synopsis; request by anon: you doodling on dottore's hands when he doesn't have his gloves on
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dottore rarely removes his gloves.
you’ve learned not to comment on it, the same way you’ve learned not to comment on the scars, the faint discolourations, the way his fingers never quite relax even at rest.
which is why this feels like a small miracle.
you’re seated beside him at a narrow lab table, paperwork spread out between you in neat stacks. he’s reading, annotating in the margins with efficient strokes, mask long forgotten on the edge of the table. one gloved hand rests against the table edge, writing away. the other is bare, fingers splayed slightly as he steadies a page.
you notice it absently at first. the veins, faint but visible beneath pale skin. the subtle twitch of his thumb when he’s thinking. the warmth radiating from him, undeniable now without the barrier of fabric.
you have a pen in your hand. you don’t remember picking it up.
before you can talk yourself out of it, you gently take his bare hand, turning it palm-down on the table. he pauses mid-sentence, pen hovering.
“…explain,” he says.
“just a second,” you reply, already smiling.
you start with the lightest touch, barely grazing his skin as you draw a small line along the back of his hand. it’s lazy, aimless. a swirl that becomes a loop, that becomes nothing in particular. you don’t press hard enough to leave a mark that will last, just enough for him to feel it.
he doesn’t pull away.
instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching from the corner of his eye. “you are… doodling.”
“mhm.”
“on my hand.”
“yes.”
“you could use paper.”
“i could,” you agree easily, adding a tiny star near his knuckle. “but this is nicer.”
there’s a beat of silence. you half-expect him to snatch his hand back, to chastise you for distracting him, to make some comment about inefficiency.
instead, he sets his pen down.
“proceed,” he says.
you grin, emboldened.
you draw absentminded shapes as he resumes reading aloud, your pen following the rhythm of his voice. little patterns, half-formed symbols, a spiral here, a line there. sometimes you trace over the same spot twice, sometimes you drift toward his wrist, where his pulse is steady and warm beneath your fingertips.
you can feel it when he notices that.
his fingers flex once, subtly, but he doesn’t stop you.
“this is… distracting,” he says eventually.
“you asked me to stay,” you reply. “i’m staying.”
“your method of staying is unconventional.”
“you like unconventional.”
he huffs quietly, something almost like a laugh, and continues reading. his voice drops a fraction, smoother now, more measured. you realize belatedly that your doodling has slowed his movements, grounded him in a way you didn’t intend but don’t regret.
you draw something resembling a flower without really thinking about it. petals curl around the base of his thumb, soft and imperfect.
he glances down.
“…is that supposed to be botanical?” he asks.
“maybe.”
“you are terrible at symmetry.”
“rude,” you say fondly, adding another petal just to spite him. “it’s abstract.”
“convenient excuse.”
you hum, leaning your shoulder lightly against his arm as you continue. the contact is casual, the kind that only exists because it’s allowed to.
you don’t notice when his breathing evens out.
you do notice when his other hand comes to rest closer to you, fingers brushing your knee.
“what happens when the ink fades?” he asks quietly.
“then it fades,” you say. “it’s not meant to last.”
he watches your pen move, expression unreadable. “you’re remarkably comfortable with impermanence.”
“you’re remarkably bad at it.”
“…perhaps.”
you finish with a final, lazy swirl and lift the pen. your handiwork is a mess of lines and shapes.
“it’s done,” you announce.
he looks at his hand for a long moment. then, carefully, he turns it palm-up, examining it as if it were an experiment rather than a doodle.
“…you may do this again,” he says at last. “under controlled circumstances.”
Oh my, it took long enough. Last 3 days explored and studied his personality to make at least a bit character accurate headcanons on him. His quiet... hard to describe... Nevermind
Today's guest is the Second Fatui Harbinger
Dottore (Zandik) 🧬
If he were capable of falling in love — what would it be like?
He doesn’t believe in love.
