𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 : You decide to tease the various! genshin men by ignoring them the whole day to see how they’d react, not knowing the results of what you did would lead to the release of their frustration they had been holding back.
ⓘ : 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈. overstimulation, degradation, dirty talking, fingering, orgasm denial, restraint (pinning wrists), desk sex, praise/affectionate terms, marking (?), whining. some parts were a bit rushed & not fully proofread!
.𖥔 ݁ 𝐋𝐎𝐇𝐄𝐍
Spending the entire day being stonewalled by a silent partner had driven his high-energy, battle-hungry nature absolutely mad with boredom, making him feel like he was being forced to face an opponent who refused to pick up their weapon and play along. The quiet defiance you had maintained all day is instantly shattered the moment Lohen claimed what he desired.
Pinning you securely beneath his heavy frame, he locked your wrists above your head with a single hand, his burning gaze completely locked onto yours. He drove into your heat with a frantic, breathless pace, thrusting deeply to wring every available ounce of sound from your throat.
His face was heavily flushed, utterly intoxicated by your dazed expression and the frantic movement of your breasts bouncing with each relentless surge of his hips. His chest heaved as he panted heavily against you, burying himself to the hilt over and over just to hear your voice fracture, needy and desperate as you whimpered his name repeatedly.
But just as the tension coils toward a breaking point, he abruptly froze.
Lohen completely halted his rhythm, holding his length deep within your pulsing warmth and leaving you torturously suspended right on the precipice of a climax. “No, why𑁋 why did you stop…”
He let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His own face remained deeply flushed, his jaw locking tight as he fought down his own burning urge to finish, stranded right at the brink of his own release. Tilting his head with a slightly irritated yet playful smirk, he looked down at you. “Oh, so you can talk,” Lohen panted out, a mocking edge to his voice. “You wouldn’t say a single word to me all day, but look at you now.”
“The second I stop, you start begging.” You shook your head, your core throbbing around him as the sudden, agonising denial left you entirely unraveled. “Please, Lohen… I was so close…” you whine, moving your hips upward against his frozen pelvis in a desperate search for friction.
Instead of granting your relief, he leaned forward, his grin widening at the sight of your desperation. “Consider this your punishment for being so quiet all day. I want to hear how loud you can get for me,” he teases, his voice dropping into a low murmur as your needy sighs filedl the space between you. His lips captured yours and you immediately melted into the heat of the kiss.
Right as his mouth seals your lips, he slammed deep inside you, a single thrust hitting your sweet spot perfectly. The sudden overwhelming sensation makes you gasp into his mouth.
When he pulls from the kiss, shifting his weight to sit up straight, your hands break free from his loosened grip to desperately wrap around his neck, clawing at his shoulders to lock him down in a tight embrace so he can’t move away. Driven entirely mad by the agonising friction, you lifted your hips to grind and roll your core against his buried length.
The unexpected movement forced a low groan from the back of Lohen’s throat, his entire frame shuddering as your slick heat squeezed him tightly. He lets out a dark, muffled chuckle. “Look at you, so needy for me.” His forehead now pressed against yours as he meets your needy gaze directly, his fingers digging deep into your hips to take control of your desperate pace. “Ignoring me the whole day and now you’re practically riding my cock just to make yourself come.”
He grinds his hips hard against yours to completely pin you beneath him, “keep doing that and I’ll make sure you’re begging me to let you come for the rest of the night.”
.𖥔 ݁ 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄
Watching you play your little silent game all day had merely amused him, your pathetic attempt at psychological defiance registering to his clinical mind as nothing more than a minor behavioral defect that required a thoroughly hands-on correction. Rather than breaking your silence through force, he decides to turn your own game into a strict, agonisingly sensual rule.
Pinning you face-down against the heavy mahogany desk in his lab, his left hand gathers both of your wrists behind your lower back to anchor you in place as he slides deep into your slick heat from behind.
Every heavy, calculated push of his hips is an exercise in intense friction, right hand holding you perfectly still on your sides to deliberately stretch out the deep pleasure, making you tremble helplessly beneath his cold, unyielding weight.
He watches the way your back arches, a low laugh vibrating against your skin as he leans down to press his masked face right beside your ear. “Since you found it so easy to keep your mouth shut today…” he pauses, his pelvis rolling in a slow, heavy circle to grind hard against your sensitive core, making your breath hitch. “...let’s see you do it now, hm?” Dottore whispers teasingly against your ear.
His right hand moves from your hip to firmly cup over your mouth, and even with his palm sealing your lips, he can feel the rapid, heavy heat of your frantic panting as you whine shamelessly straight into his skin. “Mmmph𑁋! D-Dottore…” you whimper desperately, your body involuntarily twitching against his as he hits your sweet spot with a sharp, deep thrust that sends a violent wave of pleasure.
“Dottore?” he interrupts, his voice dropping into a stern tone of absolute authority. “It’s Doctor to you when you’re misbehaving on my desk.” Dottore momentarily yanks his hand away from your lips just as he slams his hips entirely, driving into you as deeply as possible. The sudden shattering wave of pleasure breaks your control completely, forcing a loud, needy sob to echo through the empty lab as your body arches helplessly against his. “Ah! Please, Doctor𑁋 haah, it’s too much𑁋!”
“Shh…” He instantly clamps his palm back over your lips, covering your loud, frantic gasps into muffled whimpers.
“Quiet now, my dear. My subordinates are just outside that door.” Dottore glances over at the heavy entryway, listening to the distant sound of muffled footsteps passing by in the corridor. Capitalizing on the danger, he releases your wrists from his left hand, letting your arms fall forward so your fingers can frantically claw at the smooth edge of the desk for leverage.
“You wouldn’t want them to hear exactly how pathetic and loud you get when your master decides to play along with your little games, would you?” His free hand that held your wrist now moved between your thighs, his fingers finding your swollen, drenched clit and delierately rubbing it in a fast, teasing rhythm while his hips continue to grind at an accelerating pace from behind.
Your eyes widen at the sudden, intense overstimulation that hit you, your hips rolling against his touch, trying to swallow the frantic sounds building in your chest.
Dottore leans closer, his lips awfully close to the skin of your neck. “Let’s see just how much it takes to break that stubborn little silence of yours completely, my little dove.”
.𖥔 ݁ 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀
Your stubborn determination to maintain silence all day had only served to provide him with a clear target. To Childe, your silence was an open invitation, a dare from an opponent who mistakenly believed they could outlast his patience. If you refuse to grant him words, he was entirely confident in his ability to extract a reaction physically, transforming the bedroom into a high-stakes arena where he held every distinct advantage.
Dragging your trembling form toward the edge of the mattress, he settled himself between your thighs and effortlessly hooked your knees over his shoulders, exposing your flushed skin completely to his gaze. “Look at how pretty you are for me, darling,” he murmured, a low breathy chuckle vibrating his throat, “so soaked and you haven’t even let me touch you yet. Were you thinking about this while you were ignoring me all day?”
Before you could twist away, Childe leaned down to anchor your hips firmly beneath his hands. His mouth pressed directly against your drenched core, his tongue flickering over your swollen clit with a rapid precision, while he simultaneously buried two long fingers deep within your slick warmth.
The dual assault of his ruthless lapping and the deep, rhythmic stretch of his fingers induced a state of overwhelming overstimulation. Your hands flew downward to tangle desperately in his messy ginger hair, your fingers tugging as if to pull him away, yet the gesture only pinned him closer. Your hips rolled helplessly against his face, entirely unable to resist the piercing friction.
Pausing for a brief fraction of a second, he looked up to observe your dazed expression, a smug grin gracing his wet lips as your high-pitched moans finally fractured the quiet room. “Come on, darling,” Childe sighed, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin before his tongue resumed its merciless rhythm against your sweet spot. “You were so resilient all morning. Let’s see how long that stubborn composure lasts now.”
The intense stimulation of his mouth coupled with the deliberate curling of his fingers completely broke your remaining restraint. A violent, twitching climax seized your body, forcing your spine to arch off the sheets. Yet, before you could recover or catch your breath, without removing his lips, Childe drove his fingers deeper, stretching your post-orgasmic walls and accelerating his movements without a single hint of leniency.
A loud wail tore from your throat as his tongue lashed your hypersensitive flesh while his knuckles bottomed out inside you. “Ajax, wait𑁋 Ah! It’s t-too much𑁋!” you sobbed, your thighs trembling violently against his shoulders and your fingers gripped on to the sheets of the bed, your entire being shuddered around his hand.
He let out a sharp breathless laugh against your inner thigh. Tilting his head just enough to meet your lewd gaze, his blue eyes sparked with a thrilling triumphant heat. “There’s that pretty voice,” Childe teased, his tone dropping into a low raspy growl. “Look at you, so desperate. You kept avoiding me all day, but the second you’re touched, you’re crying my name just like that?”
He refused to grant you a reprieve, instead his grip shifted to the back of your knees, tilting your pelvis upward to expose your aching core even further. “Ahh! Oh my god, Ajax!” His tongue swept deeply into your opening before driving upward to punish your clit, while his fingers maintained a frantic, unhinged sprint inside your pulsing warmth.
“Say it again,” he growled against your skin, watching your body writhe beneath his touch, dragging desperate cries from your lips with every stroke. “Keep calling me that, sweetheart. Let me hear how noisy you get when you’re being ruined like this.”
۶ৎ as abrasive and perverted your step-father is—reprimanding you for the smallest inconveniences, his hands always finding your body whenever he has the chance, his intrusion of your room and space, the harsh and angry tone he'd get with you on occasion—he had a knack for always knowing what was wrong with you, and how to fix such.
⇢ PAIRING step-father!zandik x fem!reader
⇢ CONTENT WARNINGS .ᐟ modern!au , stepcest , AGE GAP, power imbalance , implied underage sex , drug & alcohol mention , possessive themes , mentions of/implied physical & emotional abuse , sexual abuse , infidelity , rape/noncon , kinda?? plot , finger sucking , pussy slapping , vaginal penetration , cervix penetration , daddy kink (kinda) , biting kink , hickeys , scratching , reader is 18 but there's been sexual incidents before , sadistic tendencies , mind break , use of pet names (baby, sweetie, etc.) , creampie , overstimulation
⇢ WORD COUNT 3.4k
⇢ NOTE omg haihi,,, sorry this took so long guys,, i've been binging code geass & lwk working on some other fics.. buyt OMG ive acc only written for dottore a few times, so this was rlly fun to explore what i can.. also sorry if im abusing puncuation lol,, omg and im soz it lwk took a little to get to the smut... i only realized like,, 1k words in and i didnt want to fuck yall up,, im acc nerv to post, too bc i hope this doesnt suck BUT i appreciate all feedback guys (also soz for the long note)
♡ comments, likes, & reblogs are appreciated!
BURNING AS YOUR face was, your demeanour didn’t reflect the same story with integrity. Composed, you tried to be: arms crossed, still expression–at least, as much as you could hold–and no outward fidgeting. However, your stepfather, Zandik, saw through you in an instant. The reddening of your cheeks was a dead giveaway, if not for the small twitching in your hands that you didn’t notice yourself. Fascinated by you, he had always been; you’re his biggest obsession, and he loved exploiting the space the two of you occupied. Busting you for every small thing, even if you are–barely–an adult now: don’t mouth off, mind your manners, don’t bring anyone over without permission, and so much more. He had to keep you in your place, yes? You’re his precious daughter, even if it’s not by blood.
His eyes travelled up your body, observing every quirk you exhibited. The tension in your thighs and arms as both were crossed–it had attitude, and on the outside, you might’ve looked unbothered, if just a little agitated, but he knew you were anything but. The indistinct way your fingers curled against your arms, and when away from your flesh, they were sitting on the plush of the couch cushion beneath you–you alternated between such.
“I’m not angry,” he nodded along to his words, his hand rubbing your shoulder so affectionately it felt violating. His face held the repertoire of that of a psychopath, really: the coldness of the flesh of his hand against yours didn’t feel as soft as he intended, but the gentleness of his voice grounded your thoughts. Although, it didn’t make you feel any less guilty of the crime.
What have you done this time? Throw a party while your mother and Zandik were away? Stolen their money or maxxed out their credit cards? No, you weren’t a woman like that: quite reclusive, actually, despite your insistent attitude. Always upholding your manners, having respect–at times–never going out or staying out too late, and never–to their knowledge–indulging in any “inappropriate” or “dangerous” behaviour, like alcohol or drugs. Zandik knows that you’re a good girl. You always have been, so what triggered this influx of disobedience? The new friends you’re hanging around with, or that boy he found on your phone?
“I’m just…” Zandik almost couldn’t find his words. He was upset, no doubt, but using the stereotypical ‘I’m just disappointed’ line would only reinforce the disarray he’s trying to hide. “I’m surprised.”
“Surprised,” you tested the word on your tongue, replaying his tone, his look–doing everything to analyze how he felt. He was never this calm, and it did all but dispel your worry. “He’s just a friend.”
Having that burner phone of yours wasn’t a good idea in any sense. In what world is it for anything? Mistakenly, you had left it in your room–a bit too open, just hidden in your bedside drawer–while you were out. Zandik, as the protective and authoritative figure that he presents himself as, had to go through with such an intrusion, and to his surprise, he found the phone. Just an old one, really. He thought you would have done away with it by now, but teenagers are always so slick. It’s never been your pattern to lie or hide things; however, catching an attitude was more frequent. Is this you being petty, to get back at him for his supervision? However, one thought plagued his mind for your recent behaviour: that boy.
“By the way you two conversed, I wouldn’t paint the picture so soft.” His words were heavy, and they added invisible weight to your hands; that unbothered image you held shattered in an instant.
Is it so wrong to indulge oneself? Zandik had always been so strict, and you did not doubt that, now, his advances wouldn’t stop. That earlier leniency he gave you–all those outings with our friends, those small shirts he didn’t say a word about–had been crushed instantaneously, alongside his trust. The years you’ve spent side-by-side have been in vain in this moment. The rendezvous that the two of you would sneak off to in the name of “bonding,” to your mother. On the exterior, Zandik was quite harsh: yelling at you and disciplining you in front of your mother; however, between the two of you, your punishments would be far more taboo. Before, if you were out too much, he’d have to remind you as to why you don’t scurry off; he’d fill your cunt full of his long fingers at night, whispering the sweetest and most degrading things to you in time simultaneously, or maybe he’d keep his fist balled in your hair, keeping your mouth full of his dick.
