content: sfw + og old man zandik (dottore) + cuddling + gn!reader
—
You’re woken up by your bedroom door opening, and the familiar thudding of Zandik’s cane hitting against the floor and his footsteps relaxes you.
It’s not unusual for him to barge into your home in this way, which you have grown used to. He does that at any time of the day, but at nighttime mostly. You never bothered asking why, knowing he’d refuse to answer or not say anything at all and ignore your question. But there’s a little something in you that knows the reason why, which will never be brought up by Zandik himself.
You turn on the bedside light and illuminating Zandik loosening his tie and throwing his coat on the back of a chair. At least he has the decency to not throw it on the floor.
Sitting up on the bed and your back against pillows, Zandik gets on the bed and crawls closer to you. And his head slumps down on your lap following a low groan slipping out from his lips.
Without a word, you softly run your hands through his soft blue hair. A content sound is heard from the man on your lap before he buries his face further into your abdomen. And he wraps his arms around your waist.
You can’t say anything about this, or do anything out of fear he would stop this behavior completely. While you enjoy Zandik intimately, which is what drew him to you, you like this gentle side of this man who’s too clever for this world.
“Do you think there’s a world beyond Teyvat?” Your voice is low and soft as you slick his hair back before tenderly massaging his head.
“I don’t think, I know.” He is so sure of his answer, you believe him.
Maybe in that world you’d be able to meet this man under different circumstances and get to know him more than you’re able to.
—
posting this while I edit my old fics that I’m gonna post someday, which I hope nobody will recognize me from somewhere…😔 anyways! fluffy cuddly zandik who refuses to admit he finds comfort in you despite the reason behind your relationship GETS ME!!!!
౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 — zandik x f!reader、pre-established relationship、one mention of death ( very lightly )
Il Dottore would get his hands dirty in the name of science and discovery. There wasn’t a single thing he couldn’t do, there wasn’t a line he wouldn’t cross all in the name of seeing his efforts come into fruition. He was labeled a madman, an outcast in his younger years as a scholar and a man that which only death followed in his footsteps— wreaking havoc everywhere he went.
Il Dottore. This was a title of acknowledgment, perhaps but also a warning of just who he was. It was a testament to how far he has come, and how much further he would be willing to go. Il Dottore instilled fear wherever he went— Il Dottore meant that lives would be lost and all in the name of a twisted idea for science.
Yet, the man before you seemed nothing like the hushed whispers that spread like wildfire throughout the nations— too scared to even address his title in gossips across various cities or towns as if the very mention of his name, as if acknowledging his existence would summon him out of thin air.
A hiss rings out followed by a puff of white smoke that slowly turns black. A string of curses bounces off the study room as hands clad in white gloves tug and push against a metal paneling that consisted of all sorts of internal wires and hardware your mind couldn’t comprehend the uses of. Mint-colored hair messy from a day's work, ruffles around as the male grumbles to himself about the abomination before him. It looked to be a mess of wires, mechanical parts and oil spilling everywhere but somewhere despite all of that he seemed to find some form of beauty in it and believed good use could be made of these futile attempts at getting it up and running.
Your footsteps are quiet yet very much so present as they reverberate off the walls softly. There’s a small envelope that dangles from your hand, a report perhaps or maybe even a letter from a diplomat of sorts. Nevertheless, you were here to give it to him directly and despite the way he snaps and groans at the robotic monstrosity, there isn’t a hint of fear in your body.
His body freezes as if he’s become aware of the eyes boring into him from behind. He grumbles something, huffing out a breath as his hands tug on an exposed wire, pushing two digits past it further into the robotic creation when a buzzing sound emits from within. He jerks his hand against the internals and all the sounds come to a stop. He visibly relaxes, sighing heavily as he pulls his hand from it before a small plop sounds out followed by a drip as black inky oil pools under the mechanical part. He groans— well, half groan half growl as he slams his hand against the metal exterior before hitting it again out of frustration.
“A guest at this hour?” He grumbles out, not bothering to turn around and the smallest hints of a grin tug at the corners do your lips. He looks down at his hands for a moment, grimacing at the inky oil clinging to his gloves as its liquid makes contact with his forearm. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Annoyance drips off his words and you can imagine the scowl on his face now, his brow twitching in irritation at the disturbance during his work.
“A letter,” His body straightens up, stiff as a board as silence settles and the dirtied rag that was in his hand now freezes at the sound of your voice ringing out. “I was asked to deliver it to you personally.” There’s a grin in your voice, he can hear it all too well before sighing and placing the rag down and stepping away from the table.
He tugs at the tips of his gloved fingers, pulling until it slips off his cold hand. He doesn’t say anything, you’re unsure if he wants to say something or not but you walk towards him regardless and place the letter against his ungloved hand to which he takes it from you. He grumbles something under his breath as he pulls the envelope open, tugging the letter out and reading its contents as a scowl spreads across his face.
