Can I pleaseee request an nsfw alphabet for doctor?(TFC) I don't really see much posts about him that much, thanks you if you do this!<3
❝ oh, littleplay thing, you have excellent taste.❞
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: sooo filthy and medical lingo. 8.4k ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
hello playthings! it is i, poppet once again, and im about to share the truth. the little string i'm about to pull.
in the TFC grotesque, doctor doesn't get nearly enough attention.
everyone's so busy with pierrot's tears and harlequin's teeth and jester's... everything. even poor ticket taker gets overlooked, but that's a different stitch for a different day. but doctor? the one who looks at you like you're the most fascinating specimen in his collection? who speaks in that low, pleasant hum that makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way?
so let me break down the nsfw alphabet for our favorite plague doctor. and don't you worry. i'll be thorough because that's what he would want.
a = aftercare
okay, starting off, doctor's aftercare is very much… clinical. it’s expected but not in a cold way, more in a thorough way?
he doesn't do pillow talk. he doesn't whisper sweet nothings. what he does is check your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. he runs his cool fingers along your skin, looking for marks he might have left without realizing.
for example:
“you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice that low, pleasant hum. “that's normal. it will pass." and then he'll pull a blanket over you, not because he's soft, but because "temperature regulation is essential for recovery."
side note: he absolutely keeps a stash of water and snacks by his bed. not for romance. for efficiency. but you'll appreciate it when your legs don't work.
however, aftercare when his eyes are red is... different.
he's much quieter, more the type to trace the marks he left, so all the bites, the scratches, the places where his hands gripped too hard and his cyan eyes will switch back and forth between colors, like he's fighting something.
"did i hurt you?" he'll ask, voice is still calm, but there's bit of care underneath it. if you say no, he'll relax. if you say yes, he'll spend the next hour making sure you're okay. stitches if you need them, salves, soft touches that don't ask for anything in return.
b = body part
his favorite: his hands
why? because they're elegant, long-fingered? (lol), and always cool to the touch. he uses them for everything, surgery, gardening, maybe playing heavy metal guitar? (kidding) and you.
he knows exactly how much pressure to apply. where to touch. how to make you shiver without even trying.
for example:
"fascinating," he'll murmur, tracing a line down your spine. "your skin responds so beautifully to stimulus." also his eyes, when they're cyan, he's observing. when they're red, he's hungry. and watching them shift mid-act? chef's kiss.
for you, is your throat.
doctor loves watching your pulse. the way it flutters when you're nervous. the way it races when he's close. the way it jumps when his fingers brush against your jugular.
"such a vulnerable place," he'll say, thumb resting lightly on your windpipe. "and yet you let me touch it. do you trust me that much? or are you simply... foolish?"
he says it like both answers please him.
c = cum
he has two sides, first is the clinical interest. he'll observe the quantity, the consistency, the way your body reacts to release. he might even... take notes afterwards.
for example:
"interesting," he'll murmur, more to himself than to you. "the viscosity has changed since last time. i wonder if it's something you ate."
his fingers trail through it. testing. studying.
and then he might actually pull out a small notebook. a little leather one he keeps in his coat pocket. and he'll write things down.
“your volume is approximately four milliliters, the consistency, slightly thicker than average and thrn color pearlescent white with minimal translucence."
you'll be lying there, still trembling, still trying to remember how to breathe, and he'll be taking notes.
"fascinating," he'll say, capping his pen. "your heart rate spiked 30% higher than last time. your pupils dilated more rapidly. your skin flushed deeper."
he looks at you. cyan eyes softs, "i wonder what triggered that. we should... experiment further. for science."
and you'll know, even though he won't say it , that you triggered it. you did that to him. and he's very grateful.
however, the other side, is more messy, possessive.
he doesn't pull out carefully anymore. doesn't observe from a distance. no, no. when he's red, he wants to mark you. wants to see his release on your skin, on your lips, in you.
he likes seeing it on you—your stomach, your thighs, your lips if you've been good. he likes the visual proof that he's affected you.
