes) it comes to light.

A thought you cannot even touch in passing lest your guilt is spilled for them to see, to shame, to sever.

A secret.

You went to somewhere you have never been to before, a corridor closer to the distant noise you hear during the day. Slipping through a pair of aged wooden doors, already a strange sight in an unforgiving place like this, you were eased into a warmth you had no idea existed among the cold metals that made.

They would never let you go here. Sometimes, when they find you in corners of the castle nobody has been for centuries, your eyes have gone itchy and your nose runny. They say you are allergic, some clasping a gloved hand over half your face to stop your sneezing.

A lot of them chide you when you try to sctrach behind your eyelids, but one gathered a handful of dust to blow straight at your face.

By the time you were brought back, your eyes were watery and a blurry color too close to theirs.

A fire crackled on in a tucked-away fireplace, further cracking this room away from the what lies beyond the doorway. You thought they loved the cold. Walls upon walls full of binded words were lined neatly one after another, and you walked between them like old friends.

You were not stranger to books. They made you read an endless amount if you were not under their examination, leaving you lost in a confusing labryinth of ink. Eventually, you learned what you were meant to, read the tomes tossed at your feet.

These ones were different, though. Strange books in a stranger room. A room you do not, right now, wish to leave.

Head hung sideways to see the worn spines, you went over each one slowly, body heavy with a feeling that made you think of wool. The Boar Princess, The Fox in the Dandelion Sea, The Heart’s Desire…

It shone a teal you have not seen before and a pleasant purple. Something told you this one would be a read you will not regret. Returning upright, you reach a hand to tug it from where its pages were left without light for who knows how long, sliding it out from between two others of its brothers.

The book fell into your waiting hands with a cloud of dust. The tip of your nose tingled, face tightening with a sudden sneeze.

You clamped the book to your chest with a forearm, hand wiping over your nose and mouth. That only spread the dust from the cover over your face, and you jumped back a little with a second sneeze. And another.

“Oh, my,” a voice floated over to you, a voice that reminded you of the room you stood in. “Are you quite all right, dear?”

It was not one of them, that relieved you. You glanced over.

A woman clothed in too many criss-crossing fabrics for the blaze of the fireplace held a hand over her heart, a look on her face that had you wanting to duck your head and apologize.

You did not. Instead, you dared to look at her fully, and was met with a deep brown like that of the aged doors, floorboards, and bookshelves.

Black hair steaked with gray, wrinkled eyes that were not red. She stepped forward, wooden planks creaking, but your feet were rooted to the ground. She was not one of them, and that terrified you.

“Has the it gotten that awful in here? I haven’t a clue how it looks outside-in. Been holed up in here for so long that all those pesky dustmites don’t bother me anymore.”

The woman reached into a fold in her layers of color and held out a handkerchief with an odd pattern. You stared at it, dumbfounded, debating whether to make a dash for the door.

“You’ve reminded me to do some sprucing up around here.” A smile spread across her painted lips as she nodded towards her offering. “Oh, I have many more, you needn’t worry. Keep it.”

She placed it into your hand and pointedly stared at you, smiling, with those twin tree stumps until you took the handkerchief below your nose. Then, with a gentle swish of her skirt, she dissappeared behind the bookshelves once again.

When she did not return, you slipped back outside the room as quietly as you did going inside. The squares of the handkerchief felt foreign in your hands. New. Different from the lone feathers on windowsills you liked to keep.

Before your time alone ran out, you hid the handkerchief away on your person. By the time one with curled tufts of blue and grassy robes took you away, you were many twists and turns away from that corridor.

It was something you have never done before, going back to that kind-faced woman. At first, you used the handkerchief as an excuse, because you felt unfit to take care of it. Something bad would happen to it in your hands, that you were sure of.

That time, she kept you for tea.

You had only ever drank lukewarm water. But before you could get a word out, she opened a tin of biscuits too. You had never eaten anything besides the same meal carefully crafted meal plan you were made to consume everyday.