“A mandatory break, huh?” His brows are furrowed and for the first time today he looks over his shoulder at you with narrowed eyes, it nearly takes you back to a time that took place a long while ago. He frowns, shooting you a glare before tossing the letter to the side of his table. “Utterly foolish, I don’t need a break.”
“Do you not?” You purr up close and for a moment he considers you to be a minx of sorts, grin on your lips while your hands tug at the taut muscles of his shoulders to which he doesn’t pull away from— at least not yet, he supposes. “I believe breaks are healthy, y’know.”
He grumbles, “Yes. I know. This is the third time you’ve attempted in a week.” He tugs away from your touch and you grin with a stifled giggle as he turns around to glare down at you with faux irritation. “I’m dedicated to my work. I don’t need distractions.”
“But aren’t I the best distraction you could ask for?” His fingers twitch, eyes narrowing and frown deepening at your sly smile and the tone your words carried. You were overly confident— full of yourself, even. Yet here he was, letting you do as you pleased without any real bark or command thrown your way. How lucky you are, how grateful you should be, he thinks. To stand before the 2nd Harbinger— and have him wrapped around your fingers like a loose string tangled on each digit.
He mumbles something to himself, eyes scanning the room in thought before his glare directs back to you and it’s hard to not notice the way his gaze seems to soften just the slightest. “I suppose,” He starts, waiting a moment with a long sigh as a smile creeps across your face, widening more and more by the second. “You could stay to… monitor the project at hand— but do not touch anything.” The way you giggle makes his chest feel fuzzy but he ignores it swiftly with a huff before turning on his heel and directing his attention to the amalgamation before him.
The warmth of your body close to his is hard to ignore even in the silence of the room as he tugs on loose wires or bends metal into the shape he desires it in. It’s hard to ignore your soft breaths or whispers ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s followed by stifled giggles when he gets irritated at something seemingly not cooperating with the force and precision of his gloved hands.
He glances over at you a couple times and swears to himself that keeping you here was worse than sending you off without another thought but still he pays it no mind; the skip of beats in his heart’s rhythm. Perhaps he could run an examination on himself later to discover why his body heats up at your closeness, why his hands that are always as still as can be suddenly have a tremble to his fingers when he feels your eyes on him.
Or why his heart seems to beat faster when you address him by a name long forgotten or spoken— Zandik.
content: fluff + fem!reader + period cramp + og OLD man zandik + he is very helpful in here hihihi
—
The feeling is getting tighter, turning almost unbearable and it’s hard to miss the nausea creeping up in your throat, which makes you so thankful that it doesn’t get out of your mouth.
Curled up in a fetus position, the cramp in your lower abdomen is a pain that takes up your whole attention, you missed how the bed dips from behind you.
Zandik’s hands creep around your body, feeling like the pain amplified you whimper in pain when he is pulling you against his body. Laying behind you, your back to his chest, his hands go under your shirt and you slightly shudder at the cool touch of his hands on your bare stomach. Which a moment later feels rather lukewarm and you sigh in content.
His hands are working wonders for your cramp. It’s like he knew the in and outs of your body, he can pinpoint where exactly it hurts and the pain slowly starts to feel less unbearable and more soothing.
Your hands go to rest atop his, feeling his movements on your stomach. His slender fingers are moving in circles, before you feel your hands move along with his palms to softly massage your hips and stomach.
“Thank you.” Your gratitude was soft and you only get a chaste press of a kiss on your neck as a response, shaping your lips into a little smile.
It started to get suffocating hearing you whimper and moan in pain, tossing in your bed as if it would lessen the pain. Zandik came to you for one thing and one thing only, but that’s getting pushed back a few days at the mention of your period.
So he had decided to take over your living room, splaying his documents and notes on his experiments all over the table. And he tried his best to ignore your current situation, until unfamiliar feelings started to rise in his body and his fingers twitched and his brain started going haywire with ideas. Ideas on how to make your cramp go away in one way or another.
It’s unbecoming of him to be this gentle, or kind in your own words. That word has never existed his vocabulary if he has to describe himself. This is more like a means to an end, to get this over with. Not an act of kindness.
To see how your body visibly relaxed at his touch, sounds of content leaving your mouth instead of moans and groans of pain, Zandik feels different. Loss of words to your verbal gratitude, he could only imagine to give you a kiss. When he did just that, even that gives you a subtle delighted reaction that sends waves of different emotions through him.