"look at that," he'll murmur, red eyes tracking every drop. "you're ruined. and i did that."
he says it like a compliment.
d = dirty secret
doctor terrified of being bad at intimacy.
not sex. he's like somewhat confident there but the after, you know, the during. the moments where he's supposed to be soft and he doesn't know how.
so he overcompensates with science. with observation and data because if he can study you, he can understand you. and if he can understand you, he can't fail you.
also? he's desperately curious about what you sound like when you're not holding back. when you forget to be polite. when you break a little but he'd never admit that.
well, not out loud, anyway.
e = experience
how experienced is he?
if recall correctly, doctor is a virgin, very much inexperienced.
not because he couldn't. not because no one wanted him. but because he never... let anyone close enough. doctor is shy, and not in the cute way pierrot is—all trembling hands and desperate confessions. doctor's shyness is much quieter and colder.
he doesn't know how to be touched. doesn't know how to want someone without studying them first.
and he's massive. you've seen him. you know. the way he has to duck through doorways. the way his horns scrape the ceiling. the way his hands, long, elegant, cool hands—could wrap around your throat without even trying.
he's aware of his size. acutely aware.
and it terrifies him.
for example:
"i could hurt you," he's said. not as a threat. as a fact. "without meaning to. without wanting to. my body is not... gentle."
so he kept his distance, listened to his heavy metal music and watched from the shadows.
never touching, reaching until you.
here's the thing about doctor. he's brilliant. he knows anatomy better than anyone—every nerve, every pulse point, every place where pleasure and pain intersect but knowing something intellectually? reading about it in books? observing it in specimens?
that's not the same as doing.
he doesn't know how to kiss. his first attempt with you was clumsy. his teeth bumped against yours. his mask got in the way. he pulled back, red-faced--redder than usual, anyway, and said:
“…let me try again."
he doesn't know how to touch without examining. his fingers want to find your pulse. want to check your pupils. want to document instead of feel. "stay still," he'll say, and you'll think he's being commanding. but really? really?
he's just scared, scared of hurting you. scared of doing it wrong. scared that you'll laugh at him, leave him, decide he's not worth the effort.
but he's learning for you.
he’ll reads books about intimacy, pleasure, how to touch someone gently when your hands are made for surgery.
he practices on his plants. please don't laugh, he does. you should see the way he strokes his ferns now. tender like he's learning what softness feels like.
hell he’s even seat the
he asks questions. so many questions.
"does this feel good?" he'll murmur, his cool fingers tracing your spine. "what about this? here? here?"
and when you gasp, when you say yes, his eyes shine red for just a second. like he's proud of himself and accomplished something monumental. "fascinating," he'll breathe. "i've never made anyone sound like that before. i'd like to do it again."
that's worth more than all the experience in the world.
f = favorite position
cowgirl. simple and fitting.
and not because he's lazy, because he likes watching you. from below, he has the perfect view of your face, every flutter of your eyelids, every parted-lip breath, every moment you lose yourself. "don't look away," he'll instruct, cyan eyes fixed on yours. "i want to see everything."
yet from the red side, it’s from behind. kneeling. bent over something—his desk, his examination table, you name it.
he likes the control. the way he can grip your hips and set the pace. the way he can lean over and whisper in your ear, red eyes glowing in the dark.
"you're doing so well," he'll say. "just a little longer. i want to see how much you can take."
g = goofy
is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?
well …does doctor look like he does goofy?
you know what, why even asked that, (everyone in the fandom draws mans as a damn bird with one stick leg, so maybe)
he's a bit serious during sex, like focused and intense but sometimes something will catch him off guard. maybe a noise or a cramp, or the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.
he'll pause and tilt his head, processing, "...that was unexpected," he'll say and then he'll keep going.
(unsure why doctor and ticket taker gives so much DILF vibes??)
h = hair
how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?
doctor has red hair, dark and rich.
the kind you want to run your fingers through…? now is he well-groomed? ...he's a doctor, dear. hygiene is kind of his thing. as for down there, he’s trimmed.
he'd call it "maintained for optimal hygiene and accessibility." i call it "he definitely manscapes and probably has opinions about it."
i = intimacy
how important is emotional connection during sex?
this is where it gets complicated.
doctor doesn't really romance. not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging, actually, now thinking about it I feel like he's like the only one that would do a romance… maybe just pierrot, ticket taker and maybe jester in his own way.
anyway! doctor's intimacy is observation.
he shows he cares by noticing. remembering and cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that strange, clinical mind of his.
"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."
he's not trying to be sexy. he's just... telling you. sharing his data. letting you see how much attention he's paid.
and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.
j = jack off
does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?
he treats it like... maintenance.
just a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things, efficient and quick. he probably has a schedule. uhh, don't think about it too hard.
but he gonna become more obsessive later on.
when his eyes are red, he thinks about you. specifically. vividly. the sounds you'd make, the way you'd look, the things he'd do to you. now these sessions take much longer.
and afterwards, he just... lies there, staring at the ceiling
"...inefficient," he'll mutter, and then he'll do it again the next night.
k = kink
what unusual turn-ons does he have?
oh my, where do i start?
well, just know that doctor is known to be the least kinky out of everybody in the circus, however his interest still lies on the kniy side
1. mask kink (obviously)
he wears his plague mask during sex sometimes. the beak. the hollow eyes. the way his voice sounds muffled and otherworldly. "keep it on," you'll beg. and he will. because he likes the way you look at him when he's unrecognizable.