After you finished your cup by the time the woman—old crone of a librarian, is what she called herself—took her second sip and polished off the tin all by yourself, she invited you on any evening you wished to read together by the hearth, a smile on her lips that warmed you better than the fireplace.

You could have said no. Exited through the door while she stood to find more biscuits.

The empty teacup glinted in the firelight. You wondered if they saw you as tableware too.

—

“Are you my family?”

You know well that it’s safe to ask a questions like these. They never punish you for asking questions and needle you instead whenever you try to surpress yourself to the point of outburst, however minor.

The quickest response is amused. “I suppose you’re at the age where you want to play house.”

“Family is a loose term used by those who wish to feel entitled to others under the pretense of obligation.” Contemplative, distantly engaged. You can imagine the uptilt of his lower eyelids. “You are a creation of ours that happens to have the most lovely freethinking consciousness.”

“Freethinking? An overstatement, you don’t think, given that—”

“Then I assume you believe that the influence of a third party would simply be splendid—”

A conversation between two of the same person escalates into another argument. Like clockwork, they will continue until they reach a stalemate or until something relevant to that Segment of his life is weaponized.

You convice yourself that you cannot hear them, thoughts straying someplace else.

—

The librarian painted a world so much more wonderful than the one you live.

She told tales of great mountains that widthstand hurricanes, serpentine rivers that thrum with elecrticity, of the song and dance bursting from bustling villages. The landscapes she paints are your favorites; you can’t wrap your head around the vast fields and seas she speaks of. The librarian hails from Fontaine—a nation you had only known for its condemned future and its even more condemnable Archon—she tells you with a softeness, and that her family died while she was working here.

Here, you learn when to keep quiet. When she asks of your background, you remember the days before the Doctor showed you emotion and act as such.

Truthfully, you do not know much of this palace of ice aside from the Doctor and Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. You know that all those you have met serve Her and are part of an organization called the Fatui, but beyond that, you know little.

Here, you also learn to lie when staying silent isn’t an option. It’s something you cannot even fathom to do to them. No matter where you hide, they find you. Naturally, no matter what pretty words you use to hide the truth, they will know.

You say you’re sick, when the bandages peek out from your clothes. They are healing you (only to hurt you all over again) and that the IV is to cure your illness. Something on her face looks like she wants to keep asking, but the librarian kindly talks about another novel instead.

Here, you learn that the Doctor is a being that you cannot hope to put into words. In another tongue, maybe, but you still struggle with the one they teach you. He is everything—your past, present, and a future without him, them, is no future at all.

Sometimes, when the library gets too stuffy and the tea too bitter, your mind brings you to the coldness of steel and the tang of metal that has become another safety, another secruity.

You don’t know what you would do without them. It was stupid of you to dare to challenge the one certainty of your life.

Much later, after shelves’ worth of stories of what transpires beyond the ice and snow, after that enchanted starry-eyed look on your face privy to the kitsune and the melusine lingers damnably longer, there will be carnage.

The homely wooden planks of the library will be splattered with sinew, the vase housing flowers that strain through the temperature shattered, the carpets soaked with red, red, red. A horrible, sweltering red.

“Fables de Fontaine,” he recites with a tone of dull disinterest. “Mindless children’s tales. You gain nothing from animals rambling about simplified concepts you have already been taught.”

He tosses the book into the fireplace by its spine. The flames hungrily consume the pages yet the permeating heat does nothing to quell the brittle tremble in your hands. You feel as fooled as the crow who threw its catch to a silver-tongued fox.

Truly, you are far worse, for you have fooled no one but yourself.

Your gaze is tied to the bright tendrils of flame. A distraction from the mangled, breathing mess sprouting forth rivulets of blood. You wonder, distantly, which of the two resembles the streams of scorching lava from Natlan the closest.

The fire crackles with greed once the parchment turns to lumpy ash.

He picks another aged tome innocently resting on a spotless shelf. A surge of dread strung your heart taut at the sound of every step.

Like a coward, you squeeze your eyes shut. The ruined woods and wools that grew to resemble something of a comfort—an embrace to retreat to when the fresh pricks and gashes stretching awfully under the bandages become uncountable, a home—is hidden from sight as you try to imagine how it was before blazing retribution.