You’d much rather a smack to the face than that fake, soft tone he’s giving you. You know this is the calm before the storm, and out of every possibility, you’d rather bruises over disappointment. Your body ached at that fake tone; you wanted the real thing, that sweet, sweet affection that he’d cherish you with when the two of you are alone; that sweet ache in your chest, rather than the dread you felt with keeping your arms in place. Your breathing didn’t quicken or slow, but it was a bit ragged–your tongue didn’t even stay in place–it was just off-tempo. Is it because you can feel your heart pounding throughout your body? The noise of it flooding your ears, too?
“Come here,” he beckoned you nigher, and his hand held a firmer grip.
You, of course, obeyed without question. He kept a resolute grip, hoisting you up from the couch. Zandik led you from the living room–a place far too open, too easy for others to see, especially your mother. While the humiliation on your part would be entertaining, and even arousing, he didn’t intend to have your mother hate him–at the very least, not yet. He needed his fixation around, and that included keeping it in place. He never wanted to find out that you needed–no, you wanted more; all you needed was him. He wasn’t going to take such disrespect lightly.
Zandik schooled past your mother without suspicion or even a glance–too occupied with whatever she was saying on the phone in the room adjacent to the living room. She never paid the two of you attention when he bid that he wanted to “learn more about you,” or the all-too-familiar lie of him wanting to spend time with you. He led you upstairs and into your bedroom, locking the door behind him before he turned too cruel.
He kept a zombie pace as he led you down to your bed. That soft, manipulative smile he kept made you shiver. As much as he said he wasn’t mad, the way he handled you–no matter how sweet–told an entirely different story: that too harsh a grip he held, the clench of his jaw and aching of his fingers, his nails that involuntarily dug into you–it all told a story much too familiar.
“Zandik, I–he’s not even–we haven’t done anything!” You stumbled over your words as you tried to explain, “There’s… nothing is going on!” Zandik had every right to smack you so hard a tooth could pop out, but he didn’t.
He knew you were lying, so why be merciful? Did the divine above give you grace? He read every last text, start to finish, so he knew you had sex with another man. He knew you cheated on him. Softer than before–he didn’t let his grip go tight or firm, giving you the leniency to move away–he laid you down. You resisted the urge to wiggle out of his grip, but you shut up and stayed still. The sheets felt almost too silky, the pillow beneath your head too soft–it was all too neat, too nice.
“What does he have that I don’t, hm?” Zandik questioned, as the mattress dipped beneath his weight, sitting beside you.
“Nothing! Nothing. Really,” you nodded as you spoke, almost as a reassurance, but to no avail. Before you could plead again, Zandik pressed his pointer finger against your lips.
“Ah-ah, shh,” his tone was almost pitying then, but it grew condescending, “if you really did ‘nothing,’ then why are the receipts on your body? Do you think I would not have noticed the hickeys you came home with? Or maybe the scent you had?”
Zandik pushed his finger inside your mouth, and you obediently sucked.
“See, I don’t appreciate when these other… boys have what’s rightfully mine,” he sighed with a small laugh.
You could feel small hairs sticking to your forehead, already matted with sweat, solely from your worry. Zandik’s aura was intimidating, predatory, almost horrifying if you weren’t already accustomed. Your clothes stuck too tightly to your skin, and you could almost feel the tension in the air–especially with how Zandik pushed his finger further to your throat, his middle finger joining. You gagged. Bile almost rose, but Zandik pulled away before you ruined his hands, and, much less, your clothes and sheet; however, he kept his fingers grounded inside your mouth.
You made a noise of surprise, protest, and fear all in one when you felt his other arm pull you up–your head, now, resting against your headboard rather than your pillow. It trailed back down to your top–a small, low-cut one you often wore out, like today. He went further, though, and, with a sigh, he unbuttoned those tiny jean shorts you loved to wear, too.
“I don’t understand why you parade yourself around like this. First, your attitude,” he kept a disappointed tone as he took his wet fingers out of your mouth, using them to hoist up your thighs, slipping the shorts off of you. “Second, these sorry-ass excuses for clothes,” he said, each word with such disdain, “and third, you fuck a boy.” He smacked your thigh while scoffing, “I mean, really, baby?”
You whimpered at the contact while flinching at his tone, and your face reflected the fear your body emitted. You were his prey, completely cornered, scared, and most of all, his to have, and that’s in whatever way he wants; although, you already knew what, and you weren’t a fan.
The small burn of a ‘click!’ rubbed against your skin, where Zandik smacked your panties against you. You elicited a weak, “ow,” but Zandik didn’t care about hurting you; in fact, he wanted to.
“Awe,” he cooed at you, mockingly, “did that hurt?”
You attempted to push his hands away, off, safe from you, but to no avail. Zandik didn’t care, and you couldn’t resist anyway. Zandik overpowered you any and every day of the week; his weight crushed yours as he moved atop of you.
“Is that it now? You want to be a brat? A bitch to me?”
He seized your wrists and pinned them above your head, before slipping one away. He could keep you compliant with just one hand–it’s not like he hasn’t done it before, if not worse.
Small, black lace panties shimmered in the scarce light of your room–solely emitted from your not-so blackout curtains. That set you were wearing, the Future Mrs. one that Zandik specifically bought for the two of you. You wore them out, and better yet–not-so for you–they were wet, all in your slick, or maybe it was the leaking of another man’s sperm inside you. Zandik didn’t entertain the latter.
“You like this, huh?” Zandik solidified a smack against your pussy through your panties to prove his point, and your whimper–involuntary or not–availed.
One set of his fingers slipped underneath your panties, while the other kept your wrists in place. The comforting sensation that it gave you was almost uncanny. Your eyes squinted, and your mouth lay agape as his middle finger circled your clit. He drew strings of moans from your mouth, while you writhed against his grip.
Before you could form a comprehensible retort, Zandik leaned in and kissed you, his tongue immediately invading the comfort and softness of your mouth. You mewled in his mouth, and your writhing grew with the second. Your body twitched and your back arched with each move of his finger, and your moans grew less secluded as he pulled his mouth away, leaving a signature trail of saliva. Right as he felt your nails dig into his hands, the insistent movement made him know you were close, and he deliberately pulled away from your clit.
That casual push-and-pull he played with you: the resistance he made you keep, before you begged for more. However, he plunged his fingers into you, not even minutes after. Your back arched in response to his movement. You so, so badly did not want this, but you needed it. Sweat built up intensely, and your body felt filthy all over, and it wasn’t because of the violation. That odd quirk and habit you always upheld the standard of being clean—and Zandik always infringed upon that.
“Come on, sweetie,” Zandik cooed, his voice patronizing with the pet name, “you can cum for Daddy.”
Your body was weak for him, even more so than your mind. Zandik truly commanded your body, and when he told you to cum, you did; your almost-orgasm hit harder than any smack he’d made or would make you endure. Was it the adrenaline of trying to pry him off you–no matter how futile–or was it the arousal your body substantiated? Either way, your reaction pleased him.
A compass broke in your mind, going in all directions, and you couldn’t even formulate a proper thought. The earlier sensations were still in effect, and you barely registered Zandik letting go of your wrists. They held a deep red, showing how harshly he restrained you. He gave you the illusion of choice earlier, and you decided to be a minx: teasing him with your reluctant submission. It’s only natural that he’d take and do as he pleased.
Blinking, you started to discern your surroundings, and your brain registered Zandik slipping your panties off, and the prodding of more against you. His weight fully enveloped you, now, much closer than before. His thighs were on the inside of yours, and his hands held your hips up, and your legs automatically wrapped around his lower waist. Had he let go of your wrists, too? Your submission and weakness had led him to believe you wouldn’t resist anymore.
“I don’t–Zan–” Your pitiful attempts at swatting him off, away–anything but on or near you, right now–with your hands and your words–completely intercepted by him–contributed to nothing.
He chuckled, and one of his hands, just for a moment, cradled your cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty, little head about this. It’s nothing new, you should know,” he spoke too softly for a moment, before placing his hand back onto your hip.
Unapologetically, he thrust and sheathed himself inside you, bottoming out with a groan of his own. Raw, as always–when had he ever bothered with protection? He always pulled out on time, anyway, and if not, Plan B was always available.
That burning, familiar stretch of his cock wasn’t consoling or sexy this time. The forceful nature of it, truly, had you a bit turned off, or was that your fear speaking? Hadn’t you just almost cum on his fingers? Your body opened up to him, letting him slide inside with little resistance, so why did your mind do everything to fight it? Before you could reason or justify your wetness, Zandik experimentally moved his hips, eliciting a moan out of you–and that immediately stopped any train of thought. That sensation–your hands, as blind as it was immediate, reached for him, and your nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, holding on so closely. The feeling of fabric, silk, cotton, made your face heat up more and for that pit in your stomach to go deeper. How humiliating it is to be debauched while the other doesn’t even have the decency or respect to undress themselves, too.
He thrusted again–deeper, more intentionally to hurt, and it did–your fingers kept their stead and grip on him, your legs tightening with each snap of his hips. Your eyebrows were tightened and squinted with each thought you tried to coerce, which was jumbled, and your mouth stayed open, stringing out moans and mewls alike. You didn’t care to be loud.
Each snap of his hips was as excruciating as it was arousing. On any usual occasion, you wouldn’t have cared to be full to the brim with his cum plastered on your thighs, stomach, or even in your mouth. But with circumstances today, you wanted anything but; however, were you even thinking that, now? Can you think? Zandik didn’t care for either, though. Punishment was in the settlement, and he intended to charge full.
“Nngh… See? This isn’t so bad?” he chuckled as he spoke to you, with that same, disgusting tone as he lifted his hand–that same one he used to cradle your cheek–to clutch your hair in his fist–so harshly, too.
The feeling of his jeans–old and rough–against your skin only served to flush you further.
The familiar and deep sensation inside you reconstructed the half of pleasure-and-pain to full ache; that bump, the burn of his cock stretching you so widely, and–fuck, did he just go under your cervix?
“I–I–Ah…” Barely able to form a coherent thought–let alone words–your body would only let you muster up a weak, pained moan, and you felt your consciousness flicker.
Zandik moaned as he went deeper inside you, his thrusts becoming longer and in-between. He watched as you blinked in response, with your pitiful moans.
He smiled, enjoying the pain he was giving you. “What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed. His fist, balled in your hair, turned firmer as his thrusts became rougher, harsher. “You know,” he dragged out every syllable, “I was lying when I said I wasn’t mad.”
If you were able to think, you would definitely agree.
Your hands were stationary on grasping his shirt, but your nails dug in more, and he could feel the slight pain of it. With the little strength you had, your hands moved to grasp his neck–almost embracing him affectionately. You dug into his skin, though, drawing blood and gripping harder with the movement of his hips.
The intensity with which you were gripping his cock only turned him on more. He jerked his hips more erratically and with more intensity as he lifted your thigh, then over his shoulder. He breathed out with each forceful movement, conquering your autonomy in a more violating way than the last.
He enjoyed the squirming and the struggling–the battle that you were putting up. Despite your fucked-out mind, he could feel the defiance in the way you squeezed him.
“What’s that, hm?” he almost-purred at you, feeling the inconsistent squeezing of your walls around him.
He knew you were about to cum, despite how much you tried to hold out.
“Mmph–! Ah-ah!” you bit your lip–or tried to, just a scrape of your teeth against them–as you moaned.
Your tummy bulged with each deep thrust of Zandik’s hips, going under your cervix, pushing further. It’s no secret he was large in both girth and height, and every time he fucked you, he destroyed you. With each moan that was exiled from your mouth, Zandik’s movements became faster. He wasn’t going to waste such precious time on showing you who you belong to.
His hand fell from your hair, and your head fell back just enough until he reached and smacked you. You could only whimper in response.
His penetrating your stomach alongside the smack felt almost overwhelming.
Zandik leaned down and scooped your neck up–flailing you, really–as his mouth connected to your neck–a rather sensitive spot that served your overstimulation. He bit down and sucked while fucking you perfectly. He moaned around your skin; that familiar, sweet taste of it made his cock even harder.
The bulbous tip kept that acquainted bulge in your stomach with each erratic thrust. Zandik littered your neck in bite marks that just-almost gave blood and hickeys. Your hands moved upward to grasp his hair, and your legs tightened around his waist. The further movement caused him to fuck you even rougher.
“Shit,” he let the curse fall out of his mouth, and his mouth bit down on you hard–you mewled in response with a harsher tug of his hair, and just then–
You felt his cock twitch inside you, as his movements became slower, before still.
He breathed heavily atop of you, pulling his mouth away from your neck with a sliver of saliva following. Zandik pulled out, watching his cum leak out of you.
synopsis⋆✴︎ Half-dead in a Snezhnayan storm, caught mid-shift between human and crow, you're found by Il Dottore — who takes you in not out of mercy, but curiosity. To him, you're a specimen worth studying. Slowly, without either of you naming it, that changes: you become his assistant, then something closer, while he tells himself it's all still just research.
tags⋆✴︎ NSFW,Smut(mdni),drugging(anasthesia), dub-con, vague consent, p in v, no aftercare, use of y/n, Dottore x reader, Dottore x f!reader, Dottore x fem assistant reader, reader is a crow shapeshifter, implied kidnapping, slight jealousy, mention of other fatui harbingers
wc⋆✴︎ 5.6k
Note" HELLO EVERYONE this is my first smut I've written in my entire life so it might be a bit messy and disorganized.. I got inspired thinking of the connection between Dottore and a crow and came up with this fic :) ENJOY AND PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG IF YOU DO NOT MIND
The storm in Snezhnaya had no interest in mercy, and neither, generally, did he.
Dottore moved through the snow storm with the brisk indifference of a man crossing a room he was familiar with. Snezhnaya’s winters were an inconvenience to be routed around, not endured, and his escort trailed a careful distance behind, having long since learned not to speak unless spoken to. The mission ahead was unremarkable. A supply route to confirm, a facility to inspect, nothing that required his full attention, which was, admittedly, why he noticed it.
A flicker of black against the white.
He might have dismissed it– a bird? Driven low and vulnerable by the wind, it was hardly worth the fraction of a glance he spared it, except that the shape was wrong. It moved wrong. It didn’t so much fly as fold, mid-motion, the way a variable folds when an equation resolves itself, and where a human had been stumbling through the drifts a blink ago, there was now a small, dark thing curled low against the snow, feathers driven flat one moment and puffed the next, some instinctive system trying and failing, to gather heat it did not have to spare.
Dottore stopped walking.
His escort nearly collided with his back and had the sense not to ask why.
He watched for a moment, longer than concern would have permitted, longer than urgency would have allowed. Not out of hesitation, hesitation was for people who had not already finished the calculation, but because there was, he found, a certain professional obligation to observe a specimen accurately before disturbing it. THe shift had not looked deliberate. No control in it, just seemed like a survival instinct.