2. medical play
examinations. instruments. the cold press of a stethoscope against your racing heart. "just breathe," he'll say. "i'm going to take such good care of you."
3. blood play.
he doesn't need to draw it all the time. but if it happens—if you want it to happen, he won't say no. "you're so beautiful like this," he'll murmur, watching red drip down pale skin. "like a wound that wants to be kissed."
5. sadism. just light and controlled. nothing you can't handle but he likes the way you stay still, the way that tiny gasp leaves your lips. the way you trust him even when he's being mean.
"good job sweetie,” he'll say. and mean it.
l = location
favorite places to do it?
1. the greenhouse
this is his primary spot. it's warm, humid, and smells like soil and blooming things. there's something about being surrounded by life while he does unspeakable things to you that just works. He'll lay you down on the soft moss and say,
“no one will find us here. scream if you want. the plants don't mind." It's his space, and he wants you in it.
2. his tent
basic, but reliable. his tent is where he keeps his tools, his examination table, and his specimens. there's a clinical intimacy to it, like the faint smell of antiseptic, the soft glow of wet specimen jars lining the walls. ge's comfortable here. In control. and he likes having you somewhere that feels like his.
3. the examination table
as mention, this one is less about romance and more about convenience. It's the right height. It has straps, which he may or may not use). and there's something deeply unsettling in a way that he enjoys, about laying you down where he usually examines his specimens.
“stay still," he'll say. “this won't hurt. Much."
m = motivation
what gets him in the mood?
1. trust
doctor is used to fear. flinching, crying, and begging.
he's seen it all, and honestly? It bores him. fear is useful, well biologically speaking but it doesn't interest him. what gets his blood pumping is calm. xomeone who tries to look under his mask, his tools, his red eyes, and doesn't run.
"you're not scared of me," he observed, tilting his head. "why?"
and when you said, "because i trust you," his eyes shine red for just a second with a sharp smile yet he looked away before anything else could happen
that's when you knew. he's not motivated by terror. he's motivated by trust. by someone who sees the monster and stays anyway. by you.
2. vulnerability
not the weak kind. it’s more like when you bare your throat to him, so literally or figuratively, when you let him see you shaking, hear you gasping, watch you fall apart because of him... his breath catches. his hands tighten. his eyes go red and stay there.
"you're giving this to me," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your pulse point. "your fear. your pleasure. your everything. do you have any idea what that does to me?"
he doesn't expect an answer. he doesn't need one. the way you tremble beneath him is answer enough.
3. the audacity
so bravery that borders on stupid. when you talk back. when you grab his mask and pull it close. when you whisper something filthy in his ear just to watch him break.
"you think you can handle me?" you ask, and his eyes go red instantly. "careful," he warns, voice low. "i'm not as gentle as i look." but you don't stop. you never stop.
and that audacity is what pushes him over the edge.
for example:
you're in his greenhouse. the air is nice, thick and warm, smelling of soil and blooming jasmine. he's tending to his plants, back turned, cyan eyes soft, completely unaware of you watching from the doorway.
"you're staring," he says without looking up.
"maybe."
he sets down his watering can, turn to face you and tilts his head. "what do you want?"
you step closer, enough to touch, to see the way his pupils dilate.
"you," you say in a simple and honest tone.
his eyes shine red, just once then back to cyan.
"that's... dangerous."
"i know."
you reach up and push his mask to the side. just enough that you can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.
"still not scared," you whisper.
his hands find your waist, grip tight. "you should be."
"but i'm not."
his eyes flash red, stay red this time. and then he's lifting you onto the workbench, onto your back, onto the soft moss he keeps for his more delicate specimens. his body presses against yours. his weight pins you down, his mouth—finally, finds your throat.
"you asked for this," he growls against your skin. "you begged for this. don't you dare pretend otherwise."
you don't. you moan instead. loud enough that the plants shiver.
"good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. now hold still. i want to see how loud i can make you scream."
n = no
what would make him stop immediately?
1. feigned or performative fear
again, doctor is used to real fear. he knows what it looks like, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, the way the body tenses and tries to pull away. what he cannot stand is fake fear. performative trembling. exaggerated whimpering. anything that feels like an act rather than an authentic response.
“if you're going to put on a show for me," he says flatly, pulling back, "we're done here. i don't do theater."
he needs genuine reactions. honest ones. if he suspects you're playing a role just to please him, he loses interest immediately.
2. loss of consciousness or dissociation
let’s say if you pass out from pleasure, pain, or from overstimulation—he stops immediately. If you dissociate, your eyes go blank, stop responding like you... he pulls back and goes into full doctor mode.