He languidly reads the title, “Wind, Courage, and Wings.” The bland cadence of his voice wreaks another wave of shaking. Each step is a plummet further down the slippery slope of agony you’re closely acquainted with. “The beloved rambles of Mondstadt’s drunken bards.”

There is a slight twinge of scathing mockery in his words now, and with it, standing becomes punishing. You open your eyes, for the black conjures nightmares of your reddened skin taut with stiches and redder eyes. Something begs you to remain on your feet. An inky shadow bleeds forth in front of your toes, wrinkling the threadbare carpet beneath it, and its caster soon follows. The burden of your mistakes weigh too heavy on your hysteria-addled head, so you cannot look away as the familiar hardbound is presented a ways away from your limply hanging hands.

“A bird with clipped wings is only under the misguided impression of freedom,” he says, breath brushing against your earlobe. “You know your limits well and still threw yourself off the cliff’s edge.”

You could never hope to decipher every meaning laced into the venemous words uttered directly into your ear, the contradictory thorns of patronage and the twinge of fondness that left you reeling, but the gesture was painfully clear; you were to atone for the sins you have comitted.

The fire crackles on in perfect harmony with the librarian’s anguished sobs. The molten hues of anger do nothing to warm the guilt shallowly soaking your feet, even if it feels as if you were drowning in raging waves of reckoning.

“Repent.”

You can feel the serrated smile in the timbre of his voice. The book is immediately clamped within your clammy hands in your haste to run.

To retreat from the wicked comfort that etches bone-deep, nestling into your wobbly joints. You won’t allow yourself to relax into the stringed reassurance of a puppeteer.

Yet, even when there are several steps seperating you from him as draw near the raging fireplace, the farthest thing you feel as you pour the fluttering pages over the metal grate is in control.

—

A thumb wipes across your cheek. “The dust was unsightly. I draw the line at ash.”

“The sores you would get from chains are far better as opposed to this. What next, will you be trekking in dirt after poking about the gardens?”

“Farewell to any particularly maternal gardeners.”

She is dead. He killed them and they treat it like how they treat the countless of tears in your flesh. Your face becomes a muddy mess as tears begin falling from your eyes.

Smoothly, pairs of cherries unbllinking at you, the hand on your face slides to hold your jaw firmly. It does not feel comforting. “Aren’t you still so childish.”

“Such commitment to the act!” another cackles, combing your hair back from your forehead. You want nothing more than to duck away and hide. “Save your tears. There will be much more bloodshed at your hands to come.”

They become indistinguishable from one another around you, and even if you see their too-tight grips and condescending caresses for what they are, a cage is still shelter nonetheless.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ You invite them to live in your Serenitea Pot

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe 

After prolonged years of adventuring, traveling, and battling, you decided it was the appropriate moment to invite your partner to your Serenitea Pot. It’s like inviting a significant other to move in with you, right? You are delighted, and even though your beloved is acting honored and calm on the outside, little do you know - he is secretly screaming with victory on the inside. 

✧ A tender smile graced Pierro’s cold expression. The first time you spoke about him taking residence along with you in your Serenitea Pot mansion, The Jester's inner machination was already planning a wedding. He loved you, with every fiber of his being. And whether you decide to live in the grand Snezhnayan Palace or somewhere private, it won’t hinder his plans to spoil you as his beloved.

It was all according to plan. You wake up, breakfast is already prepared. You start your day, the house is already cleaned. You wish to rest, his arms are already open.

He took his duties as a resident of your humble abode as if he were the househusband of this home. All matters were taken care of by him. And the fact that you two are already leading a private life together like a proper couple ignited his cold demeanor with softheartedness. It suited him; the commotion of the Fatui and Snezhnayan delegations were far away from you two. And with no peering eyes, the Fatui Director was busy with so many thoughts about your future: making your home better, showing himself as a man who would coddle you all day long, choosing a ring for you…

“Dear? You are deep in thoughts again,” - You called out suddenly, your gentle voice breaking his train of vehement thoughts. “I told you, you’re here to rest, not overwork yourself with chores!”