At least—not in the way other people talk about it.
To Dottore, love is a mistake in terminology. Too emotional, too imprecise, too human. He would rather call it an anomaly, a deviation, an unstable reaction to an external stimulus. That’s safer. More logical. Easier to maintain his composure in front of himself.
At first, he doesn’t notice anything unusual.Just interest. He lets his gaze linger a little longer. He asks questions a little more often — questions with no practical value. He gets slightly less irritated when the object of that interest invades his personal space — the same space that is forbidden territory for everyone else. He attributes it to professional deformation: a rare specimen, an unusual psychotype, curious material for observation.
But over time, cracks begin to appear in his behavior.
He starts coming back.
Not because he has to, but because he wants to check whether you’re still there.
He doesn’t say that he missed you. He says,
“I expected different results.”
He doesn’t acknowledge attachment, yet he catches himself irritated by your absence—an irritation similar to a failed experiment.
The most frightening thing for him isn’t the feeling itself.
The most frightening thing is the loss of control.
When Dottore realizes he’s in love, it doesn’t happen through emotion — it happens through analysis. He records the symptoms:
• intrusive thoughts;
• reduced interest in unrelated subjects;
• an irrational desire to protect rather than use;
• a disproportionately strong reaction to any potential threat to you.
And in that moment, he is consumed by rage. Not outward rage — internal, cold, silent. He despises the very idea that someone has become his weakness. That a single person can destabilize his system.
He tries to get rid of it.
He becomes sharper, colder, deliberately pushes you away. He tests it: if he hurts you, will the feeling disappear? If you leave, will it get easier? He watches you as if conducting an experiment, yet every step you take away from him triggers a strange, viscous sensation in his chest — one that defies classification.
And then he stops fighting.
Not because he accepted love. But because he realized it can be used.
Dottore does not become gentle. He does not become soft. His love is not flowers or confessions. It is control, attention, absolute involvement. He remembers everything: your habits, fears, weaknesses, the ways you calm yourself. He knows when you’re lying, when you’re tired, when you’re in pain — sometimes before you do.
If you’re near him, you’re under protection. Not out of mercy. Out of ownership.
He doesn’t show jealousy openly. He doesn’t make scenes. But if someone poses a threat — that person disappears from your life. Quietly. Without explanations. Sometimes you don’t even realize how it happened — you just feel that the world around you has become safer, cleaner, emptier.
In intimacy, he is terrifyingly attentive. His touches are precise, calculated, almost investigative, yet there is no coldness in them. On the contrary — he holds you as if afraid of losing you, even if he never says it aloud. Sometimes he freezes with his forehead pressed to your shoulder, as if listening to his own breathing, checking whether this moment is real.
He doesn’t say “I love you.”
But he says:“Stay.”
And for him, that is the utmost honesty.
If you betray him — he won’t forgive.
If you leave — he will search.
If you die — he will try to bring you back.
Dottore’s love is not salvation.It is not romance.It is an experiment without a final stage — one in which, for the first time, he does not want to know the result in advance.
And perhaps that is what frightens him the most.
Against the background of his inferiority complex and his rejection of human emotions and human nature — without really distinguishing between them — it would be incredibly difficult for him to accept a feeling people call “love.” Such irrational things evoke nothing but anger in him.
In truth, there are two possible outcomes with him. The first is described above — if his interest deepens and his patience holds once he becomes involved. The second is your inevitable death, simply because you become something that interferes with him.
In relationships, he is also deeply suspicious. For a long time — perhaps until his death he will not fully believe that he has truly discovered something like this within himself.
read somewhere "jujutsu kaisen is just a story of people desperately trying to make the world a better place for their loved ones and failing miserably" and oh boy do i fucking agree with this
With his dearest closest person, he feels like he can be himself, he will never shut up, he’ll show you the side that nobody has ever seen before, you can still see the little Touya buried deep inside of him as his eyes sparkle while rambling to you <3
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