“stay with me," he'll say, checking your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. “look at me. look at me."
he will not continue until he is certain you are fully present and fully consenting. and if you cannot get there? the encounter ends. he will hold you, comfort you. but he will not touch you again that night.
“i need you here," he admits quietly. “not floating somewhere I cannot follow. if I lose you... i don't know how to come back from that."
o = oral
giving vs receiving?
giving: doctor is very skilled.
he knows anatomy well, such as every nerve, every fold, every spot that makes your legs shake. he knows exactly where to put his tongue, his lips, his teeth. and he is patient.
he will stay down there for as long as it takes, lapping and sucking and exploring, until you are trembling, begging, completely forgotten your own name.
for example:
“fascinating," he murmurs against your slick skin, his breath warm, his tongue flicking lazily over your clit. "You're so responsive. i wonder how many more times i can make you—"
you never find out. because you pass out.
and he has to stop and do aftercare instead.
don’t worry, he doesn't mind. he'll just try again tomorrow.
receiving: doctor is enthusiastic about it.
when you take him into your mouth, his hands tangle in your hair, not pushing nor forcing, just holding. his hips twitch and breath catches, eyes switch cyan to red and back again, like he cannot decide which side of him is winning.
for example:
“don't stop," he breathes, and his voice is still calm, but there is something underneath it.
he has to be careful with you though. he is massive. not just long, thick. and when you take him into your throat, when you push past your gag reflex and take him, you can see the bulge in your neck, very prominent and obvious, moving when he does.
and you are barely halfway through.
he watches this happen. his red eyes track the way your throat stretches around him, the way your jaw strains, the way your eyes water but do not look away.
“f-fascinating," he whispers. “look at that. you can see me inside you."
again, he is careful, though. he does not want you to choke. he pays attention to your breathing, your color, the way your hands grip his thighs for stability.
“breathe through your nose, sweetie” he instructs softly. “good. good. you're doing so well."
but he is also pushing your limit. just a little. he will hold you there, his cock trying to be halfway down your throat, the bulge in your neck pulsing with your heartbeat and he will wait. “you can take more," he murmurs. “i know you can. show me."
abd when you try, relaxed your throat, let him slip deeper, when the bulge in your neck grows more pronounced his is grip tightens in your hair. a low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a growl.
“good specimen," he breathes. “such a good specimen."
also if you look up at him through your lashes while he is in your mouth, while your lips are stretched around him, while tears cling to your lashes and your throat is full—
he’ll will break.
his hips will stutter. his breath will hitch. his red eyes will go wide, then narrow, then dark. “you,” he will say, voice rough, wrecked, nothing like his usual calm. “you are going to be the death of me."
and he will mean it. every word.
he does not let you go until tears stream down your cheeks and your throat is full of him. and even then, he pulls out slowly, just watching the way your lips release him with a wet sound.
“you did excellently," he says, cupping your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb wipes the tears from your cheeks. “we will practice again tomorrow. i want to see how much more you can fit."
overall, doctor loves oral both ways.
p = pace
fast and rough, or slow and gentle?
somedays, slow because doctor isn't in a rush. he has all night, and he intends to use it. every touch is measured. every thrust is calculated. he's studying you—the way you respond, the sounds you make, the places where you're most sensitive.
"interesting," he'll murmur, adjusting his angle. "you made a different sound that time. let me try again."
other days, hard, fast, and desperate.
again when his eyes are red, the control slips. not completely—he'd never lose control but enough that you can feel the hunger beneath the calm. "you wanted this," he'll growl, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "you wanted the monster. so take him."
and you do. because you're brave like that.
q = quickie
does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?
honestly, it’s not his favorite.
doctor prefers time and space. you know, the ability to observe and catalog and draw things out. but sometimes when his eyes are red and you're wearing something distracting and there's a supply tent right there—sometimes he makes exceptions.
"this is inefficient," he'll mutter, pushing you against the wall. "we don't have enough time for proper aftercare."
he does it anyway.
r = risk
is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)
absolutely not.
like, hard no. the doctor hates the idea of being caught. hates it. it's not even about embarrassment or shame—it's about control. his work, his experiments, his time with you — none of it is for public consumption.
he doesn't want an audience. doesn't want curious eyes. doesn't want someone walking in and asking questions he doesn't feel like answering.
"this is between you and me," he says, voice low and final. "no one else. ever."
he means it.
so no, you're not going to convince him to sneak into a supply closet during a show. you're not going to drag him behind the tents while the crowd is distracted. he'll shut that down immediately.