“Ah, my apologies. It seems I was lost in my mind once more. You know my habit of preparedness is often prevalent.”

✧ The honorable Il Capitano went silent the first time you invited him, and his pitch-black helmet did not provide any clues to his already stoic body language. At first, you hesitated. Perhaps he did not feel comfortable taking such an importan-

Next thing you know, the mighty captain is kneeling in front of you, his head hung low in utter reverence. “It would be my greatest honor to receive your blessings. I shall conduct myself with utmost obedience in your domain.”

“Goodness gracious, It’s just my house, Capitano! Not the Tsaritsa’s throne!” 

After much convincing and assurance, you finally had The First of the Harbingers in your dwelling. In the beginning, you pondered, what a man of his caliber would do in his private time. Perhaps more training, or planning for battles? You decided to create a separate area for weaponry storage and training duels. After all, you wanted to be considerate.

To your surprise, Capitano never brought his “work” in the privacy of your home. Instead, he treated you to some of the best home cooking in the seven nations. With a broad outdoor area like your Serenitea Pot, Il Capitano finally managed to flex his grilling skills. You never knew BBQ grilled vegetables could taste so heavenly. And on colder nights, he preferred some home baking.

“Who would’ve thought the strongest man in Teyvat relished such a peaceful routine when he’s at home,” - You teased him once. Feasting like a monarch with his cooking, you have your cherished prepare the best food and provide the strongest cuddles - what else would you need?

“I would never bring you the turbulence of war to the footsteps of your home. After all, mundanity is a luxury that the common folk cannot comprehend.”

✧ When Il Dottore moved in with you - he became an absolute menace to your mental well-being. The upper floor of your manor was entirely occupied for his scholarly needs. From your library to your study; the upper rooms were regaled, making a mini makeshift lab filled with vials of obscure chemicals or too-long-to-read medical names.

But that was not the main issue at all. The greatest conundrum was that Dottore considered your privacy as our privacy. According to him, the Serenitea Pot was a private residence, secluded from the turmoil of the world’s idiocracy. Any temporary visitors would receive a nasty glare from him whenever they stayed. This was his confidential sanctuary with you, not theirs. And in his private time, when it’s only you and him in the house, the Doctor would forget that people often get dressed after a shower - because he would exit the bathroom wearing only a towel around his hips, and keep waltzing around your room like it’s nothing.

“...Uh? Please dress first, Dottore.”

“Very well.”

“Not here!!!”

Nevertheless, you managed all that. What you didn’t manage, however, is how Dottore took the most amount of space in bed. Your bed, mind you. Before he joined your travels, you created a comfy bedroom in your Serenitea Pot, a separate, quiet setting for your favorite mad scholar. Alas, every night you peacefully went to bed, only to wake up with a figure wrapping his arms tightly around your midsection, taking half of your bed.

Today was one of those days. The blankets were a mess, some had fallen to the floor. You feel uncomfortable and claustrophobic in your own bed, something nudging you to almost fall off. You already knew the culprit of your situation - Dottore. He was dozing off comfortably behind you, his arms sleepily thrown around your form, glued to your torso.

You whined groggily, trying to get away - “... You have your own bed. Stop pushing me.”

“Shush. Come here.” - Dottore's arms encircled around your waist, pulling your back flush to his chest. “It’s our bed now.” 

It seems The Doctor didn’t take long to feel at home. Oh well. The only way to deal with this was to use him as a mattress from now on.

✧ At first, you hesitated to invite Scaramouche to your Serenitea Pot. It was still a work in progress, and not all areas were refurbished or prepared. Yet surprisingly, it was he who opened the discussion of a joint dwelling. Perhaps it was his instinct to keep you closer, to be certain of your safety in his arms.

After asking and discussing, you were pleasantly surprised when the Balladeer stated: “I do not expect you to build a palace. I will help you with the renovation. You can ask for my help.”