He pondered what he could from his position: the size of the creature, different to any true bird, the way the feathers seemed to belong to it rather than replace something, patterned like an afterthought grafted onto a body that had, moments ago, with two legs. The traits of a hybrid shapeshifter would explain the phenomenon.
He had read reports of such things. He had never had the good fortune of finding one just in front of him.
“How unfortunate,” he said, to no one, and began working toward it.
He crouched, unbothered by the snow soaking into the hem of his coat, and studied it the way he might study anything half-alive and full of questions.
“You’ve made rather a mess of yourself,” he said,
“Tsk, freezing to death mid-transformation. Sloppy. Though I suppose you weren’t given much choice in the matter.”
No response. Only the faint ragged movement of feathers trying, hopelessly, to hold in the warmth that had already mostly gone.
Dottore considered, briefly, the shape of the decision infront of him, not should he, which was never really the question, but was it worth it? A shapeshifter, found alive, however in a critical state, was not the sort of variable one encountered twice. Leaving it here would settle the matter cheaply and immediately. Taking it would cost him time, resources, the responsibility of carrying something half-frozen back to a facility that had better things to process today.
The greater loss, he thought, was letting the data die in the snow.
“Well,” he said, already reaching for it with efficiency, “Let’s see how much of you is left to examine.”
He did not gather it up with his both hands, did not cradle it against his coat the way any human might have. He simply peeled off one glove, slid his bare palm beneath the small, half-frozen crow. It weighed almost nothing. That, too, he noted.
The crow curled instinctively into the warmth of his palm, feathers pressing flat against his skin, too far gone to do anything but accept the heat it was given. He held it there, level and unhurried, one hand outstretched before him as he resumed walking to his laboratory.
The warmth felt nothing like kindness.
__________________________________
Warmth came back before thought did.
You opened your eyes just to see a faint stray of light coming in. It was not sunlight, or fire light. It seemed like a surgical light..?
You tried to sit up and noticed, with a small jolt of alarm, that you could not.
You were, you realized with growing horror, still a crow. Small, black, undignified, nested in what appeared to be. You took a moment to process this, the folded corner of an expensive coat on a table that was absolutely not designed to be a bed.
Shift back, you told yourself, the way you’d told yourself a thousand times before.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, the creaking sound of the white door echoed through the unfamiliar room, with a tall masked man with silver-blue hair entering.
“Ah. Awake.”
The voice sounded entirely too pleased with itself of a sentence with so little content. You went very still, every feather on your small figure rising at once and turned your head toward the source of sound.
He was seated an unhurried distance away, one leg crossed over the other, a notebook balanced against his knee. Red eyes beneath the pointy mask, unreadable, tracked you with the same clinical patience you imagined he might give a slide under a microscope. There was nothing in his expression that resembled relief, or welcome, or anything you might have wanted to see from the person who had dragged your half-frozen body out of the storm.
“Don’t strain yourself trying to change back,” he said, before you’d so much as attempted it again, as though your thoughts were as transparent to him.
“You’ve been at it for the better part of an hour already. Rather embarrassing, watching something struggle.”
You opened your beak, some urge to snap back at him, but produced nothing but a thin croak.
Something in his mouth curved, not quite a smile. “How articulate.”
He placed the notebook aside, and approached the table with slow, deliberate steps, the way one might approach something skittish they had no interest in startling, not out of kindness, you understood immediately, but because startled specimens tended to produce less reliable data.
“You’ll forgive me for skipping the formalities.” he said, leaning down until his shadow fell fully over your small, feathered form. “Names are better exchanged once I’m confident you’ll survive long enough for them to matter, For now-” he reached out, tilting your chin up with one gloved finger, turning your head this way and that. “Let’s see exactly what I’ve brought.”
_________________________________________
The first month, you escaped thirty-seven times.
The first attempt was clumsy. The second, ambitious. By the seventh, you had discovered that the laboratory possessed more hidden corridors than doors, and that the guards, though well-trained, had the unfortunate habit of assuming a crow incapable of understanding architectural layouts.
The thirty-seventh ended much like the first thirty-six.
The laboratory door slid open.
“.....Finished?”
You froze atop a bookshelf
Dottore stood beneath you, a stack of reports tucked between one arm. He sounded neither irritated nor amused. Merely curious. You stared. He stared back.
“Well?”
A long silence. Then, with all the dignity available to an exhausted crow, you fluttered down onto the desk. He made a note.
Escape attempt 37
-subject returned voluntarily.
-reason remains uncertain.
He never once wrote your name. Only Subject, followed by a number that changed less often than you'd have liked. He logged your feeding schedule, your shift frequency, the days you refused to speak in either form. He logged, once, the exact moment you stopped trying to leave, though whatever conclusion he drew from that, he kept entirely to himself.
Months passed. The escapes stopped being counted, mostly because they stopped happening. You learned the rhythm of him the way you'd once learned the ventilation shafts, instinctively, without meaning to, which reports he wanted first, which tools he reached for without looking, until it became easier to simply have things ready than to wait to be asked. "Scalpel," he said one afternoon, and it was already in his hand before the word had finished leaving his mouth. He paused, not gratitude, nothing so generous ever crossed his face around you, turning the instrument over as if it might explain itself, then looked at you the way he looked at anomalies in his data. "You anticipated that." "You always ask for it after the second incision," you told him. He said nothing further, but he watched you a moment longer than the observation strictly required, and something in his expression resembled a man quietly recalculating a variable he'd assumed was fixed.
It was around then that you found the error in his notes, a miscalculated variable buried three pages into a report, easy to miss unless you'd spent months learning the particular shape of his mistakes, which were rare enough to be memorable. You corrected it in the margin, small and unsigned, and braced for nothing to come of it. He said nothing the next morning either. But the notebook started staying open after that, not handed to you, not offered, simply left, angled just slightly toward whichever chair you tended to occupy, as though by accident. It hadn't been. Neither of you said so.
The first mission came without much ceremony. "You're coming with me," he said, already halfway out the door, and when you asked why, he told you he needed a pair of hands that wouldn't faint at the sight of exposed viscera, and that you were, unfortunately, the only candidate who met that bar reliably. That was the reason he gave. You didn't ask for another, you understood by then that whatever this had become would always be filed under usefulness in his ledger, never anything softer. You went anyway.
Somewhere in the months that followed, without ceremony or announcement, the notebook changed. You noticed it by accident, glancing at a page left open longer than usual, an entry dense with clinical shorthand, except for one line near the bottom, where Subject C-17 had quietly become your name instead. No footnote. No explanation. As if the correction had simply always been there and you were the one behind on the update. You said nothing. He never brought it up. But you found yourself rereading that single line more times than the occasion warranted, and somewhere beneath the part of you that still remembered thirty-seven escape attempts, something settled that hadn't settled in a very long while.
It was Pantalone who noticed first, out loud. "You still have the crow?" he asked lightly, glancing your way like a curiosity left over from some indulgent phase of Dottore's research, which, to be fair, was exactly how you'd started. Dottore didn't look up from his notes. "She's assisting with the project." "Interesting," Pantalone said, in the tone of a man filing something away for later amusement. Dottore didn't understand why that was amusing. Watching from the corner of the room, you thought you might.
After that, he stopped leaving you behind for meetings he once wouldn't have dreamed of bringing an assistant to. You attended in your smaller form, perched on his shoulder like an afterthought he'd forgotten to correct, silent through hours of politics you had no formal right to witness. He never announced why. When Sandrone glanced pointedly at you during the third such meeting, he only said, without looking up from his notes, that you were quieter than most of the room and considerably more useful, which ended the conversation, though not the glances.
The Harbingers, to their credit, adjusted quickly. Arlecchino barely acknowledged you at all, treating your presence the way she treated most things beneath her direct concern, noted, filed, dismissed. Scaramouche found you endlessly, openly funny, and made no effort to hide it.
"The Doctor's got a pet now," he said once, loud enough to carry across the table, "how domestic." Dottore didn't dignify it with a response, though you felt his shoulder tense fractionally beneath you, which you decided to count as a victory. Childe, for his part, seemed genuinely delighted by you in a way that made Dottore visibly suspicious of his motives, and took to greeting you by name, your name, not Subject, not the crow, every time you entered a room, as though testing to see whether Dottore would correct him. He never did.
It was Pantalone who pressed hardest, and always with that same unbothered smile. "Does it understand what we discuss," he asked once, mid-meeting, tone light enough to pass for idle curiosity, "or is it merely decorative?" "She understands considerably more than most people at this table," Dottore replied, flatly, already returning to his notes, "which I'd have thought was self-evident by now." A small silence followed. Pantalone's smile didn't falter, but something behind it recalculated. You stayed very still on Dottore's shoulder and said nothing, because saying nothing had always been safer, and because some small, traitorous part of you had liked the way he'd answered, quick, unthinking, almost defensive, in a way that a purely clinical arrangement had no real reason to be.
He never seemed to notice he'd done it. You noticed enough for both of you.
It started as research. He arrived one afternoon with a small dish of mixed nuts set beside his usual instruments, informing you, without a trace of irony that he intended to observe whether corvid dietary preference persisted across your forms. You indulged him, mostly out of curiosity about what he'd do with the data. He recorded which ones you picked first, which you ignored, which you cracked open yourself versus which you left for him to shell, and none of it, as far as you could tell, ever made it into any report that mattered. The "study" simply never concluded. Weeks became months, and the dish kept appearing, always with slightly more of whatever you'd reached for first the time before, and slightly less of what you'd left untouched. He never once admitted the experiment had ended. You never pointed out that it clearly had.
Around the same time, he began noticing the other habit, the one you were less inclined to explain. A stray bit of foil, a polished button, the glass stopper from an old vial, all of it accumulating in some corner of your quarters that you told yourself was simply organized, not hoarded. He found the collection by accident and said nothing cruel about it, which surprised you more than mockery would have. He only made a note :specimen retains magpie-adjacent fixation on reflective objects, function unclear, possibly ornamental.
Except the notebook was lying, a little. Because not long after, small things started appearing in places you hadn't put them. A smooth, dark stone, catching the light strangely. A fragment of mirrored glass, sanded soft at the edges so it wouldn't cut. None of it explained, none of it acknowledged, all of it simply present the next time you looked. You started leaving things back, without meaning to at first,a curled wire twisted into some rough, deliberate shape, a coin from some country neither of you had been to. He never commented on those either. You both understood, by then, exactly what the exchange was, and exactly why neither of you would be the one to name it first.
The trouble started with Childe.
He asked casually enough needed an extra set of hands for a task in Liyue, something involving negotiations that required more finesse than force, and you, in his words, had "a good read on people, for a bird." Dottore didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was with the same flat, procedural tone he used for everything. "She's occupied with my research. Find someone else."
"She's not a piece of lab equipment, Doctor," Childe said, grinning in a way that suggested he knew exactly what nerve he was testing. "Let her answer for herself."
You opened your mouth. Dottore spoke first.
"She doesn't need to. I've already answered."
The room went quiet in the particular way it did whenever he said something that revealed more than he meant it to. Pantalone, watching from across the table, said nothing at all, which was somehow worse than if he had. Childe raised both hands in mock surrender and let it go, but not without one last look your way, amused, calculating, filing the reaction away for later the same way Pantalone had.
Dottore didn't look at you for the rest of the meeting. You noticed his hand had settled, at some point, on the back of your chair not touching you, not quite, but closer than procedure required, and it stayed there long after any reasonable justification for it had run out. When you finally caught his eye, he looked, for just a moment, faintly annoyed not at Childe, not at you, but at himself, at the shape of whatever he'd just let slip in front of a room full of people who'd remember it.
He didn't explain himself later. He never did. But that night the dish of nuts appeared again, unprompted, with exactly the kind you liked best already sorted to the top, and neither of you said a single word about what that meant.
The order came directly from the Tsaritsa, which meant there was no version of refusal available to him. You were to accompany Sandrone to Sumeru, to retrieve something the Akademiya had buried deep enough that a subtler pair of hands was required than his usual methods allowed and subtlety, everyone at the table seemed to silently agree, was not among Dottore's more reliable qualities.
He didn't argue. Arguing with a direct order from her was not a mistake he'd ever make twice. But you caught the stillness that settled over him when the assignment was read aloud the same stillness you'd learned, by now, meant something was being suppressed rather than simply absent.
"Two weeks," Sandrone said mildly, already gathering his notes. "Perhaps three."
"I'm aware of the estimated timeline," Dottore said, in a tone flat enough to cut. He didn't look at you. You didn't need him to.
That night, before you left, he said almost nothing useful a list of standard precautions, a reminder to report any anomalous data, nothing that acknowledged what the separation actually was. But he pressed something small into your palm before you go, wordlessly, without ceremony: not a farewell, not affection, just a habit he seemed to need to complete before he could let you leave his sight, and you understood, without either of you saying it, that this was as close to be careful as he was ever going to get.
Sumeru was strange in a way you hadn't expected not the climate, which was gentler than Snezhnaya in every conceivable way, but the sense of walking through a place that had shaped someone you knew without ever having said so. You found yourself noticing things you had no real reason to notice. A particular shade of sandstone. The layout of old Akademiya corridors, half-reclaimed by the forest, that felt, absurdly, like the kind of place a much younger, much angrier version of him might have once walked through unnoticed.
You found the trinket in an abandoned research annex. Sandrone had no interest in a small brass instrument, delicate and old, some kind of measuring device whose function you couldn't fully place, etched with faded Sumeru script along its edge. It caught the light in a way that made your fingers itch before you'd even decided to pick it up. You told yourself it was simply a habit. You didn't entirely believe it.
You didn't decide to bring it back for him until you were already halfway home.
Sandrone noticed, of course. She noticed everything, in that quiet, clinical way of hers that made you suspect she filed people the same way Dottore filed data. She watched you turn the little brass instrument over in your hands more than once during the return trip, watched you wrap it carefully before you'd even reached the border, and said nothing about it until you were both standing in the doorway of his study, waiting to be acknowledged.
"How curious," she said, not quite looking at you, not quite looking at him. "Y/N randomly picked up some old, forgotten thing in the middle of an assignment." A pause, deliberate. "It's rather surprising she wanted to gift it to you, out of all people. How strange."
There was no warmth in it. You'd gathered by then that there rarely was, where Dottore was concerned whatever history sat between them, it clearly hadn't left room for particular fondness. Dottore didn't rise to it. He rarely did, with her.