—
didn’t write it but he figured out a way to make periods and period cramps completely disappear FOR YOU!!! isn’t he just so wonderful ugh this old man
౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 — zandik x f!reader、sick!reader、fluff、sick comfort、pre-established relationship
A loud sneeze sounds out, nearly reverberating off the thin sheeted walls of the tent before followed by a gasped whimper of pain. You can’t breathe, can’t swallow— can hardly think. Your face feels puffy, vision blurred by the constant way your eyes water every time you sneeze or cough. You gasp pathetically, whining again as your head turns left and then right in a restless motion.
What you don’t see is the frantic movements of mint-colored hair going from one side of you to the other. He’s muttering something to himself, body rigid as he takes a crushed up plant and carefully transfers the contents from the small wooden bowl to the cup of hot water. He glances over his shoulder at the weak appearance you wore and he hates how it makes his chest squeeze with an unfamiliar feeling. Was this guilt for allowing you a chance to leave his sight? Regret for letting you come with him on his expedition? He isn’t sure, nor cares to put a name to what he feels as he hurries together some form of concoction for you to consume. It never crossed his mind that the spores from the fungi could be something you were allergic to but now that he knows, he’s a lot more reluctant to bring you along with him on his personal explorations of the local wildlife.
Your eyes blink open slowly as a shadow looms over you suddenly. Your lips lift up in a weak smile as you take a shaky breath, gaze softening at the face above you. “Zandik,” You sing-song, voice hoarse as you fight back a cough tickling against your ribs in your chest. “I missed you, where have you been?”
He grumbles something, eyes narrowed as he takes the cup in his hands, swirling it around a bit before rolling his eyes at you. “How can you miss someone you’ve been around practically all day.” His tone is blunt but doesn’t hold that sharp bark to it like it does with other people. No, he finds it incredibly hard to be harsh towards you even in predicaments like this. If he didn’t care about you, he would’ve left you out there disoriented and victim to the elements and creatures that came out at night.
You tilt your head with a sigh, opening your mouth to speak again and he visibly tenses up at how nasally you sound— wishing you wouldn’t strain your vocal cords anymore. “I miss you even when I’m with you, Zandik.” Your voice is breathless, shifting around in the makeshift bed he had thrown together for you a short while ago. He rolls his eyes again, dropping down onto his knees as he holds the cup out towards your face while his other hand moves under your head and lifts you up by the nape of your neck, just enough.
“You’re not making any sense, just drink this and rest.” He sighs out, pressing the cup to your lips to which you giggle weakly and drink the contents of with a smile. Your smile is short lived though, immediately coughing after managing to swallow it down. The mintiness accompanied by a sharp bitterness was not complimentary to one another at all and now you were a victim to such a taste existing. He smiles at the face you make in response to the fluids and he chuckles at the way you weakly shove at his chest to get him away from you as you gasp for air and glare at him.
“That was not yummy,” “It isn’t supposed to be. Medicine is for enhancing your immune system, getting you over ailments— not to resemble that of a treat.”
You huff at his response, “If they wanted people to be more inclined to taking it then it should be yummy.” He shakes his head at you with a dramatic sigh, pushing your bangs up off your forehead to get a feel of your temperature and to his dismay it’s difficult to get a properly accurate feel of your warmth with his cold hands.
You continue talking about how unfair it is, how the universe must have it out for you to get sick, yet he still pays attention regardless with quiet responses and hums here and there. He contemplates something, face feeling warm and he blames it on the humidity in the night air as he stares down at your cute little frustrated face as you babble on about your current predicament and hardest battle yet; being sick. He hums in response, eyes glancing at your forehead before leaning down until his lips press against the warm skin. He isn’t pleased with the warmth that greets his lips and when he lifts himself back up, letting your bangs fall back into their place again, he doesn’t notice the way you’ve suddenly gone quiet.
He turns to his journal that was placed haphazardly on the floor next to himself, tugging his pencil out from his pocket and writing your symptoms down on the paper with a focused glare and tensed posture. He doesn’t see the way your eyes blink at him wide and doe-like in awe. Your lips are chapped, parted slightly to intake what little air you can manage to get in this sticky weather while a cold hand presses to your temple and a sigh sounds out from the man beside you.
“Your temperature refuses to drop,” He says, not a question but more so an obvious observation of your current predicament. He hasn’t even given the medicine enough time to work, his impatience was something you could not comprehend most times. His brows are furrowed, lips turned down in a slight frown as his eyes scan over your body, then back to his notes and in the midst of it all you think; worrying doesn’t look good on Zandik.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s alright—” “It isn’t. Perhaps the medical brew I put together isn’t effective…” You frown at his response, how he gets lost in his own flurry of thoughts. In a way, you found it endearing how much he did care but also upsetting that he subjected himself to his own scrutiny. In a few quiet beats of time his eyes widen, a sudden shine to them that wasn’t there before in his deep thought. His body rigidly upright before he’s fumbling over himself to stand to his feet and walk over to the makeshift table he had set up. There’s various glass bottles and small tubes with different colors of liquids with different consistency and glows. A couple even had particles in the liquid itself and you found it quite fascinating to see. You almost questioned how he got his hands on them in the first place.