And so he did. You felt timid with your emptied Serenitea Pot, yet The Harbinger took it upon himself to aid you. He worked with you on where the house should be, and what type of garden or entrance should accompany it. There was something about his serious gaze whenever he discussed with you the matters of home. As if some old memories were reemerging.

“It doesn't matter. We won’t clutter the place, as a busy environment becomes a nuisance. The less one has - the better.”

With a profound touch of contemplation and minimalism, You and Scaramouche managed to plan an elegant abode. It was simple, yet perfectly maintained - with the best aspects of Inazuma and other foreign nations in the craftsmanship of the furniture. You were surprised but content. You even went as far as to ask your beloved whether he wanted a more traditional Inazuman style for this private dwelling but he strictly rejected it.

He didn’t want any more memories of his “birthplace” to resurface. Not in a place that will be private for you two.

So here you were, giddy with excitement as the interior of your manor was settled and ready. The bedroom was cozy and comfortable, a perfect place to lounge and rest. The Harbinger would groan whenever you tugged and pulled him to sleep next to you. 

“If you move once in your sleep, I’m pushing you off the bed.” 

You promised him you wouldn’t. But it was he who relented and held you close to his chest during the night. He did not need a home or a safe haven from the cruel world; You were already his home. 

✧ Bring in the fine china, and roll out the red carpet - because Pantalone was coming over to your Serenitea Pot. You know that your sweetheart has a manor pricier than Mondstadt’s entire GDP, with fancy knick-knacks and luxuries. But as a couple, it was always Pantalone who insisted on you living with him, since he could spoil and pamper you after long travel expeditions. In his manor, you can simply have everything you ever desire. 

But today was a grand occasion. You decided to invite him to your humble home, even if you had little to impress him with. The Harbinger was ecstatic, this was a step he desired and longed for. Should he dress formal-casual or more extravagant? No, no. His hair must be well-kept. Perhaps he should bring an expensive bottle of Fontainian wine… The evening must end flawlessly. It’s his first night in your home, for crying out loud. An evening designated to culminate with lovely cuddles in your bed, lavishing you with kisses or more. 

Upon entering your cozy home, all his worries dissipated after you embraced him in your usual jovial way. You proudly displayed your manor, tugging at his hand and pulling him closer. Mirroring your pride, he stood analyzing each item or furniture as if it were a priceless relic in a museum.

“Ah, yes. I see this must be a traditional Inazuman doll, one used in ancient arts and rituals.”

“Oh, these round things? This is just a tanuki daruma… They bounce funny.”

“And I see this figurine must be imported as well, my dear? A marvelous craftsmanship of wood and carvings. Interesting.”

“This is just a wooden figurine of an Aranara” - you smiled proudly.

“I like your funny words, darling.” 

✧ If Tartaglia never invited you over to his family home back in Snezhnaya, you would’ve thought this man was homeless. The 11th often stayed in your Serenitea Pot, always giddy yet conscientious. Whenever you wished for any help around the house, his sleeves would roll up and the apron was on; all you had to do was ask, and you shall receive.

Thus, the two of you would help each other. If you were cooking, then he would do the laundry; all chores were equally divided. Childe was naturally hardworking, and you loved him for his dedication to the house. It always felt warmer and cozier whenever he stayed, and you made sure to display your appreciation throughout the day by providing kisses to the cheek or gentle caresses to his hair.

Who wouldn’t be thrilled when their beloved greets them home and kisses them on the cheek? Now that he is residing in your private adeptal realm, it makes him look forward to returning home even more. To be back from a mission, only to kiss you, pick you up, and squeeze you lovingly in his arms.

Alas, despite his domestic joy, he was also becoming restless. Such a huge realm, you could have a whole area for dueling or training an army here. Therefore, he would start nagging at you throughout the day, asking you to join him.

“Come now, sweetheart! Just a quick morning stretch!” - He said from the living room’s doorway.

“Oh, I know! How about we make a shooting range outdoors and see who’ll get the most bullseye.” - his voice rang from downstairs.