"we're not animals," he says flatly. "and i'm not a performer. what i do with you is private. mine. i don't share."
and it's not just about modesty. it's about interruption. the doctor cannot stand being interrupted. not during his research, not during his experiments, and definitely not during intimacy.
nothing kills his mood faster than a knock on the door or a voice calling his name from outside the tent.
his focus shatters. his body goes cold. and his eyes, which might have been red just a second ago and switch back to cyan like someone flipped a switch.
"wait," he says, pulling away, already reaching for his mask. "someone's coming."
and then he's gone. not physically because he's still right there but the moment is over. the heat is gone. he's already calculating who it might be, what they want, how quickly he can get rid of them.
by the time whoever it is leaves? he's not in the mood anymore. maybe later. maybe tomorrow. but right now? he's a bit frustrated and cold and done.
"i told you," he says, not looking at you. "this is why i prefer the greenhouse. no one bothers us there."
except for the plants. but the plants don't count. the plants are silent.
for example:
you're on his examination table. the leather is cool beneath your back, but his hands are warm, warmer than usual pressing you into the surface as his mouth works its way down your throat.
his mask is off. pushed aside. probably forgotten somewhere on the floor.
"stay quiet," he murmurs against your collarbone. "i don't want anyone to hear you." his hips press against yours.
you can feel him through his clothes, hard, heavy, ready and your breath catches. "doctor—"
"shh." his fingers find the button of your pants. undoes it. slips inside.
and then, you and him hear, "doctor? you in there?"
a muffled voice, harlequin's voice, dripping with amusement like he knows exactly what he's interrupting.
the doctor freezes, his whole body goes rigid above you. his eyes which had been that deep, hungry red switch to flash cyan so fast it almost hurts to watch.
"don't move," he whispers then he pulls away. straightens his coat. reaches for his mask.
"what?" you breathe. "you're just going to—“
"yes."
he's already at the tent flap, mask in place, cyan eyes cold and distant.
"not now, harlequin," he says, voice flat. "i'm busy."
"busy doing what?" harlequin's grin is audible. "because it sounded like you were—“
"leave." just one word he said.
yet there's a pause. a snicker. and then footsteps retreating.
doctor stands there for a long moment, his back to you, his shoulders tense.
"...he's gone," you say.
"i know."
"so we can—“
"no." he turns. his eyes are still cyan. still cold. the heat from before is gone, replaced by something tired and frustrated and closed off.
"the moment is ruined," he says. "i cannot simply... pick up where we left off. not when my mind is already calculating how long it will be before the next interruption."
"but—“
"another time, sweetie.”
he crosses to his desk. sits down. pulls out a notebook.
you're still on the examination table, pants undone, body buzzing with want that has nowhere to go.
"you're just going to... take notes?"
"yes."
"...about what?"
he looks at you, just for a second. "about how you looked just now," he says quietly. "spread out on my table. wanting me. needing me." he looks down at his notebook. "i'll use it for... research. later. when i'm alone."
your face burns. "that's not fair."
"no," he agrees. "it's not."
and then he starts writing once again. so yeah doctor doesn't do risks, public, or interruptions.
s = stamina
how long can he last?
holy shit. well, doctor can go for hours.
not because he's superhuman—though, i mean, monster but because he knows how to pace himself. how to draw things out. how to make you do most of the work while he observes. on red side is faster. more intense. but also shorter. like a storm violent, consuming, and then over.
as for rounds? three. maybe four, if you beg nicely.
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
yes, absolutely.
doctor has tools. not sex toys, technically — medical equipment. but he's... creative. vibrating tools designed for muscle stimulation. speculums for examination. sounds for listening. things that vibrate, things that pulse, things that stretch.
"this isn't sexual," he'll say, holding up something that is definitely sexual. "this is for research."
he's lying but it's hot lying, so you let it slide.
u = unfair
how much do they like to tease?
well, doctor can be a bit of a liar.
not in a mean way. not in a way that hurts. but in a way that makes you want to scream his name while he watches you fall apart with those calm, cyan eyes.
see, here's the thing. he doesn't realize how good he is at teasing. it's not intentional, not at first. it's just... part of who he is. part of his clinical training.
and sometimes, when he's studying you, he notices things.
like the way your hips twitch when he gets close but doesn't touch. like the way your breathing changes when his fingers trail up your thigh and stop just short of where you need them. like the way you whimper, just a little when he pulls his hand away completely.
"fascinating," he'll murmur, watching you squirm. "your body is desperate for release. your heart rate has increased by nearly 40%. your pupils are dilated. your skin is flushed."
he tilts his head. those cyan eyes never leave your face.