"Was there a report to file, or did you simply come to observe," he said, without looking up from his notes, "because I don't recall requesting commentary on either."
Sandrone's mouth curved, thin and unbothered. "No report worth mentioning. The mission was uneventful." Her gaze slid to you, briefly, unreadable. "Mostly."
She left without waiting for a response, the door falling shut behind her with a quiet, unhurried click, and it was only once her footsteps had faded down the corridor that the room settled.
He was waiting when you returned, not visibly, not obviously, He didn't ask about the mission first. He asked, instead, with a carefully measured indifference that didn't fool you in the slightest, whether Sumeru had been "tolerable."
You held out the instrument instead of answering.
He went very still.
He took it slowly, turning it over in his hands the way he examined everything, clinically, at first, cataloguing its make, its age, the faded scriptwork along the edge until his thumb found a small, worn inscription near the base, and something in his expression shifted into territory you'd never once seen it occupy. Not detachment. Not amusement. Something quieter, and much harder for him to hold steady.
"Where did you find this," he said. It wasn't quite a question.
"An old annex. It looked forgotten." You hesitated. "I thought-" you stopped yourself, unsure, suddenly, how much of the truth you were willing to hand him along with the object. "I thought it might mean something. To you."
He didn't answer right away. He was still looking at the inscription, thumb tracing it once more as though checking it hadn't changed since the first pass, and when he finally looked up at you, the distance he usually kept so carefully maintained between observation and feeling had, for once, entirely failed to hold.
"It does," he said, quietly, and offered nothing further to explain it no clinical justification, no rationalization dressed as data, nothing to file this under but exactly what it was.
For the first time since the snow, he reached for you the way you'd once reached for shiny, precious things without meaning to not out of usefulness, not out of ownership, but because some part of him had apparently decided, somewhere between the storm and this moment, that he wanted to.
The mission after that one went wrong in a way none of you had accounted for.
It wasn't catastrophic, you'd walk away from it, you knew that much even as it was happening, but a blade caught you across the ribs before you could shift clear, and by the time you made it back to the lab, your human form was shaking too hard to be useful and your crow form wasn't an option, not with a wound that size. You didn't remember much of the walk back. You remembered his hands.
He didn't send for anyone else. That, more than anything, told you how seriously he was taking it. Dottore, who delegated everything that didn't personally interest him, doing the cleaning and stitching himself, sleeves pushed back, face unreadable in the particular way it went when he needed complete focus. His hands were steady at first, clinical, exactly as precise as you'd expect from a man who'd done far worse to far less willing patients. He didn't speak much. He didn't need to; the quiet was its own kind of attention, the sort he rarely gave anything that wasn't a problem worth solving.
Somewhere in the middle of it, though, cleaning a cut that had already stopped bleeding, checking a bandage that didn't need checking again, his hands stopped being quite so steady.
You noticed before he did, or maybe he noticed and simply didn't stop. His fingers lingered at the edge of the bandage a beat too long, tracing skin that had nothing left to examine, and when you looked up at him, he wasn't looking at the wound anymore.
"You should rest," he said, low, though he made no move to step back.
"You're not moving," you pointed out.
Something flickered behind his eyes, irritation, maybe, at being caught, or at himself, for the same reason as always. "I'm making sure the wound is properly closed."
"It's already closed."
He didn't have an answer for that. For the first time since you'd known him, he didn't reach for one.
You could have let the silence hold. You didn't.
The surgical lamp hummed, a steady, droning vibration that echoed the throb in your ribs. The world tasted of copper and sterile alcohol. Everything felt distant, as if the room were viewed through a thick sheet of frosted glass. The anesthesia clung to your mind like wet wool, heavy and suffocating, turning your thoughts into slow, drifting clouds.
Dottore leaned into your line of sight. His mask caught the harsh white light, splitting his face into a void of porcelain and shadow. He didn't move. He simply watched, his gaze tracing the rise and fall of your chest with the precision of a clockmaker.
"Can you hear me?"
The words sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a well. You tried to nod, but your neck felt like it belonged to someone else. A small, broken sound escaped her throat.
"Focus. I need to know the level of cognitive impairment remaining."
He reached out, his gloved fingers pressing firmly against your cheeks. The coldness of the latex was a shock, a sharp needle of reality piercing through the fog. He shifted, his weight leaning over you, the scent of ozone and expensive chemicals enveloping her.
"You're drifting," he noted. His voice had lost its clinical edge, it had dipped into something lower, a resonant vibration that seemed to hum against your skin. "The sedative is still saturated in your bloodstream. Your heart rate is elevated. Interesting."
You blinked, your eyelashes heavy. You tried to lift a hand to push him back, but your arm felt like lead, flopping uselessly against the metal table.
"I... can't..."
"I know you can't."
He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand slid down, tracing the line of your jaw, then dipping lower to the edge of the bandages wrapping your torso. He didn't touch the wound, but his fingers lingered on the healthy skin just beside it.
"You were reckless," he murmured. "A lapse in judgment. A variable I hadn't accounted for."
"Did I... fix it?"
"The wound is closed. The internal bleeding stopped. You are, physically, a success."
He paused. The silence in the lab grew heavy, thick with a tension that felt different from the sterile atmosphere of the surgery. Dottore’s breathing shifted, becoming rhythmic and shallow. He moved his hand, sliding it beneath the hem of the thin hospital gown, his palm flat against the warmth of her stomach.
You shivered. The sensation was magnified by the drugs, every touch feeling like a lightning strike across a numb landscape. You tried to speak, to ask what he was doing, but the words dissolved into a hazy sigh.
"Your skin is flushed," Dottore whispered, his face inches from hers. "A systemic reaction to the trauma, or perhaps a response to the stimulus. I find myself wondering which."
"Dottore... stop..."
"Hm, should I?"
He didn't stop. He shifted his position, stepping between your sprawled legs, the heavy fabric of his coat brushing against your thighs. The movement was deliberate, devoid of the usual clinical haste. He looked at you really looked at you, not as a specimen or an assistant, but as something he intended to consume.
"You've spent months learning my rhythms, y/n. You've corrected my notes. You've anticipated my needs."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The heat of his breath contrasted sharply with the chill of the room.
"Now, I want to see how you react to a variable you cannot anticipate."
His hand moved higher, his fingers grazing the underside of your breast. You gasped, your back arching instinctively. The anesthesia made the pleasure feel distorted, an overwhelming wave that crashed over you without warning, stripping away your ability to resist. You felt the world tilt, the white ceiling spinning as he captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperation and dominance, blowing your mind away.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. He tasted of iron and obsession.
Dottore pulled back just enough to look into your glazed eyes. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the red of his irises.
"Tell me you want this," he commanded. "Fight through the fog. Give me a conscious response." He was completely aware that you did not have the strength to protest.
You struggled. You wanted to say no, to reclaim the boundary he was systematically erasing. However, your body was screaming for something else, your hole clenching around nothing and your mind going more cloudy not because of the anesthesia, but the intimacy you are in. The warmth of him was the only thing keeping the cold of the lab at bay. The bond you guys had built, the shared silences, the hidden gifts, the unspoken trust, warped under the pressure of the moment. Your hand, trembling and weak, managed to clutch at the lapel of his coat, pulling him closer.
"Please..."
"Please what?"
"Just... don't leave."
A dark, triumphant sound vibrated in his chest. He stripped away the remaining barriers of cloth with a sudden, violent efficiency. The air hit her skin, cold and biting, before he replaced it with the crushing weight of his body.
He did not waste time entertaining you with his tip, and pushed his length all the way inside you.
You cried out, the sound echoing off the walls. It was too much, the pain in your ribs, the haze in your mind, and the sudden, invasive fullness of him. He froze for a second, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against yours.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes-..," you whispered, your voice so vulnerable, near to crying.
"Good."
He began to move, a steady, punishing rhythm that mirrored the precision of his research. Each thrust was a calculation, designed to elicit a specific response. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flicker of pleasure and pain, as if he were recording the data in real-time.
"Your pupils are dilating. Your respiration is erratic."
He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, bruising the pale flesh. He wasn't being careful anymore. The mask of the Doctor had slipped, leaving behind a man driven by a hunger that no amount of knowledge could satisfy.
"You are the only thing in this facility that doesn't bore me," he groaned, his voice breaking for the first time. "The only variable that refuses to be solved."
As you parted your lips to gasp for air, he captured them with his, giving you no room to breathe. It was messy and almost like a predator devouring its prey.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The fog in her mind began to clear, replaced by a strong desire for release. You could feel the friction, the heat, the way your breaths mingled in the chilled air. You stopped being a subject. You stopped being an assistant. In the wreckage of the moment, you were simply two broken things colliding in the dark.
“Ngh- Doctor I-..!”
Dottore gently wiped the single tear trailing down your cheek and arranged your strands of hair.
“Shh.. Not yet. You can hold it in for a bit, can't you?”
After few moments, the doctor's movements accelerated vigorously, hinting an immediate need for orgasm.
“Come for me,” he groaned in the crook of your neck as he slapped into you faster. “I- I’m close.”
As the climax hit, it felt like a physical blow. You clung to him, your nails scratching into his back, your world narrowing down to the point where your bodies met. Dottore let out a low, guttural sound, his body shuddering as he collapsed against you, his weight pinning you to the table.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the surgical lamp and their ragged, synchronized breathing.
Dottore eventually shifted, pulling away slowly. He didn't offer a hand to help you up, nor did he apologize. He stood and began to dress, his movements returning to their usual, effortless composure. He reached for his mask, sliding it back into place, the porcelain void returning to hide his expression.
He looked down at you, lying breathless and shattered on the metal table.
"The recovery period will now be extended," he said, his voice once again flat and clinical. "I'll need to monitor the effects of the physical exertion on your sutures."
You watched him, her chest heaving. The haze was gone, and in its place was a terrifyingly clear understanding of what you were to each other.
"Was that part of the research?" You asked, your voice raw.
Dottore paused at the door, his silhouette sharp against the hall light as he looked back to you over his shoulders.
"No," he replied. "That was for me."
The door slid shut with a quiet, unhurried click, leaving you alone in the silence of the laboratory.
After the death of Zandik on his 85 birthday, his other segments dissecting him at the laboratory as you and Pantalone standing at the entrance like a ghost while holding a cake and several gifts as all of you maintaining eye contact with the segments before Pantalone grabs your wrist to retreat back into his office.
You quite shocked at the scenery earlier before placed a cake on the desk silently, didn’t try to communicate or glance with Pantalone who’s sitting at his seat while staring lovely at you, as he rest his chin on his knuckle.
“You shouldn’t went hard on yourself” he softly remind.
“Shouldn’t? I haven’t talk with him since this morning!” You stare at the cake you’ve made since 7 in the morning.
Pantalone only sighs, doesn’t know how to comfort you. Before he speaks, you already walk out of the office only stopped by Dottore as he opens the door. You ignore his presence and bump into his shoulder, leaving them both behind. Dottore close the door as his eyes wander to the cake you’ve made.
'Happy Birthday Zandik Meri Jaan!!'
Dottore eyes still lingers on that cake knowing why you choose to ignore him just now. Hurt, betrayal, sorrow and rumination are what he sees on your expressions as he sits before he speaks.
“I will return to Sumeru for a while, please look after her while I’m away, Feofan” he smile, he takes the cake with him and depart. Meanwhile, Feofan was just like you devastating by the passing of his close friend as he rubbing his eyes before continues doing his work to forget of what today’s drama.
You on the hand secretly takes one of the Zandik’s belonging as the laboratory were empty before searching for any note pieces left on cabinet, shelves or desk, something caught your eyes as a small note left on the desk, you grab it immediately as you crumble the paper, put into your pocket. Suddenly, both hands lean on the desk on the side of your hips, caging you before he speaks.
“Try to steal something?” you felt his breath on your neck before stepping aside to fill the gap yet he stopped you with his strong grips on your upper limp, then he hugged you, you attempt to fight back yet surrender as you cried against his embrace instead.
“This is your all fault Dottore, I couldn’t have a word with him-”
“This is also your fault, you should visited him as well in the first place. Don’t put the blame on me hence both of us are the wrong here” he’s right, you’re supposed to visit Zandik in the very beginning since he’s old. You hardly weep now, his big palm covers your mouth while another hand pets your head to keep you calm.
“I’ll return to Sumeru for awhile, please take care of yourself and Feofan will be there for you.” he almost kiss your forehead but remembered you don’t like being kissed as he clears his troat, you nodded at his commands even though you’re the 10th Harbinger yourself. He departed from the laboratory as you continue weeps alone inside.
It’s been 8 months after the death of Zandik, you always visited his small grave that you made that’s faraway from the Headquarters since other harbingers refused to make one for him, you heard a footsteps without looking.
“Ma’am, it’s almost dawn time we should return to headquarters” one of your assistant reminded you, you do what he says as you take few glances at the grave then departing.
The quite atmosphere fills the train as you proceeds to take a seat with one of your assistant, he then gave you a hot chocolate with a waffle.
“You should eat ma’am, all of the reinforcements were worried about you, even Lord Regrator.” he bows at you.
You did what he told you, you barely talk among with your colleagues and right now you’re losing a lot of weight after Zandik’s gone. You mourned, grieved even regretted everyday for him.
As you arrived at the headquarters, you saw Columbina at the hallway, she greets you happily as she drags you to Sandrone’s tea party. Sandrone, Arlecchino, Capitano and Tartaglia are shocked to see you in these conditions, you only give them a small smile before taking a sip of the tea Sandrone offer you.
“Did you.. losing some weight?” Arlecchino interrupted first without looking.
“It’s nothing serious Snezhevna, I’m always like this” you play with the tea cup.
“What do you mean ‘nothing serious!?’ you look horrible!” Sandrone snaps.
“Marionette!” Capitano and Tartaglia try to hush her. Meanwhile Columbina feeds you with her food, you almost refused however you can feel the intense stares from the other four harbingers in front of you in your peripheral visions so you munch on the food as you smiles and thanking Columbina.
“Next time, if you ever think of isolating yourself from all of us at least have a meal, don’t ever starve yourself here in Snezhnaya..” Sandrone’s mad at you even though she prepared all the meals in front of you, you smiles as you thanking her.
“Humph! tomorrow there’s an opera so you’ll be sitting besides me, understood?” she talks to you without looking as she gave you a ticket.
Hours have passed, you go inside your office as you noticed a massive bouquet of roses and several gifts. Curiosity kills the cat, you wondered who managed to do all of this. Then, a note captured your visions.
‘Heard from your assistant you barely eat and communicate with any of the colleague? If you happens to see any of this please come to my office dear’
- Feofan S. Veksel
Your eyes wide open at the names before you rushed into his office.