“Or a one-on-one sparring match. That will get the blood flowing.” - he even stood behind the bathroom door, still imploring you through closed doors.

All this and more persisted. Even in the early morning, when your eyesight barely adjusted to the sunlight, the first thing you’d see is him leaning over your shoulders “Perhaps we can-” 

“Nope,” - you intercepted, albeit sleepily. Pulling him closer to bed, you made sure he went still in your arms. “No fighting. Only cuddles...”

“Oh? Is that your form of a challenge, darling? Be prepared, because I won't back down.”

[trailedstar]

HYPOTHERMIC KISSES

﹙ DOTTORE x MALE READER﹚ themes of betrayal, biblically accurate dottore, angst without comfort. 866 wc

꒰ Parallel lines never intersect, going on forever without meeting once. Perpendicular lines meet once and then drift apart.

Snezhnaya weather was notorious for its harsh winters, and today was no exception. The snowflakes danced in the air, twirling and spinning as they fell gracefully from the heavens above. The temperature had already dipped well below freezing, turning everything into a crystal-clear sculpture of white. Despite the beauty that surrounded you, you felt an icy chill run down your spine.

The bench you sat on was uncomfortably cold, even through your thick winter coat. You hugged yourself for warmth, watching as your breath formed little puffs of white smoke in the air. The snowflakes that landed on your eyelashes felt like tiny icicles piercing your skin.

"Zandik…" you murmured under your breath, your voice barely audible against the howling wind. It had been years since you had last seen him, promising to meet here, on this very bench, after you both graduated from the Akademiya. You had sworn to each other that no matter what, you would find your way back to this spot and continue your journey together. But life had other plans. Desires were humanity’s great Achilles heel, and it seemed Zandik's had led him astray. He found himself on the side of darkness, drawn in by promises of power and knowledge of the Gods.

You could still faintly remember the day you two had made that vow, years ago. You were sheltered in the library, surrounded by books of knowledge, the faint scent of leather and ink filling your nostrils.

"Zandik, you should stop venturing off and trying to research those Withering zones…" You say, a note of worry in your voice. "They're dangerous, even for someone as powerful as you. I'm not sure why you're so obsessed with those places, but you need to be careful."

Your words hang in the air solemnly as you watch Zandik intently, wondering how much he's changed. He used to be your closest friend, someone you could trust with your life. But then he became obsessed with knowledge, and it seemed like he became someone else entirely. It's as if the power that came with his studies warped his mind, and made him see things in a different light.

"I overheard the scholars, Zandik, they grow annoyed with your behavior.."

His eyes narrowed. "What do they matter? They've always been jealous of my progress. They can't handle the truth, the power that comes with it."

The sheer amount of arrogance in his tone was enough to catch you off guard momentarily.

"Okay, look, after we both graduate, we'll have all the time in the world to explore whatever you want," you say, trying to sound reassuring. "But right now, you need to focus on finishing your studies and becoming the scholar everyone knows you are. The Withering zones can wait." Leaning down, your heavenly lips brushed against his cheeks over the now bandaged wound. "Please, for me."

You feel his hands snake around your waist, pulling you closer. His grip is strong, but not unyielding, and for a moment, you feel as if nothing has changed between you. It's like you're back in the days when you were both closer, exploring the world together, laughing and joking about the stuffy scholars and their outdated beliefs. You close your eyes, basking in the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of his skin.

"Promise me, Zandik," you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. "Promise me you'll be careful and we can explore after we graduate."

His hands tighten around you, but there's a softness to his touch now, a reluctant surrender. "I promise," he whispers back, his voice hoarse with emotion. "For you, I'll wait. But know this, my dear friend... When we finally do explore those Withering zones together, it will be you and I against the world. No one else."

However, that day never came, and Zandik was banished from the Academiya shortly after. But you were firmly set on keeping the promise you two swore.

Those memories were but a lingering moment, a reminder of the people you once were. No one could stay the same. Change was inevitable.

Your eyelids were heavy, drooping down to hide your irises. Your lips were peeling from the cold, quivering with your chattering teeth.