"but i want to see how long you can maintain this state."
and he means it.
he'll keep you there for hours if you let him. fingers hovering, mouth pressed to your neck but not kissing, hips flush against yours but not moving. just... waiting. watching. cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every desperate little sound you make.
"please," you'll beg. "please, doctor—"
"not yet." his voice is calm and composed.
and somehow that makes it so much worse.
because if he were being mean, like if he were smirking or laughing or calling you names, you could get angry, try to push him away.
but he's not being mean. he's just... curious. genuinely curious about how much you can take.
and you? you want to be good for him, be the specimen that exceeds his expectations. the one he writes about in his notebook with little stars in the margins.
so you stay still. you hold back. you let him watch.
and when he finally touches you, when his fingers slide into you like they belong there, you nearly sob with relief. "good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. i knew you could do it."
his eyes shine red for just a second.
and you realize: he enjoyed that. maybe more than you did.
the red side is worse. so much worse.
because when his eyes are red, he's not just observing. he's participating. and he's smiling. not a big smile. not a creepy grin. just... a small curl at the corner of his lips. the kind that says i know exactly what i'm doing to you and i love every second of it.
"you're shaking," he'll observe, red eyes glowing. "good. keep shaking. i want to see how long it takes for you to break."
and he'll keep pushing. and pushing. and pushing.
bringing you to the edge. pulling you back. bringing you again. pulling you back.
until you're crying. until you're begging. until you can't remember your own name, only his. "please," you sob. "please, i can’t—“
"you can." his voice soft, almost gentle. "and you will. because i asked you to."
he's a liar. he told you he wasn't good at teasing. he told you it wasn't intentional.
but the way he smiles when you fall apart? the way he watches you unravel like a specimen under a microscope?
yeahhh. he may knows exactly what he's doing.
v = volume
how loud are they? what sounds do they make?
doctor is quiet, in my opinion.
now, not the kind of quiet where he's holding back. not the kind where he's embarrassed or shy. just... quiet. naturally, effortlessly, quiet. he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp. doesn't whimper or cry out or any of the things you might expect from someone so intense.
but he still breathes.
when he's calm, when his eyes are cyan and he's just observing, just studying, his breathing is slow. measured. almost hypnotic. in through his nose, out through his mouth. steady as a metronome.
but when he's into it? when his eyes start switching red and his composure starts to crack?
his breathing changes. it gets heavier. faster. hungrier.
like you can hear it in the quiet moments—when his face is buried in your neck, when his forehead is pressed against yours, when his lips are hovering just above your skin.
inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.
each breath feels like a caress. like he's tasting you through the air alone.
and sometimes, which is rae, when he's close, when his eyes are red, when you've been perfect, he'll make a sound.
a hum, low and pleased, almost like a purr.
it vibrates through his chest, through his hands, through the places where your bodies touch. and it makes your toes curl. every single time.
"there," he'll breathe, voice barely a whisper. "just like that. stay."
and you will. because his voice is commanding, even when it's barely audible. even when it's soft. even when it's gentle.
"you're so quiet," you say once, afterward, when you're both catching your breath. "i can barely hear you."
he looks at you. "i don't need to be loud," he says. "you make enough noise for both of us."
it's not an insult. it's just... true.
because when he's inside you, when his fingers are working you open, when his mouth is on your throat, when his hips are pressing you into the mattress, you can't help but sound.
you moan. you gasp. you whimper. you cry out his name like a prayer.
and he listens.
he listens to every sound, catalogs every pitch, files away every desperate little whine for later. for research. "fascinating," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your lower lip. "the sounds you make. i've never heard anything like them."
his eyes shines red.
"i'd like to hear more."
and then he's on you again, quiet, always quiet while you fall apart beneath him.
he doesn't make a sound but you make plenty.
w = wild card
what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?
you'd expect me to say something about his red side. something about the sadistic streak, the hunger, the way he loses control when his eyes flash crimson. or him dedicating his time to make you a large nest to impress you with.
and yeah, that's part of it. but that's not unexpected.
the wild card? the thing that will actually surprise you?
he lets you take care of him.
not in a sexual way, okay so well, not only in a sexual way. but in a soft way. in a way that has nothing to do with scalpels or specimens or clinical observation.
see, doctor is always the one in control. always the one observing, studying, taking care. he tends his plants. he tends his patients. he tends you.
but he never lets anyone tend to him until you.
and when he finally does, lets you see the soft, vulnerable thing underneath the mask—it's the wildest thing he's ever done. because for the doctor, vulnerability is terrifying. more terrifying than any experiment.
so, he lets you run your fingers through his red hair while he lies on your chest, eyes closed, breathing slow. he lets you kiss his forehead, his bare forehead, mask pushed aside without flinching or pulling away.