“Feofan-”
He glanced at you as one of his people kissed his gloved hand,a gesture of a diplomatic and genuine deep respect before he waves at you. He looked exhausted as he force a smile. Both of you only stare at each other before he rise from his seats even approached you.
“You.. looked pale dear” he scans your features as he caressed softly.
You melts then proceeds rubbing your left cheek into his gloved hand.
“Apologizes for making you worried Feo, just needed a cold embrace-” you quietly sobs before he wipes your tears.
“I know you missed him dearly, however please don’t do it like that” he plays with your hair.
Then, suddenly a figure steps in without saying a word as Pantalone keeps eye-ing at you knowing the person who enters his office.
“I can’t help it, I just want Zandik he’s the only guy I ever feel comfortable with, I hate Dottore Feofan you couldn’t just stopped me, I want to rant to someone but no one’s here for me” you hardly weeps again before he cups your face to wipe.
“You have me dear, I’ll listen to every-”
“NO!, shut up, you won’t listen a word to me” you try to get off him but he still cupping your face, smiling like an evil person before he kiss you to calm you down. However, that didn’t calm you down you pulled away from the kiss and slap him. Pantalone shocked at the actions before rubs his cheek.
“You slapped me? Why?” he raised both his eyebrows seriously
“I told you, if I ever want to rant you always excused yourself with works or even funding Dottore’s new experiments. If you really that overworked and doesn’t have time with me, I could just rants to Capitano or Tartaglia.” you said with displeasure.
“Dear, I’ll try to make time-”
“No, shut the hell up and I’m leaving”
As you turned around, you realize he was listened everything to you and Pantalone’s conversations. Your face turned pale real quick as you stepping backwards only to be stepped on Pantalone’s feet. Dottore smirks at your retreating before approach you as he leaned down to your level.
"Since when did you came-" he interrupted you
“Feisty” he ignored your question and bring his hand to your cheek as you glanced on the ground trembling.
“You seems pretty confident just now why silent?” Dottore smile widely.
“Maybe we should do something to punish her for talking bad things about you Dottore” Pantalone chuckle.
“I agree with it, I have a lot of sharp tools inside my laboratory”
Dottore and Pantalone are sniggering together to the point you’re all sweaty now and regretting of what you said earlier. You’re hoping ‘Dottore’ wouldn’t experimenting on you.
credit: all in pinterest¡
a/n: this is my own works, and i didn’t plagiarize from other author’s work. do not rewrite.
Short Idea. Platonic! Yandere! Harbingers x GN! Adult! Low-Rank Fatui! Reader x Platonic! Yandere! Tsaritsa
Warning: Platonic Cuddles, platonic sleeping in one bed. A very strange idea.
______________
You were nothing special. Just a low-rank Fatui. Not even a full soldier, you were just a guard in Zapolarny Palace, and, from time to time, doing odd jobs. A glorified servant, as you often mentally joke. But pay was good enough, food was fine, you have your own room.
Then one night you wake up, because someone lay down next to you, and start spooning you. You looked back, seeing Lord Tartaglia. Harbinger looked exhausted, and already out cold. You recalled, that last few days were pretty hard for Harbingers. It seems, he either mistook your room for his, or thought yours were an empty guest room.
After some thinking, you decided just let him sleep. He wasn't hurting you, and, besides, guards might see him leaving, and neither him or you need rumours and speculations about your supposed relationship.
You woke up alone. The same day you receive a gift bucket full of pastries and an apology note for getting into your personal room and space from Childe.
It would stay just a silly little memory. But in a few days, right before you went to bed, Childe knocked on your door. He, once again, looked exhausted. He asked you... to let him cuddle you again tonight. Because last time he had the best sleep in lat few months. He was tired, he wanted some calm. But he will leave, if you don't want it.
You let him cuddle with you again. It was a strange request, but it was harmless.
"Childe's Cuddle time" became somewhat of a norm. Tartaglia visited you few times a month. He even starts to bring tea and snacks, so you two can talk before cuddling. You learnt about his family, about his protectivness of children, his hobbies. You also shared some information about you with him. You listen to his troubles, offered some worlds of encouragement.
Then one night, Childe appeared in your room with company. Signora was with him, and he looked guilty. Apperently, other Harbingers noticed, that he looked more well rested, than the rest of them, so they pressed Childe for answers really hard. In his defence, he wasn't planning on telling about you, but when his colleagues' guesses became "deranged", he felt the need to protect your honour.
So... Signora wanted to try this "magical cuddles" for herself. And, once again, you could say 'no'.
But you said 'yes'. She looked as bad, as Childe before the whole cuddling situation.
So, yes, you spend the night being a cuddle pillow for Signora.
Now, there also was "Signora's Cuddle time". And, she also start bringing treats, so you two can talk over tea before cuddling.
Now two Harbingers looked well-rested, because of cuddling with you.
It means, more will come.
Next time, you were visited by Sandrone. She brought the whole tea set and enough food to feed a small army. You listen to her troubles. She has to lay on you, but, still, you two cuddled.
Now, you have three harbingers visiting your room for company and cuddles.
Then, three became four. You sure, that Columbina just wanted to know, what the whole deal was, but, she visited you quite often. She also was quite a clingy cuddler. She also decided to use Sandrone's tea parties as your and her "pre-cuddling bonding time". Parties, that, on top of Childe, Signora and Sandrone were visited by Arlechinno and Capitano.
Soon you get two more cuddlers.
Arlechinno put more emphasis on pre-cuddling. She shared her troubles with House of Hearth kids. She liked hearing your thoughts on the matter. But, despite the emphasis, she always stay to cuddle.
Capitano didn't sleep, but he found some solace in your heartbeat and breathing.
The rest of Harbingers soon joined the line.
Pulcinella was the only one, who didn't cuddle. But he hugged, and spent hours talking with you.
Pantalone was the first one, who took you on a walk as part of "pre-cuddling bonding". And he was another clingy cuddler.
Dottore treated it as experiment. You guess. He wanted to test, how playing with hair, tracing lines and positive affirmations affect the efficiency of cuddling. Or, maybe, he wanted more, than just a hug, but didn't know how to ask. Oh, and he was the small spoon.
Pierro talked. A lot. About past, about future, about current. He also likes spooning.
Surprisingly, Pierro wasn't the last one to join this little activity. It was Scaramouche. Balladeer during cuddling actually reminded you of a cat, who clearly wanted pets, but acted not-interested and offended.
You acsepted cuddler Harbingers. Then, one night, Tsaritsa herself appeared on your doorstep. With cake. And quietly asking for cuddles.
---------
For you, the whole ordeal was just a strange but harmless thing.
For Harbingers and Tsaritsa it was one of the only beacons of warmth and acceptance in this world.
They liked you. Not romantically, platonically. You were not just a close friend, but someone who understand them, and who let them be vulnerable.
But their love, while platonic, was obsessive.
You make them happy, so they will make you happy.
Childe dealt with soldiers, who were treating you badly.
Signora silenced servants, who slacked off while cleaning your living quarters.
Sandrone sent adventures that were laughing at you to do the high risks commissions.
Columbina scared the living lights out of civilians, who were biased towards you because you were a Fatui.
Arlechinno tracked down your bullies from school and dealt with them.
Capitano broke bones of high-rank officers, who were planning on dumping all their work on you.
Pulcinella destroyed reporters, who caught a wind about you and Harbingers and were planning to write a slandering article.
Pantalone bankrupt multiple salespersons who sold you less than perfect goods.
Relatives, that wanted to leech on you, disappeared forever in Dottore's lab.
Pierro arranged for your parents a good wealthy life in any nation they wanted. Just, not in Snezhnaya...
Scaramouche will assist in lightly pushing your parents to move away.
And Tsaritsa will make sure, that you will have every reason to stay in Snezhnaya. Stay in Zapolarny Palace, where she and her harbingers will keep you safe and happy.
Here we are again this time with our lovely Dottore! I noticed there seem to be a lot of people who like him (including myself) so this was a must! If you enjoy this and/or want to see other characters check out the Masterlist or/and write a comment or request for a character and I will be happy to do them!^^ Again the inspiration and the picture was from @devotion-disorder so check them out!!! Have fun^^
Masterlist
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The sterile walls of the lab seemed colder than usual. At first, Il Dottore—the infamous Harbinger—was amused. His sharp gaze scanned the room filled with photos plastered from wall to wall. Dozens of them. Every picture contained your smiling face, radiating warmth and joy.
It wasn’t unusual for Dottore to obsess over things that intrigued him—and you were one of them. But then his expression stiffened. You weren’t alone in these photos. Another figure stood beside you in each one, arms draped over your shoulder, fingers intertwined with yours. They smiled down at you like they owned you.
The corners of Dottore’s mouth twitched as irritation boiled beneath his skin.
How interesting… What kind of experiment is this?
5 Minutes in:
He stood there, silent, his gaze dragging across each photo in unnerving detail. At first, he tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his red, glinting eyes.
“Hm… Strange,” he muttered. “How perfectly inconvenient.”
Dottore chuckled, a sound both sharp and dangerous. “A foolish attempt to get under my skin, is that it? How quaint.” He tapped his gloved finger against his chin, observing the way your head leaned against the stranger’s shoulder in one image, your hand caught in theirs in another.
“Sloppy work… But I can’t deny, it’s convincing.” His voice dropped to a whisper, a smile still gracing his face. “I wonder if you’d let them touch you like this.”
The mask of indifference cracked for just a moment as something vile flickered in his gaze—something possessive.
1 Hour in:
He was still standing in the same spot, staring at the photos with an unsettling intensity. The small grin on his lips had twisted into a sneer.
“Did you think you could run from me?” His voice dripped with venom, though he directed it more toward the photos than you.
He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers impatiently against his bicep. “These are fake… They must be. You wouldn’t betray me. Not after everything.”
His heart pounded beneath the cold exterior, irritation morphing into something more dangerous—doubt. And he hated it.
Dottore pulled one of the photos off the wall, his hands tightening until the paper crumpled under his grasp. Why does it bother me? Why does this stranger in the photo seem more real with each passing second?
A low, bitter chuckle escaped him. “What a fascinating experiment,” he muttered to himself, though his eyes betrayed his growing frustration. “I wonder… how much longer until I break?”
3 Hours in:
Dottore’s breathing was uneven now, each exhale coming in short bursts.
The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls closing in as his mind spiraled. His hands tugged at the mask over his face, as if trying to stop the intrusive thoughts that gnawed at him. He muttered your name under his breath—again and again—like a mantra to keep himself sane.
“It isn’t real,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “It can’t be. You would never leave me… You wouldn’t.”
He dragged his gloved hands down his face, nails biting into his skin through the material. His grin was wide, teeth bared like a wolf, but his eyes were wild—unfocused.
“And if it were real…” His voice dipped into a low, dangerous hum. “Then I’ll simply… correct it. Remove the imperfection. Yes… I could fix it.”
He laughed quietly, the sound brittle and laced with mania. He would find a way to erase whoever thought they could take you from him. He was the only one worthy of having you. Not them.
Never them.
6+ Hours in:
By now, the Dottore standing in that room was a different creature entirely.
He sat in the corner, legs sprawled out as he gazed at the photos on the walls, his mask lying discarded beside him. His grin stretched too wide, teeth gleaming beneath the dim light, and his red eyes shimmered with twisted delight.
“It’s not real…” he whispered, as if trying to convince himself. “Not real. Not real. Not real.”
But even if it was a lie, Dottore didn’t care anymore. His obsession had consumed him whole, leaving no room for rational thought. He pressed a hand to one of the photos, tracing your image with unsettling tenderness.
“Mine,” he murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. “You are mine. You’ve always been mine.” His words felt like a promise—and a threat.
He sat still for a moment longer, before his smile widened. “Ah… but I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
He stood abruptly, brushing off his coat with a calmness that didn’t match the crazed look in his eyes. “We’ll have to fix this. You won’t need them when you have me.”
He tilted his head, as if imagining your face when you saw him next—saw the mess he would make to bring you back to his side. “I’ll erase this blemish… and you’ll love me. Like you always should have.”
The Aftermath:
When the door to the room finally creaked open, you barely had a second to react.
Dottore was on you instantly, his gloved hands grasping your arms with a firm but oddly gentle grip. His eyes shimmered with a mixture of glee and relief, the madness beneath them bubbling just below the surface.
“Ah, there you are,” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “I knew you’d come back to me.” He pressed closer, ignoring the way your body stiffened under his touch.
Before you could say a word, his hands moved to cup your face, his smile a cruel mockery of affection. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Those photos… they don’t mean anything. They were a mistake—an… illusion.”
His laugh was soft, but it held an edge sharp enough to cut. “You won’t need anyone else. Not anymore.”
And in that moment, you realized just how deeply you had fallen into Dottore’s web.
There was no escape from him now—no way to free yourself from the twisted obsession that bound you to him. Because in his mind, you were his.
hiii! i saw you post about writing for yan!genshin too! which yandere genshin characters do you think would be the most/least toxic and why? sorry if this is too much to ask!!! :)
realistically, since we’re talking yanderes, all of them ARE toxic. no one’s healthy, just purely neurotic. regardless, this is a nice think piece and also took me a really long time to work through (had to catch up on some ingame lore). not every single character is mentioned, only characters that first appeared in my head when i started drafting :]!!! ps ill go back to answering alphabet requests shortly!
tw/cw: typical yandere behavior; unhealthy relationship dynamic; SFW; reader is gn
Dottore - He’s cruel, selfish, licentious, and arrogant. People say he’s apathetic, but only mostly. Dottore knows emotions and exhibits a good level of emotional awareness, but completely disregards them because he thinks emotions would only hinder intellectual progress—very important progress—and further simple-minded fluff. It’d only be a waste to bind yourself to such human constraints; what a finicky thing it is to be a human. That’s why he must split himself into multiple segments. That’s why he cares naught for others’ considerations, all for the sake of his pursuits. Dottore thinks that much of himself, above everyone else, because boundaries do not exist for a man of his caliber.
But ultimately his attitude stems from his deepest insecurities, his doubts, his fears, his vindications—his resentments. He says he is better than everyone, but he’s quick to let bitterness take over when Scaramouche is accepted by human society, because, deep down, he wanted that. It’s not fair, isn’t it? The pitchforks, the fires, the fear, the hatred, the social isolation—why Scaramouche and not him? Is he not good enough? Was he just meant to be, destined always to be the monster? Is he not brilliant? Is he not a genius meant to shepherd? What is his worth?