Ah… A moment of realization struck you. You were dying, weren’t you?

Lost within the desolate wintery world, your body was freezing itself to death. The tips of your fingers were changing colors, completely unable to feel your limbs.

Footsteps crunched in the snow, your gaze too hazed to process the appearance of the figure. You faintly picked up on the ornate design of the shoes, a weary chuckle leaving you. How you truly wished to go back, to not waste your time with Zandik. Only now did everything settle in. He truly changed. The sweet Zandik was no more.

“A speck of dust on one's coat, truly. How stupidly naive.” And with that, the person turned away, not even another glance at your cold body on the bench. Perhaps you’d serve a good purpose to a desperate, wandering soul.

[sodalitea]

II - Miracles of the White Nights [Il Dottore x Reader/OC]

You can read the fanfiction on AO3: Miracles of the White Nights -chapter II

I've finally managed to complete this chapter! It's been four months so I don't know if anyone still remembers this work, but here is the first chapter.

Contains: slow paced development of main characters' relationship, bickering, slight angst, domestic Dottore, romantic tension, non sexual massage, Genshin man x oc (can be perceived as reader insert) Content warning: cussing as the chapter starts, mentions of experimenting on animals Summary: Marie approaches Zandik as he asked. Their meeting may not have the smoothest course, but it's rewarding regardless. What's needed to be done, is done - the masterminds are making plans for the future. A glimpse of intent is almost palpable, but no one will speak about it.

[tojistip]

he’d give you an uncureable disease and not help whatsoever just bc he likes seeing you so weak and seeing you suffer 🔥🔥 his typa love

[kzrosa-writes]

comforting their s/o when memories of their old lover resurface | various x reader pt.1

prompt : how various genshin men would comfort their s/o when memories of their old lover come back to haunt them (hurt/comfort)

part 1 featuring : alhaitham, neuvillette, dottore

a/n: planning to include childe and diluc in part 2! leave a comment if you guys have a specific character you want me to include in the next part! i think it's very obvious who is my favourite based on the length of each parts HAHAHAH

likes, reblogs, n follows are appreciated!

as soon as alhaitham came home, he could immediately notice a shift in your mood. he saw how gloomy and sorrowful you looked as you sat on the couch, staring mindlessly into the book you held in your hand. he approached you, placing his hand gently on your shoulder.

"dear...? what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft as he took a seat beside you. he watched as you blinked several times, snapping yourself out of your thoughts. you looked at him, and he could notice your swollen, glassy eyes. he took the book out of your hand, closing it and gently placing it on the coffee table before he turned back to you.

"what happened, dear? are you comfortable to tell me... what caused you to be like this?" he would try to keep his voice soft but firm, gently squeezing your hand in reassurance. almost in an instant, you broke down into his arms, an incessant stream of tears cascading down your cheeks. he held you tightly in his arms, caressing your back as you express yourself through your woes.

once your tears finally dried up, you hesitantly told him about your thoughts. for a few days, you've been receiving dreams, or nightmares, about your old relationship and memories of your old lover have been resurfacing from your mind. you hesitated to tell him about it, fearing that he might react negatively to your emotional outburst. contrary to your belief, he didn't back away; no, he held you tighter, stroking your hair gently as he pressed you against his chest.

"shh... my love. it's okay, everything will be okay." he would comfort you, gently stroking his fingers against your cheek as you sniffled, your chest heaving and your eyes stinging from the tears. he knew how hard it had been for you to move on from your old lover, but he promised you that he would be there for you, to help you get through this heartbreak. and that's what he will continue to do, to keep his promise to you unlike your old lover.

— ☆

neuvillette was surprised to see the lack of your presence in the living room of your shared home. 'strange', he thought. you would always be waiting for him in the living room as soon as he got back from the court, which made him curious. he checked the library to see if you were reading, but you weren't there. he then tried checking your shared bedroom, and that was when he saw you curled up into a ball, the blankets wrapped all over you just like a burrito. he could sense the melancholic mood in the room, seeing how helpless you looked under the sheets. he took a few steps closer, closing the door behind him as he approached you.