he lets you whisper sweet things in his ear and doesn't call them "inefficient" or "sentimental."
he just... accepts them and you.
and sometimes, on the rare nights when his walls come down all the way, he even asks for it. "stay," he'll murmur, voice barely audible. "don't go. not yet."
and you'll stay because doctor, the so called cold, clinical, composed doctor is clingy bird when he lets himself be. he wraps himself around you like a vine, all long limbs and cool skin, and he doesn't let go until morning.
x = x-ray
let's see what's going on under those clothes there
so …are you sure you want to do this? all of it? it’ll make your thighs press together and your breath catch just thinking about it?
fine. let's talk about what the doctor is packing.
because here's the thing. you've seen him. you know he's very tall, above average height, 207 cm to be exact (6’9.5 ft)—you know he's bulky and simply massive.
but down there?
down there is where the surprise lives.
under his clothes, the doctor is massive. not in a cartoonish way, not comically oversized or absurdly proportioned. but in a way that makes your eyes go wide and your mouth go dry and your brain short-circuit because how is that supposed to fit inside you?
he's the biggest of the entire circus. bigger than pierrot. bigger than jester. bigger than anyone.
and he knows it.
the length alone when fully erect, he's just over nine inches. call it twenty-three centimeters for those who like precision. from base to tip, a solid, heavy length that curves slightly upward. just enough to hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.
then the thickness is where it gets intimidating. his girth is... substantial. you can't wrap your hand around him. can't close your fingers. your thumb and middle finger won't even touch when you try.
he's the thickness of a wrist, lowkey more thicker than that—and the first time you see him, you'll actually say “ah hell no” out loud before your brain catches up.
like he curves slightly to the left. just a little. just enough to be noticeable. and when he's inside you, that curve presses against your walls in a way that feels careful, like his body knows exactly where to go
for more details, he's not shaved bare, there's a neat patch of red hair at the base, the same color as the hair on his head. trimmed, tidy, intentional. and when he's aroused which is often, around you, his balls draw up tight against his body, heavy and full.
he knows all of this. he's measured, cataloged and studied.
"purely for research purposes," he'll say, when you catch him looking at his own notes.
you don't believe him but you also don't argue.
for example:
the first time you see it, you're in his tent.
his mask is off, pushed aside, forgotten and his clothes are somewhere on the floor. he's standing in front of you, naked, and you're still fully dressed, because he wanted to look at you first.
"your turn," he says, cyan eyes tracking down your body.
you swallow. "can i... can i see you first?"
he tilts his head. "see me?"
"all of you."
there's a pause at first and then he steps back. "very well."
he doesn't pose. doesn't preen. just stands there, hands at his sides, letting you look.
and you do.
you look at his chest first, his red skin covered in old scars, the stitches that mark where he's cut himself open in the name of curiosity. you look at his arms, long, elegant, corded with lean muscle. you look at his hips, narrow, sharp, with that v-shape that makes your mouth water.
and then you look down, you freeze.
"what's wrong, sweetie?” he asks, voice calm. but there's a tension in his jaw. a flicker of red in his eyes.
"nothing," you say. "i just—“ you swallow. "you're massive.”
"i'm aware."
"no, i mean—“ you gesture vaguely at his crotch. "big. like... really big. very above average for humans.”
his head tilts. "is that a problem?"
you look at him. at his face, at his eyes, at the way his hands are fidgeting at his sides like he's nervous. “uhh i don't know," you admit. "let me... let me see."
he steps closer and you reach out.
your hand wraps around him or tries to. your fingers don't even come close to touching. there's a full inch of space between your thumb and middle finger, and he's heavy in your palm, warm and thick and alive.
"oh," you breathe.
"oh?" his voice is strained. "is that... good oh or bad oh?"
you look up at him. his eyes are red now, fully red, glowing in the dim lighting, and his breathing has gone shallow.
"good oh," you say. "definitely good oh."
his hips twitch. just a little. just enough that you feel him pulse against your palm. "you're going to need preparation," he says, voice barely controlled. "a lot of it. i won't fit otherwise."
"then prepare me."
his eyes flash. and then he's on his knees in front of you, pulling your pants down, pushing you back onto the examination table.
"spread your legs," he says, already reaching for a jar of lube. "i'm going to be thorough." and he is. he spends what feels like hours opening you up, one finger, then two, then three, just stretching, preparing you, watching your face the whole time to make sure you're not in pain.
"tell me if it's too much," he says, "i need to know."
"it's not too much."
"yet." he adds a fourth finger. you gasp. your back arches off the table. "there," he murmurs, watching you squirm. "you're taking it so well. such a good specimen."