As your lover, Dottore presses onto you with an outwardly air of confidence and superiority. You will cower in inevitable fear beneath him, and it makes him all the more self-important. But there are frays at the seams, and because of his personal experiences with ostracism, there’s a certain fear that strikes him—not wanting to admit it, but he doesn’t want to lose you. So far, he’s detached himself from everything; his hometown had proved to him that only doing so would hurt you. But with you, there’s a difference—you are “his” to own. His object, his thing. Dottore gets to have you, gets to keep you, gets to do whatever he pleases to do with you, and you shall have no chance to push him away.
All that anger he holds onto, balls into a tightly held grip against your wrist, pulling you back towards him if you even dare to walk out on him. And just as with any procedure, things must be fixed, no? Dottore is not above “bettering” you; a surgically severed tendon, a broken limb—who even needs legs anyway—temporary blindness, induced amnesia, comas—a lobotomy will
surely do the trick to pacify your darling. You’re a guinea pig for his screwed-up attempts at love.
You have no autonomy, no identity, and you must be quick to fixate yourself around Dottore because he is all that matters. And if you ever make him feel like Zandik all those years ago, he’ll sabotage everything that is ever good for you, strip you down until you’re nothing, but wholly his. And if you dare to speak back, Dottore will smile at you: It won’t be long before they push you away as well, and you’ll come crawling back to me. It happened to him; he expects it to happen to you too. There’s still that childish part of him that believes in the worst outcome no matter what. He’s saving you, can’t you see that? Dottore will only be the man for you.
But will he ever “soften”? Unfortunately, he already is soft; this is the softest he is, as vulnerable as he’ll ever be, to look after someone willingly. Different from any of his other experiments, but he shall scrub and stitch your skin so tenderly, and he will hold you at night when you shiver in the cold. Even when he drills it into your head that you are his object to own, deep down, Dottore wants you more than anything in the world. And in the quietest part of his brain, he succumbs to the same very human emotions that he once saw as frivolous. It’s his rationale as to why he’ll break and bruise you, yet he’s quick to mend you back.
Dottore will love you selfishly, as selfish as he’s always been. Dottore will love you because he wants you to tend this hole in his heart that had been dug all those years ago. He wants you to make him admit that he is as human as any other and that he can be openly vulnerable, even if it makes him uncomfortable, so he can prove himself worthy of you and, this once, someone is willing to choose him.
Kaveh - Being inextricably saddled with shame, loss, and an overwhelming obligation to care for others sincerely pushes Kaveh’s mindset to a further extent than his body could even handle. The loss of his father, the guilt he carries on his mother's behalf, and the burdens and stresses he’s wrestled with all his life have lodged such a deep scar within him that he thinks it's only right to assume he is responsible for all suffering. Therefore, he needs to care for and fix the things he can, because if not him, then who? Will others hurt if he does not? Who is Kaveh if not the responsible one? What is his purpose if not the one to be reliable all the time? That is who he is, encompassing him whole because nothing else could ever make him feel anything more.
He’s idealistic to a fault too; his work as a brilliant architect proves it, though more often does he get undermined as he refuses to put practicality over his principles. He argues that the construction of the Palace of Alcazarzaray was worth pouring all his finances into—his artistic visions were intended to be woven into the palace, despite its complicated nature. There’s a bigger picture to be seen, a story to be told. So, Kaveh dug himself into financial ruin, sacrificing his own comfort to create something beautiful. And it’s there where his worst trait shines: his willingness to ruin himself for the sake of something he deems worthy. He must endure it all, all hardship, all pain, to persevere what he treasures.
Over time, it only turns into an internalized pain he learns to swallow quietly, preferably with alcohol drowning him till he’s blue. Kaveh thinks he’s strong enough to hold on by himself, stubborn too when others offer help. He’ll only vehemently deny it, knowing well enough he does want help. But then, there’s you—there is you in the midst of this all, standing in the middle of all this muddled storm, withstanding the turbulent lifestyle he leads. You’ll pick him back up, hold his head up as he throws up onto the toilet, bathe him, feed him, tuck him into bed, and suddenly everything is spinning stars around him, and the only really clear thing is your face, so decadent and pure. Kaveh lets himself feel like a kid again in your presence, feels like it’s owed to him. Hasn’t he done his dues?
Kaveh clings to you with such an intensity, hands tight with desperation—you cannot leave him, or else he will go back to being miserable again. He can’t imagine anything else besides you, so it’s a nightmare even to entertain a scenario where you’re not there.
His way of loving is extreme, only ever extreme, because it’s all or nothing to Kaveh. Once he feels deeply, he will feel intimately deeply to the point it’ll suffocate both of you. There will be a lot of crying, a lot of begging, accusations hurled against your account, constant fighting, frequent bouts of insecurities and anger, so, so much hurting. As much as Kaveh loves you, you will hurt him intensely. And he can try and drink the pain off, but he will ultimately only come back to you, beg you to take care of him and make him feel better. If you try to deny him that silver or comfort, he’ll point a broken shard to the tilt of his neck and beg you to just slit his throat; death will sting less than you pushing yourself away from him. Your hands are bound with no other choice; you shall wash his back while he says thank-yous and I-loves all night long.
His insistence on self-destructive behaviors coagulates further as he grows to believe that no one will ever understand you as he does. He will pour countless hours into getting to know you, finding what makes you tick, what makes you explode, what makes you innately yourself. And you’ll hate that he is right, that only he is the one who understands you like this, even when it means at the expense of your own independence. Kaveh finds it silly that you need to live separately—go ahead, hide yourself in his arms so he could shield you from the world and the two of you could take care of each other. If he could, he would rip his own rib cages apart so he could tuck you inside, next to where his heart beats for you.
Scaramouche - His issues have been rooted in a thousand-year-long pain of abandonment, rotting in a stew of bitterness and resentment towards his own mother who had created him, and everyone else in between that’s left him despite promises made. He sees attachment as nothing but a burden, a cause of all suffering—humans must be masochists then, he reasons, willingly letting themselves hurt and hurt for no other reason than temporary bliss. What a bunch of fools, Scaramouche thinks. Witnessing betrayals and losses at the hands of mortality, curse be to the gods, trust is a weakness, a source of damnation. Why not cut it out?
And so he becomes a god, made done by a scientist who promised him something eternal and beyond the hurt he’s been handed. This is what was always supposed to happen—the vindication runs deep for Scaramouche; it only makes sense. Once nothing but abandoned scraps, now fashioned to be material of use; no one in all of Teyvat could ever deny him now. Everyone will know of him, see him for who he is, his true worth.
Yet, there’s you, somehow unexpectedly catching his eye as he ascends into his godhood. He thinks at first to not fall for such folly, as it would only deter him from his transformation and other Fatui obligations. But he can’t stop thinking about you, as if the notion of falling in love with you was less about romance and more about rediscovering that there was at least one thing left within him that was keeping him from fully falling apart; he just never noticed until you brought it about.
Sooner or later, godhood means little to him. He’d still love to bask in its splendors, to have authority over others, but there’s you, and only over you. Scaramouche believes you’ve sickened him with some wretched curse, and he can’t help but speak to you so crassly. He’s quick to mock, criticize, and provoke, and despite how much you try to pull away from his ceaseless cruelty, he somehow keeps you within arm's reach. There’s a quiet part of him that keeps you close enough where he could see you, but not too close where you can see that there's an obsession festering inside of him that manifests through control and forced dependency, all masked as contempt.
You’ll only continue to terrify and confuse him because his vulnerability is a weakness, Scaramouche believes. Will you only end up hurting him? Of course, you would; all things come to get him after all. But as much as he hates you, he can’t get you out of his head, like some maggot infestation taking hold of him, writhing all over his head, loud and persistent, all so rotten. He can’t help but constantly track you, monitor you from afar, seeing you live a life outside of him, but involuntarily growing a sick habit and fascination of just watching you. Scaramouche gets to know you intimately through this.
Beneath it all, what makes him distinctly scary is his inability to cope with rejection. It could be argued this could be said for every person. Still, Scaramouche exhibits something larger, because the mask of arrogance he carries lays waste in the fear of abandonment, with every person he’s ever met reinforcing that thought; you’d only add to it. So if you did leave him, it’d only prove his worst fears true.
He’d kill you for it if you had run away from Scaramouche. He’d kill you, take your life away from you, and take it into his own hands because he refuses to admit that there was ever a person that had roamed this world that dared to make him feel this way, and yet, got away. It makes Scaramouche feel like he betrayed himself because he promised himself he’d never fall for something as stupid as this, but here he is, grieving over you, suffering agonizingly.
Scaramouche will kill you if you tried to leave him, so no one else could have you but him. That way, you’d never leave him; you’d always be with him, in his memories, tucked away from the rest of the world where no one could get you, and if anyone dared to ask for you, he’d slit their throats. Only him, only Scaramouche gets to remember you; and he’d whisper your name to himself until he chokes on it.
Wanderer - Unlike his previous counterpart, Wanderer would be much less invigorated with his past. He comes to accept his past rather than letting it take over him; he develops understanding and self-awareness. He does not hate his mother, does not hold any regrets or doubts. Irmininsul had given him that chance. However, such fears and anxieties don’t disappear overnight; no matter how much you wash yourself, dirt will always stick. Thus, falling in love would only reopen his wounds, if not make him worse than before.
Wanderer has a keen eye for observation, noticing things most would be quick to dismiss or fail to see at all. With one look, he can gauge a person's motives. With you, his attention amplifies to the utmost degree; he memorizes your schedules, habits, routines, and subtler traits you wouldn’t even know yourself. And unlike his more unhealthy counterpart, Wanderer does not necessarily seek to control you through manipulation; rather, he gets so emotionally fixated on you that he will subconsciously restructure his life around yours. He’ll take back his steps to mould along your footpaths, follow you as you go about your day, say it’s his routine too, see what you see, hear what you hear, feel what you feel.
You wouldn’t even know that this man had come to like you, rather seeing him as a friend, but his fondness for you kindles quietly; it’s easy to miss. It’s because he knows the consequences of being a bad person and would actively resist impulsivity. But again, even with the magnitude of self-awareness he’s garnered since his earlier days, it still does not fully erase what Wanderer is beneath it all. He is a jealous man; only then, when the jealousy comes to a boil through the surface, will it surge forward, the ugliness, and you’ll see him for who he is. He’s killed someone for you—you say it’s a crime, a sin, that someone was a friend. Wanderer says it’s in your honor because they were going to hurt you and take you away. He’ll rationalize, say he’s protecting you from others, but you beg to differ. He’ll keep justifying himself to you, saying you don’t know any better and that only he has your best interests in mind. At a certain point, you’re convinced he doesn’t truly hear your words of protest, caring less about what your thoughts are on this matter, more so whether he is being heard—do you understand him? Do you?
No matter what, Wanderer’s greatest concern will be that fear of abandonment. How evocative it is, to fear loneliness, fearing others leaving you. But Wanderer is much more desperate than before, quicker to cry than to anger, easy to get on his knees and plead for you to say—don’t go, don’t leave me, not again, please, please give me a chance. It’s so unlike him, but so like him at the same time.
Tartgalia/Childe - He never really fully came back right since the day he fell into The Abyss. Being trapped in a realm where he had to learn about life and death at such a young age had permanently altered him, leaving him with a strange fixation on conflict. Childe could no longer play with other children his age; they said there was this distant look in his eyes that just seemed lifeless and empty. His own parents had looked in horror at their little boy; his siblings in pity and grief, wondering where their dear brother had gone. The only thing that could make Childe ever come back to himself, at least for a while, was his insatiable hunger for something greater than himself and beyond anything anyone else could ever comprehend.
What makes Childe an imposing figure is that he doesn’t inhibit insecurities or displays of fear (at least not by themselves); his approaches are empowered by sheer confidence alone. Sure, his sense of normalcy is shattered, and even if he tried hard enough, it’s largely skewed; there will never be a possibility he could ever be…ordinary, like his peers. So, when he sees you, falls deeply into you, he’s hard to dissuade. You find that reckoning with rock would prove more yielding than Childe himself, an immovable force with little to lose, but so much to gain.
He charges into battle with a smile, with a hard-strewn belief that he could easily overcome any battle with sheer determination and strength—he gleefully believes it when it comes to you, comes at you with the same relentless force he uses to kill his enemies. He will try to court you as a gentleman does; even if you try to deny him at first, it's nothing but a slight pushback. But when distractions enter the arena—other rival competitors—he’s quick to raise his own sword and slay if needs be. One time you had made up a lie that you were already spoken for; the next day, a severed finger had shown up at your doorstep with a stern letter telling you to be honest with him. And the more you insist against Childe, the more he feels validated to use necessary force with you. He’s not above hurting you if it's meant to make you compliant—a simple knock in the head will do.
Don’t get him wrong, he is still capable of warmth, even if it could come as cold at times. It’s hard to believe from your perspective, as you’re forcibly tied up on his bed, but he does care a lot about his family, loves his parents and siblings, so fiercely that he still cares to upkeep his image as their dependable brother. This tenderness coexists somewhere in there, in all that mess that miasmas amongst all that chaos and bloodshed. Childe could be attentive and kind, understanding and patient, quick to shower you with so much attention and love. Still, he’s also quick to snap into a monster the moment another obstacle runs through the two of you and his family.
The Abyss never truly left Childe; it’s become a large part of who he is now. Every day, he’s looking for something to bring him back to that moment when he was a kid, anything to relieve it all. Life as it is now doesn’t offer it, doesn’t evoke the same wonder and excitement The Abyss had given him. But with you, you have become an anchor that could rival that deep, aching need for Childe. You’re stable, the needed ground he needed to steel himself onto. You provide him that needed stimulation, as much as reason and normalcy, that he’s been deprived of. If separation were ever to stand between you two, Childe would only feel challenged, as if an enemy to be defeated, rather than a reality to be accepted. He’s quite delusional because that’s what obsession does to a man.
The longer you know him, the more his mind will corrode in itself, all shaping itself to wrap around your entire existence until everything else has collapsed around Childe and you’ll be everything there is for him. The next step, surely, as all loving couples who’ve sworn each other to eternity is to have a family themselves, yes? Give him a child; he would love to be a father.
Xiao - Like Aphrodite rising above sea foam, into existence, Xiao is born from pain. Forced to serve an evil god, stained with karmic debt, he never knew what a soft life meant, never fully understood a full belly, a warm home, or something as intricate as emotions that make one’s heart hammer, make one’s mind tick. And when finally given the chance to break free and experience such ease in life, he’s only met with the reality that everyone he’s grown to care for is destined to suffer, all because of him.