"my love... what is troubling you?" he could heard your soft sniffles and your erratic breaths. he carefully took a seat beside you on the bed, careful not to invade your space incase you weren't willing to open up to him. you buried yourself under the blankets, trying to muffle your sobs further. he reached out, placing a hand firmly on your back as he rubbed small, soothing circles. eventually, you scooted closer to him, leaning onto him as he wrapped his arms around you. the two of you stayed like that for a while, only the sounds of your sniffles and each other's soft breathing could be heard.

he would let you sob and be vulnerable in his arms, waiting for you in case you needed him. once he was sure that you were feeling at least a bit better, he would gently try to pry, taking care not to overwhelm you. you finally spoke, your voice wavering and shaking as you explained how memories of your past relationship had came to haunt you lately. he gently caressed your arm, soothing you from your grief and your pains. he knew how badly the breakup had affected you, and he promised himself that he would do everything in his power to help you move on and make you happy. he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, brushing his thumb over your cheek to wipe away your tears.

"it's okay, my love. allow me to lighten your mood. i'll cook you your favourite meal and we can do something to clear your mind if you'd like." he spoke softly, gently squeezing your shoulder as he pulled you closer. "i will do everything i can to see that pretty, lovely smile on your lips once again. so please, my love... let me make you feel better."

— ☆

all experiments and report writings were instantly put to a halt when you barged into dottore's laboratory unannounced. it was one thing to interrupt his work out of the blue, but it was another to see you storm into his office looking so distraught. tears were streaming down your cheeks, and your breath was shaky and erratic— he wasn't sure if it was due to your crying or from rushing towards his office, maybe both. he placed his beakers down and rushed towards you.

"darling, what happened? you look... distressed, to say the least." dottore said, his usual cynical and mocking tone softening as he wrapped his arm tightly around you. he used his free hand to cup your cheek, tilting your head upwards to have a proper look at you. "are you hurt? did something happen? is there anyone i have to deal with?"

you shook your head, staying silent as you sobbed in his arms. dottore didn't know what to do; you were always so bright and cheerful, unlike himself, so seeing you in such a state so suddenly naturally caused him to be concerned. he held you tighter, caressing your head as he pressed you onto his chest, letting your tears stain his lab coat.

he brought you to one of his resting benches, making you sit as he brought you a box of tissues before brewing you some tea to help you calm down. bringing the cup and teapot to the coffee table, he gently handed you the poured tea. he watched as you drank slowly, careful not to spill the liquid from your frantic movements. placing the cup down, you wiped some of your tears away as dottore sat beside you. he snaked his arm around your waist before tugging you closer to him, holding you gently. he wasn't entirely sure what to do, he wasn't used to comforting you— or anyone for that matter. but for you, he will try.

it took you some time before you were willing to open up about your problems, but dottore was willing to wait and listen. you told him that something had happened to you recently, which caused it to trigger memories of your past relationship with your old lover. after that incident, memories and nostalgia followed you everywhere you went, causing you to break down. what made things worse was that during your daily stop at the local cafe, you had caught a glimpse of your old lover there. painful, bittersweet memories came washing over you like a violent tide, eroding and crushing your spirits.

dottore listened keenly as you vented, pressing you gently onto his chest. he knew the pain that the breakup had caused you, and he didn't want you to go through that ever again. he may be the cold-hearted, ruthless and apathetic second fatui harbinger, but he was still your lover. and as your lover, he was responsible for making you happy. he has never had much experiences with love on its own, so he wasn't able to sympathise with your pain. but for you, he was willing to try to help you out of your misery. after all, you had trusted him with your frail heart, how could he ever possibly break it?

he took a tissue before gently dabbing them on your cheeks, wiping your sorrows away. he cupped your cheek, caressing it affectionately before placing a soft kiss on your lips. "i may not be the most emotional man, or the best person to look for help... but i will help you, my dear. i would give up the world to see you smile again, darling. so if you'll let me, i will prove to you that i will help you forget about your heartbreak. because with me, you will never feel such a pain ever again."

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