"doctor—“
"not yet." his voice is firm. "you're not ready yet. i won't risk hurting you."
he keeps going. keeps stretching and watching. and when he finally lines himself up at your entrance, when you feel the head press against you, thick and warm and overwhelming,
"breathe," he says. "and look at me."
you do.
his eyes are red. just hungry for more of you but his hands are gentle, and his movements are slow, and he watches your face like he's afraid you'll shatter.
"push back if it's too much," he says. "i'll stop. i promise."
and then he pushes inside.
just the head. just a fraction of an inch. “f-fuck, holy shit…” you're already gasping, already clawing at his shoulders, already wondering how all of that is supposed to fit inside you.
"breathe," he says again. "just breathe. we have all night."
he waits, lets you adjust, watches your face and then he pushes deeper.
y = yearning
how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?
okay, so doctor has two sides.
two different answers. two different hungers.
first the calm side: cyan
controlled and manageable when his eyes are cyan, the doctor doesn't need sex. not the way some people do. he can go weeks without thinking about it, weeks lost in his research, his plants, his experiments. his heavy metal music doesn't look at him with hungry eyes and whisper his name like a prayer.
so he forgets. sometimes. for a little while.
he buries himself in work. in data. in the quiet hum of his greenhouse.
and then he sees you.
and it all comes rushing back.
not enough to distract him. not enough to consume him. but enough that his eyes linger on your throat a little too long. enough that his fingers twitch at his sides, remembering the way your skin feels under them. enough that he has to look away, just for a second to collect himself.
"fascinating," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "you have an effect on me. i haven't decided if i like it."
he does like it. he just won't admit it.
then his red side, is just filled with hungry
desperate and consuming when his eyes are red, he thinks about you constantly. not in a gentle way. not in a sweet, sentimental, pierrot-style yearning. in a hungry way. in a way that makes his hands shake and his breath catch and his teeth ache.
he thinks about the way you sound when he's inside you, you know the gasps, the moans, the way you say his name like it's the only word you remember.
he thinks about the way you feel, just warm and soft and alive beneath his hands, around his fingers, under him. he thinks about the way you look at him,, not with fear, not with disgust, but with trust. with want. with something that looks dangerously close to love.
and these episodes? they're distracting.
he'll be in the middle of something, like watering his plants, organizing his specimens, listening to the radio and suddenly his mind is full of you. full of images he can't shake. full of sounds he can't unhear.
he'll find himself staring at nothing, red eyes glowing, his work forgotten in his hands.
“…shit,” he'll mutter, shaking his head. but he doesn't stop thinking about you.
he just can't.
and eventually, after an hour, after a day, after however long he can force himself to wait, he'll go find you.
not because he wants to. because he needs to, the hunger is too loud and the only thing that quiets it is you.
"you're distracting," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "i can't focus. i can't think. all i can do is—"
his mouth finds your throat. his hands find your hips. his body presses against yours like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.
"—this."
and you'll let him. because his eyes are red and his voice is desperate and somewhere underneath all that hunger, he's still him. still your doctor. still the monster who looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him sane.
"inefficient," he'll breathe against your collarbone. "this is so inefficient."
but he doesn't stop and neither do you.
z = zone
what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?
doctor is... sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.
his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. studying them like they belong to someone else.
but with you? with you? he can't hide.
1. his throat
the doctor's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, like when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark—his breath catches. his hands tighten on your waist. his eyes shining red.
"again," he breathes. "do that again."
and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he’ll makes a sound, strangled and desperate.
"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —"
he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer.
2. his hands
specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.
"what are you—" his voice cracks as you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.
"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things."
his eyes are red now. fully red. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.
3. his inner thighs
this one is cruel. and you know it. and he knows you know it.
his thighs are a battlefield. the skin there is just nice and thick, somehow more delicate and responsive.
when you kiss the inside of his thigh, when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch, he falls apart.
"you're torturing me," he says, voice strained.
"is it working?"
his eyes are red. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets. "yes sweeite.”
so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging for more.
"please," he gasps. "please, i can’t—“
"you can."
"i can’t—“
you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. he bucks off the bed.
"...okay," he breathes. "maybe i can."
sooo, in summarized about doctor!
and that was exhausting. (this took me four days to write and to figure out with numerous amounts of research, so rusty at this 😭)
but there you have it, everyones precious doctor, laid bare.
every kink, every quirk, every fascinating contradiction.
now if you'll excuse me, i have assisting I need to return to, the usual paperwork and to prepare for next time. take care of yourself, plaything. and maybe... maybe go thank the doctor for being so interesting.
p.s. if you actually send this to him, he'll probably study it. take notes. categorize.
...do it. i want to see what happens.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