He grows terrified to lose you, by extension. Xiao had already felt inconceivably guilty for having loved you, as it would mean marking you with his bad luck, making you come down into this pit with him and suffer. But it meant to be with you, he rationalizes; you’ll be there with him. Centuries of repression and fear have all collapsed, letting you have an entrance to the city of his heart—every desire, companionship, every longing to be understood, every fear of death and loneliness, is all concentrated around you, and you are bared to hold it all.
Xiao already exhibits self-sacrificing attitudes, throwing himself into danger without a second thought or careful consideration of his well-being. In a relationship with you, his devotion becomes absolute; every belief of needing to serve himself for the greater good twists into a full-fledged belief that no one could ever love you as intimately as him. If not Xiao, then who? He’d kill for you, he’d die for you. And if you push back, he struggles to understand you and argues that loving has never been easy. He’s seen all kinds of love, all kinds that have been said to withstand all, but it all shrivels up and dies; it’ll be tested and proven until worn, until all that loving becomes more painful than actual bliss. Therefore, why keep love simple and clean? Love must consume you whole, as much as it consumes every bated breath he exhales and every painful twist in his gut in fear and insecurity. If you keep pushing your luck, keep pushing him to understand that this is all wrong; Xiao is quick to dismiss you, even going so far as to guide you toward understanding merely. Locking you in a room deprived of light and sound, deprived of everything, makes you understand that kind of pain is what tortures him when he’s not near you. Will you understand now?
The real tragedy lies in the fact that Xiao would hate himself for every obsessive thought, viewing it as a form of corruption, recognizing the darkness in him, and still attempting to quell it. Yet repression, his most defining trait, has also begun to fail him the more time passes in your honor. He loses composure less and less; only you, and only you, because in denial, his feelings grow bigger than he could ever digest. Self-fulfilling prophecy: he knows he’s bad, and he becomes a terrible man for you because that’s what he was expecting anyway. Yet, he can’t stop himself; with every selfish desire, another motive becomes to keep you with him.
You will become Xiao’s sanctuary, the sole source of warmth in all this time that he has been robbed of. He clings to you, attaches you with so much hope to keep him sane, gives me reason to see light in such a way so beautiful, in awe at your presence. His love is his anchor, his purpose, his salvation—and no human being will ever be able to bear the responsibility to uphold his entire life safely. And for a warrior who has survived countless battles but never learned how to survive heartbreak, that fear could become far more dangerous than any demon he has ever faced.
Neuvillette - For centuries, Neuvillette had stood by as an observer, listened to Fontaine grieve and grieve, and had to bear the judgment of her sins and the demands of justice, and the rest of humanity’s faithless contradictions. Yet, beneath that composed exterior, only the weathered time of calculated patience could afford- lies profound loneliness—to stand amongst humans, understanding their world with utmost clarity, yet never being able to be part of it fully. Neuvillette becomes close friends with detachment, as much as he’d rather not; it becomes inevitable.
He wonders what it means to be human, to be beautifully imperfect. To try, despite countless failures; how could one even describe such a feeling? He’ll continue to watch close by, hoping for a small taste of it, to feel what the beloved people of Fontaine feel, of what could be achieved through justice and order. Wondering within arm's reach, never fully embraced. But it won’t linger in him for too long before he runs back to his obligations, to what he was needed for, to upkeep Fontaineian society. His life is quite monotonous.
But as your man, your lover, you become someone that has managed to break through his wall of detachment—you were beyond just another person passing through his endless existence; no, you meant something more, wonderfully something more, someone intangible in the centuries Neuvillette had walked upon this world. You are precious. Irreplaceable. The single mortal soul that physically pains him to think of your death.
As beautiful and pure as his love must be towards you, you think him paranoid and delusional; the problem with Neuvillette is that his concept of “protections” does not align with that of an ordinary human. Neuvillette was never meant to be a soft lover, to be like any other human being that has ever loved. Neuvillette governs storms, safeguards nations, with centuries of responsibilities piling on top of him—to him, protecting you would mean to anticipate every danger before it could ever touch you.
Strangers lingering too long, a neighbor too nosy, an admirer threatening his love for you—every blemish will be remembered, and every potential threat will be met with a firm intervention. No, Neuvillette will never see his actions as surveillance or control; he won’t even listen to reason if you bring it to him. He’d throw it out the door and accuse you of naivety, accuse you of simply being ignorant—this is what love looks like, he’ll tell you. How could he ignore the risks? How could he stand aside when he knows he’s more than capable of taking care of you? How dare you ask him not to either?
But he’ll lean back and answer your thoughts with ease and patience, because that's what he's been practicing throughout his long life: patience. No matter what you do to him, try to provoke him in any regard, he’ll never break, never under any pressure or circumstance. He's waited a long time for justice to unfold and endured the rise and fall of nations, and if he truly desires you, he’ll wait a hundred years for your reciprocation. He’ll wait a hundred more just for you to understand him.
But understanding does not mean immunity to envy, anger, and sadness. You’ll notice floods will be frequent in Fontaine—landslides, heavy rainfall, crops dying, people's homes washed away, suffering, and more. Neuvillette will drown Fontaine in his suffering, and you shall be forced to bear the responsibility; the city forced to live under an endless sky of grey and another boat of floods just because Neuvillette had seen your stare linger on another person longer than he’d liked you to. Storms will cloud and thunder if you laughed with someone else; the sky will break apart if you dared to love another. All while he’ll sit alone, in the pouring rain, clothes soaked, wrestling with emotions that have far tempted him to ruin, a notion unimaginable in the past centuries he’s lived through. Neuvillette will judge himself for it, but the more he condemns his emotions, the deeper they fester and grow. It won’t be long till he’ll begin to justify that such obstacles need to be met with an equally heavy hand; such harmful influences must be stopped. Justice and entitlement, possessiveness, will blur together until he won’t be able to tell them separately anymore. All that matters is that he will save you from all of it; that is justice in itself.
Neuvillette does not seek dominance or full control over you. Still, he would earnestly weather every storm for you, carry every burden, and stand between the world and you, a devotion so sincere it becomes suffocating. No, he will never accept loss either, so if you were ever to leave him, try to, he will tighten his grip on you, ever so gently. Enough to put pressure on you, enough for you to feel like you’re drowning, slightly, until you realize that the safest person to be is in Fontaine, by his side. Every violation of your freedom is simply an act of mercy.
[ WARNING: This fanfiction consists of YANDERE THEMES, DARK ROMANCE, STALKING, FORCED PROXIMITY, KIDNAPPING & MANIPULATION ]
"we have every intention of keeping you." — D.
The night was young, and the heart of Bonifacio Global City pulsed with life. Towering skyscrapers glittered against the dark sky, their lights reflecting off glass windows and rain-slicked streets. Music spilled from nearby cafés, mingling with the chatter of passing crowds and the occasional rumble of traffic. Everywhere you looked, people were enjoying the city, groups of friends laughing over late-night meals, couples strolling beneath the neon glow of storefronts, and tourists snapping photos of the vibrant urban landscape. With the semester finally behind you, this staycation felt well-deserved.
But not until...
Screeeeeechhhhh....
"HOY PUTANGINA MO! NAKIKITA MONG MAY TUMATAWID DIBA?!"
(HEY MOTHERFUCKER! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M CROSSING THE ROAD?!)
The man slowed to a stop at the curb, the low growl of his motorcycle fading beneath the city's restless nightlife. For a moment, he remained still, one gloved hand resting on the handlebar.
Then, with an effortless motion, he reached up and removed his helmet.
A cascade of dark hair with purple highlights fell slightly out of place, tousled from the ride. He ran a hand through it absentmindedly, pushing the loose strands back and revealing sharp, refined features that seemed almost unfairly sculpted. Behind them, amethyst eyes swept over the bustling avenue with quiet confidence, as though he owned every inch of it.
"Sorry darling. I'm in a bit of a hurry for my meeting. Are you hurt? Is there something I could do to help?"
"Darling? Did he seriously call me that after almost running over me?! And...look at his smug face!"
"That...infuriating...annoyingly...handsome..."
"NO!"
You slapped your mouth when you accidentally spoke out from your mind. The man chuckled and handed you a card.
"Here, meet me at this place at 9pm. I am meeting a friend there later so I was hoping that you would be so kind to join us. Consider it as my apology for tonight, miss."
A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He gave you a quick wink before sliding the helmet back over his head. The engine rumbled beneath him, deep and powerful. With one final glance in your direction, he twisted the throttle and sped off into the night, leaving nothing behind but the fading sound of his motorcycle and the strange flutter in your chest.
When you arrived at the venue the mysterious man had instructed you to meet him at, an uneasy feeling settled in your chest. The moment you stepped through the entrance, you realized why. Everything about the place screamed luxury. From the dazzling crystal chandeliers hanging overhead to the polished marble floors that reflected the warm golden lights. Soft music drifted through the air as elegantly dressed guests mingled among themselves, their laughter blending seamlessly with the refined atmosphere.
You couldn't help but feel out of place.
This wasn't the kind of restaurant you usually visit. You preferred small cafés tucked away in quiet corners, casual eateries where nobody cared what you wore, and places where the menu didn't look like it belonged in an art gallery. Compared to the grandeur surrounding you, you felt painfully ordinary.
Instinctively, your fingers smoothed the fabric of your outfit as your gaze wandered across the lavish interior. Every detail seemed expensive enough to make your wallet cry. For a brief moment, you wondered if you'd somehow walked into the wrong building.
Yet the address was correct.
Swallowing your nerves, you took a hesitant step forward, trying your best not to look as overwhelmed as you felt. The mysterious man had invited you here for a reason. Whatever that reason was, you were about to find out.
bump...
The blue haired man examined you, his breath catching for a fleeting moment as though he hadn't expected the sight before him.
Sharp crimson eyes lingered on your face, partially obscured behind the thin frames of his glasses. In the soft glow of the streetlights, he looked almost unreal. A striking cerulean blue hair, was neatly styled yet effortlessly disheveled, strands falling over his forehead as if he had been running his fingers through it all day. The city lights reflected faintly against the lenses resting on the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to the calculating gaze beneath them.
He was dressed impeccably, an expensive white trench coat layered over a fitted black turtleneck, the fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame. A pair of tailored slacks and polished leather boots completed the look, every detail suggesting someone accustomed to wealth, precision, and control.
There was something unsettlingly attractive about him. Not in the effortless way celebrities graced magazine covers, but in the dangerous manner of a man who knew exactly how intelligent he was and had long since stopped caring whether others found him intimidating.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Hm," he murmured, adjusting his glasses. "Are you the lady we're expecting to meet tonight?"
He offered his arm to you as he leaned to whisper to your ear since the music inside the restaurant is loud.
"Shall we?"
The dinner had been a mistake.
At least, that was what you were convinced of as you sat stiffly between two men who looked as though they belonged on the covers of luxury magazines rather than at the same table as you.
The restaurant was far too extravagant. The wine glasses probably cost more than a month's worth of groceries. Even the silverware looked expensive enough to require its own insurance policy.
Across from you sat Dottore, casually discussing something incomprehensibly scientific while swirling the wine in his glass. Beside him, Pantalone listened with an amused smile, occasionally adding a remark that somehow sounded both polite and condescending at the same time.
Meanwhile, you were fighting for your life.
Every passing second made you more aware of how out of place you felt.
To calm your nerves, you took another sip of wine.
Then another.
And another.
Surely a little liquid courage couldn't hurt.
Unfortunately, nobody had informed you that the wine being served wasn't the cheap kind you were used to.
By the time dessert arrived, the room had begun to blur around the edges.
The elegant music sounded distant. The lights appeared much brighter than before.
You vaguely remembered Dottore pausing mid-conversation to glance in your direction.
"I believe your guest is intoxicated."
"Already?" Pantalone's amused voice followed shortly after.
You wanted to defend yourself.
You really did.
Instead, what came out was:
"Pogi mo tignan boi..." (You're so handsome to look at bro...)
Silence.
Then Dottore laughed.
Actually laughed.
The last thing you remembered was pointing dramatically at Pantalone and accusing him of looking "too rich."
After that, everything went dark.
When consciousness finally returned, it came with a pounding headache.
You groaned softly and pressed a hand against your forehead.
Something felt... strange.
The seat beneath you was soft.
Far softer than your bed.
Your eyes slowly fluttered open.
The first thing you saw was black leather.
The second thing you noticed was the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright.
A luxury car interior surrounds you.
For several long seconds, your exhausted brain struggled to process what was happening.
Then panic immediately followed.
You were in a car.
Specifically, the backseat of a very expensive BMW.
Before you could fully spiral into a crisis, a voice came from the driver's seat.
"Good evening."
You nearly screamed.
Pantalone's reflection stared back at you through the rearview mirror.
He looked infuriatingly composed compared to your current state.
One hand rested lazily against the steering wheel while the city lights passed beyond the windows.
"You're awake."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"...Why am I in your car?"
The corner of his lips twitched upward.
"Because you were too drunk to stand."
Your soul briefly left your body.
"What."
"You attempted to challenge a decorative plant to a staring contest."
"...I did not."
"You lost."
Dread settled heavily in your chest.
Judging by the amusement in his voice, he was enjoying this far more than he should have been.
"We'll drop you off at your hotel don't worry..."
"...How do you know where I stayed?"
Pantalone smirked as he stared right at you on his rearview mirror.
"...You'll be much happier with us."
A chill crawled down your spine.
The way he said it wasn't reassuring.
It sounded like a fact.
"With you?" you repeated weakly.
Pantalone's smile only deepened.
"Mm."
The city lights flashed across his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a brief moment.
"You say that as though it's a strange concept."
Before you could respond, another voice cut through the silence.
"Statistically speaking, your current social circle is rather unimpressive."
You nearly jumped.
You had completely forgotten Dottore was sitting in the passenger seat.
He looked up from whatever he had been reading and regarded you with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
"Average grades. Average hobbies. Average ambitions. An entirely predictable future."
"You should be flattered, darling. Do you know how difficult it is to watch over you for a week? Making sure you're safe and all?"
"Month," Dottore corrected.
"My mistake. A month."
The two exchanged a look that made you feel as though a conversation had taken place without words.
One that you weren't supposed to understand.
"You've...been stalking me?" you asked.
Neither of them answered immediately.
Pantalone's fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel.
Dottore simply watched you.
Observed you.
Studied you.
Like he was committing every expression to memory.
Finally, Pantalone spoke.
"Because we've invested quite a bit of time into you already."
Your heart skipped.
"What does that mean?"
Another smile.
Far too calm.