You watch him with wide curious eyes as he grumbles to himself, moving flasks around, the small glass objects clinking against one another and you wince in fear they may shatter and spill their contents every time he roughly moves one to the side out of his way of search— whatever it was he was searching for.
“Zan—” He turns to stare at you, smile growing wide with his sharp teeth on display and you almost feel nervous for a moment as if he were about to subject you to an experiment of some sort. His hands that were fiddling inside the contents of his backpack now tug out a glass vial, long and slender with a cork in it to contain whatever it held. It was a blue liquidy substance of some kind, glittery almost and faintly glowing in his hands. If you squinted your eyes, you could’ve sworn it looked like frost was gathered at the bottom of the small vial, but it was hard to tell with the light blue shade of it so perhaps it was your mind playing tricks on you.
“This should work— it has to.” His words almost sound ominous as he stalks towards you with the glass flask in his hand, crouching down beside you again and testing the warmth of your temple with his cool touch. It felt relaxing— welcoming, even, and you sigh into his hand, leaning into his touch with your eyes fluttering shut momentarily and you don’t get to see the look on his face at your physical contact that seemed to go further than just medical treatment with how you nuzzled against his palm with a weak smile playing on your lips. He swallows the lump that had formed in his throat and tugs his hand from you and something squeezes tight in his chest at the pout on your face at the loss of contact.
He focuses on the task at hand, shaking his head lightly to recenter himself as he tugs the cork out and places it beside himself. He looks at you, lips pressed in a thin line as he tilts his head as if thinking of something before finally speaking, “Give me your hands.”
The request takes you aback slightly, lips parting and eyes widening as a soft “oh” leaves you and you hesitantly lift your hands up towards him. He scoffs at you, tugging your hands by your fingers towards his lap. “Why’re you so hesitant suddenly? Afraid of what I may be subjecting you to?” “To be quite frank, Zandik— yes, perhaps.” There’s a bite of a giggle in your words and he feigns annoyance before taking the contents of the vial and pouring it into his other unoccupied hand. It’s thick in consistency, globs landing on his palm and you swear you see him shiver almost?
“This will be cold but, just trust me.” How odd, trust wasn’t something Zandik relied on at all— if ever for that matter. The small vial is placed off to the side beside himself as he tugs one of your wrists forwards onto his lap directly. He hesitates and you nearly become genuinely worried of what he was doing to you until he dips two fingers into the thick liquid and smooths it over your wrist, rubbing it against your skin with a concentrated glare on his face. It was oddly cold to feel and you initially tensed up at the sudden coldness but shortly after ironically melted at the feeling. Your head lands in the makeshift pillow under you with a soft sigh and he glances over at your face before looking back down at your hands. “Cryo essence— this isn’t its intended use but, regardless, it should work for now.” You hum in response, curiosity piqued and satiated for the time being as you relaxed and allowed the chilly feeling to wash over yourself.
It’s sudden and startles you slightly when you feel it pressed to your neck, eyes shooting open and he mouths an apology— another thing that’s unlike himself —as he smooths the gel-like texture against the nape of your neck. He makes his way to your temples, both hands rubbing the cool liquid against your temples and forehead and it’s relieving to see you relaxed now and not tossing and turning in discomfort.
You’re still nasally, he thinks, nasally as ever while trying to crack jokeswith him during the process. And your voice sounds weak, hoarse as you attempt to speak. He doesn’t catch half of what you’re saying as he takes the glass vial and stands to his feet to put it and the remaining contents back away in his backpack, but he makes a mental note to get you some water in a moment when he can trust to leave you alone for a second or two.
When he turns around, sighing as he sits beside you, it takes him a moment to realize you have dozed off. His pen is in his hand, gliding across the journal page as he writes down his now fourth attempt at getting you to relax so your body could do most of the work itself. When he turns to ask you how you feel, he stops himself, staring down at your peaceful expression and listening to the sound of your quiet snores. He nearly laughs to himself at the sight— you’re completely out cold yet oddly enough you look comfortable. It puts his mind at ease for the time being. If you’re well enough to sleep then he can prove that his attempts were not in vain.
His shoulders relax, sighing deeply as he closes his journal up and hugs his legs towards his chest, watching you quietly and timing your breaths in his head to notice any inconsistencies or signs of your condition getting worse. He reaches down, tugging your hand into his own with a faux annoyed sigh, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles not worn or calloused, scarred or maimed from work. There’s a pull at the corners of his lips, huffed breath through his nose and a softness in his glare that’s directed to your sleeping face as he sighs out with no real bite, “What a nuisance you’ve proven to be.”