"Exactly what it sounds like."
The car suddenly felt much smaller.
"You know..." Pantalone murmured, his gaze meeting yours through the rearview mirror once more. "You deserve to have a life where you don't get much problems. A life with us. Heh, I wouldn't like it if I saw wrinkles on your pretty face."
His smile softened.
Somehow, that made it worse.
"You won't have that problem."
Beside him, Dottore nodded in agreement.
As though this had already been decided.
As though your opinion on the matter had never been necessary.
"After all," Dottore said, returning his attention to the document in his hands, "we have every intention of keeping you."
The words were delivered with such casual certainty that they terrified you more than any threat could have.
To them, the matter was already settled.
And for the first time that night, you couldn't shake the dreadful feeling that meeting them had never been an accident.
Crow Dottore making his un-willing lover lay his eggs whilst on their back, notoriously the most painful position, so he can study the process…
It was actually the original reason women started birthing in their backs, for study. That said, Dottore didn't think it all that weird nor difficult. Egg laying was hardly as difficult as birthing a full grown child. In spite of this, Dottore’s emotions ran high and he used his body to pin you on your back. He was so worried about making you panic or you hurting yourself in your pursuit of freedom but… studying your body was also very important.
You try to kick him off but not only is Dottore much larger than you, but it also causes discomfort to move your legs so dynamically. He may sit behind you and use his legs to trap your own, keeping them open. He might kneel in front of you and keep your thighs pinned to the sterile floor, boring his eyes into your condition.
The doctor would be sickeningly sweet, in his own way. He’d avoid calling you dramatic or anything critical, as he does often with you, rather trying to use positive affirmations.
Just him cooing in your ear as you try to roll over and he doesn't let you… its a third of the size of a human child, you've got this! He's telling you, everything will be okay, hell take care of you. Just push his babies out… you're doing so well! His sweet darling wife, you're capable of so much, he believes in you full heartedly.
Holding your legs wide and still as you beg him to help you, to let you get a more at ease posture,!but he just keeps whispering words of love and encouragement. Don't worry about bleeding that much, you've no reason to fear! Dottore knows what bleeding out looks like, he promises you are doing just fine!
Admittedly though, this story prompt is certainly a more brutal one. Writing involving the birthing process and blatant disregard for pain is distasteful but… its sort of in character for Dottore!
When you finally push those eggs out, Dottore checks your condition before even looking at his eggs. Searching for active bleeding and signs of lingering pains… he knows you're just fine, but there isn't any harm in checking.
If the process goes well enough, Dottore might feel so proud of you he’d lick the blood and mess from your skin. He doesn't want to put his tongue too close to your wounds, but he's just so fulfilled by your sacrifice. You reacted so horribly and he just feels so… gross by the fact.
Even if you've finally been broken by his cruelty, Dottore would still adore you as his perfect wife. Bathing you, feeding you, checking your status every 15 minutes. Frankly, the children are second to you. He could get more children, he couldn't get another you. And in any case, you could very well live forever with him. He has all the time in the world for you to forgive him.
Whilst you are pampered and cared for, his children will be just cared for. And god forbid if your babies decide they want to see their mother. Absolutely not! Dottore will make designated times but they will not bother your 18 hours of privacy! Even if they are young and incredibly smart at their age, he won't allow his wife to be around anyone with lesser intelligence for long. They could give you ideas or cloud your reasoning with maternal feelings.
It could be years afterward, Dottore would want more babies, many more, but if you didn't want to, or couldn't conceive, than he'd just keep telling everyone yo were dealing with the results of your birth. Yes, your birth was three years ago, but you still flinch at the mention of eggs or more children.
So yes, you're still recovering.
Several years later, and Dottore is still feeling just a little rotten for what he did. Would he do it again? Absolutely. So just let him spoil, he has a lot to make up for.
I MADE THIS AND NEVER POSTED IT, I APOLOGIZE. This is older and a bit out of date, but I still like it. It’s actually just a prompt for a fanfic I started writing, but never finished. Thus, there is a lot of unfinished thought in this one.
There's actually multiple Crow Dottore drafts, but I figured I’d post at least one for all the continuous yapping and complaining I do. I just have a lot to say.
🔪 featuring {separate}: 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
🔪 tw: yandere content 𝜗𝜚 murder duh 𝜗𝜚 drugging 𝜗𝜚 jealous sex 𝜗𝜚 noncon 𝜗𝜚 size kink 𝜗𝜚 fear play 𝜗𝜚 kidnapping 𝜗𝜚 scent kink 𝜗𝜚 they're psycho 𝜗𝜚 lovebombing 𝜗𝜚 cherry poppin' 𝜗𝜚 blood kink 𝜗𝜚 sex after murder?? 𝜗𝜚 this lwk kinda scary 𝜗𝜚 aphrodisiacs 𝜗𝜚 full nelson 𝜗𝜚
🔪 an: her new boyfriend nexttt how'd I get hereeee?? 👀
🔪 CHILDE — Shits n' Giggles
Maybe if you don’t move, he won’t see you
You’re crouched between two crates, knees pulled to your chest, barely breathing. Your hands are clamped so tight over your mouth that your teeth are digging into your palm.
You saw it.
You saw Ajax laugh while he carved the man you were seeing apart. The way the hydro blades slashed n’ ripped.
Witnessing the moment your boyfriend stopped screaming, and he just kept laughing, louder and louder.
And then he looked right at you.
So now you’re hiding. Because you’re next. You have to be next.
His footsteps crunch over the gravel, slow and bouncy like he’s having the time of his life. Then the laughter starts again — loud, wild, completely deranged.
“Hmmm~ Where’s my favorite person?” Childe sings, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! I saved the best part just for you, babe!” Another burst of manic giggling echoes through the alley.
Fuck he’s getting closer way too fucking close.
Your whole body is shaking so hard that the crate behind you is rattling. Tears won’t stop pouring down your face.
Shit shit shit! He’s going to kill you. He snapped. He’s completely lost it, and now he’s going to—
“BOO!”
A bloody hand slams down on the crate right above your head. “AH THE FUCK-” You immediately slapped a hand over your mouth
Ajax drops down into a crouch in front of you, blue eyes wide and sparkling with pure insanity. His ginger hair is soaked red.
Blood smeared across his freckles like war paint. He’s grinning so wide it looks like his face might split.
“You really thought you could hide from me?” he laughs, loud and bright. “After I just put on a whole show for you? That’s so mean!”
He swiftly grabs your ankle and yanks you out from between the crates in one smooth motion.
THUD!
Hissing in pain as you hit the ground hard, but he’s already on top of you, straddling your waist, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.
His face is inches from yours his mouth panting. You can smell the blood, see the lovesick glee in his eyes.
“You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?” he whispers, almost affectionate. “Saw me tear him apart... laughing while he cried like a little bitch. And then you ran away from me like I was gonna do the same to you.”
He drones off on that last part, Childe tilts his head, still smiling that terrifyingly happy smile.
“Wait...You thought I was coming to kill you next, huh? Pffttt!-” He bursts out laughing again — loud, unhinged, shoulders shaking as he presses his bloody forehead against yours. “That’s so fucking cute.~”
His cock is already hard, grinding against your stomach through blood-soaked fabric. You feel it twitch when you whimper.
His free hand slides down your side, gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “I’m not gonna kill you, babe,” he purrs, voice dropping into something much darker.
“I killed him because he touched you. Because he thought he could have you. I did it all for us.”
He leans in and licks a tear off your cheek, blue eyes half-lidded with delight.
“Baby, stop crying and tell me how much you loved the show… or I’ll give you a reason to really scream.”
He says that last part with a proud little grin, an attempt to reassure you he’s stable.
You stare up at him, chest heaving.
“…Ajax is you on drugs right now?” you choke out.
He blinked once, then twice before laughing; his pupils literally dilated into tiny hearts as he pants above you, chest heaving, that manic smile never fading.
“Completely sober, babe. Promise.” He nipped your ear playfully. “Did it all on no drugs~,” he sing-songed.
“You’re fucking insane!” you scream, thrashing underneath him.
The insult lights him up like fireworks.
He moans openly, hips rolling slow and filthy, pressing the thick line of his cock against your cunt.
“Fuck— say it again. Louder.” Childe’s voice cracks with glee. “Call me a lunatic, baby. Please.”
You spit in his face. “Get the hell off me, you psychotic ginger bast—”
“Hah— you’re so h-hot when you’re mad at me,” he cuts you off delighted.
“You made me so sad when you decided to cheat on me, baby…” he coos.
“What???” This made you freeze. “We broke up months ago, you fucking psycho— get off—”
“No.”
The word drops flat. Instant. Like a switch flipped behind his eyes.
“No. No no no no no.” He’s giggling now, shoulders shaking as he pins your wrists deeper into the gravel. “Don’t do that. Don’t say that. We didn’t break up. I didn’t agree to that. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
“Ajax…we broke up. Months ago. I left. You can’t just-”
“No.”
His fingers dig bruises into your ass. Cock twitches hard against your belly, leaking through his pants as he fishes it out one-handed. Thick. Angry.
Drooling precum in fat sticky ropes that splatter hot against your clit.
“Shhh gonna split you open, bunny,” voice still sickeningly sweet. Hips rocking forward as the fat head kisses your entrance—hot, demanding, wider than you remember. "Just relax… let me fill you up…"
“Wait!- hngh!-”
Plunging in deep you cried out nails scraping the gravel, walls fluttering uselessly around the sheer girth, trying to push him out even while more slick gushes out to betray you.
“F-ffuck! Didn’t you hear me??”
He sinks deep, deep, deep, blue eyes half-lidded in bliss while that smile never falters.
“Don’t say that again.” One blood-stained hand cups your cheek, thumb smearing red across your skin like he’s petting a scared kitten.
“C’mon, babe. We both know how this ends. Seems you forgot who you belong to. That’s okay though.”
With a broken moan his forehead dropped to yours pausing briefly.
“I’ll remind you.”
He starts moving.
Slow at first—wet, filthy drags that grind his cock against every raw nerve inside you.
Then harder. Meaner.
Each thrust timed with that same cheerful, hollow voice.
“Ya f-feel that, babe? That’s me. That’s us. No break-up. No ex. Just t-this pretty pussy squeezing me so tight like it missed its owner!”
You gritted your teeth and tried to twist away.
He’s too heavy. Too deep. Too gone.
“Ajax, ngh! puhleeasee! This isn’t!-”
“NO-“ plap! “NO-“ plap! “NO NO NO- don’t do that! Don’t say that!”
Every “no” lands with a vicious snap of his hips.
Cockhead battering your womb like he’s trying to fuck the memory of leaving him out of your body.
“-We’re on a nice date right now, babe! Can’t you hah…haha…see? I took you out, I got all dressed up for you, I’m being so good for you tonight!”
He’s screaming between giggles.
Tears pouring. Smile never drops. Just keeps stretching wider and wider like his face is about to split.
The wet pap-pap-pap of skin on skin echoes loud between you, slick and cum all mixing together.
You sob harder. “W-what are you ah!- talkin’ bout?!? I said we broke up! T-this isn’t a date!”
“NO!”
Another scream tears from his throat. Raw. Unhinged. Sinking deeper. Inch after thick inch.
“Don’t say that again. Don’t say that, don’t say that don’t say that - we’re on a date! This is our date!”
Laughing and crying and babbling all at once while heart-shaped pupils spin wildly.
As he fucks you in earnest—wet, filthy schlick-schlick-schlick echoing off the crates in the alley.
His leaking precum making an obscene mess between your thighs.
He’s laughing and crying and babbling all at once, that empty cheerful mask splintering wider and wider.
“You always come back to me eventually.” His voice fractures sweeter, darker. “This cunt is squeezing me so tight! Baby!— fuck, you missed me, didn’t you? Haha…”
You sob, hands gripping his shoulders tight so hard you made indents from your nails.
He only groans louder, pace turning relentless, hips grinding deep on every thrust like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribs and stay there forever.
In his shattered mind, this is a date.
The only one that matters.
And he’s never letting it end.
🔪 DOTTORE — Exhibit A
“You brought this on yourself, you know.”
The words hum down the long, sterile hallway, lazy, almost affectionate.
As if he’s scolding a pet who keeps making the same mistake.
You’re running as fast as your legs will carry you, feet slapping hard against the cold tile while your lungs burn and your heart hammers so violently you can hear it thundering in your ears.
Sweat pours down your spine, and your thighs feel way too slick, way too hot, and none of it makes any sense because you’re running for your life.
You’re sure you’re going to die, so why the fuck is your pussy throbbing and dripping down your own legs like this?
Your mind is spinning so fast it hurts.
You’d only come back to Snezhnaya because your ex said he needed to talk, and then you heard the screaming and the wet, horrible sounds, and then nothing at all.
Of course, you didn’t witness what happened, but you’re starting to piece together what unfolded now with every heavy footstep echoing behind you.
He killed him.
He actually killed your boyfriend, then he injected you with something, and now he’s hunting you through his own lab, part of whatever sick experiment he’s running, wanting you terrified and soaking wet at the same time.
Your head is pounding, your skin feels clammy and burning hot all at once, your heart is beating so fast it’s making you dizzy.
Yet still your cunt keeps clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs with every desperate step.
The ache between your legs is getting worse.
Throbbing hot and embarrassing, how are you running for your life, and your pussy is acting like this is foreplay?
“Do I really have to do this to teach you a lesson each time?” Dottore chuckled, his humming getting louder, his steps steady. “Running only makes the poison work faster, love~.”
His voice is so much closer now, curling up your spine, breathing down your neck, and you don’t dare look back.
You just keep running, gasping, crying, thighs trembling and slippery while that awful heat keeps spreading through your body, and you're so sure that whatever he gave you isn’t poison at all.
And then it hits.
It crashes through your veins like liquid fire, so sudden and violent that your legs give out instantly. You fall hard, knees slamming into the cold tile as a broken sob rips from your throat.
A puddle of slick immediately spreads beneath you, warm and humiliating, because you’re gushing so much it’s pooling on the floor.
Fuck
Your cunt won’t stop spasming, clenching, and fluttering around nothing while wave after wave of pure, pent-up arousal drowns you.
All you feel is white-hot need flooding every inch of you, so violent it rips a broken moan straight from your throat.
Attempting to get up, but you only twitch and writhe your limbs, feeling like static jello.
You look like you’re in the throes of a fever — flushed all the way down to the roots of your sweat-drenched hair, eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, lips parted as you pant like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Treachorous pussy won’t stop twitching against its will. Fresh slick gushes out of you in waves, so much that you can hear the wet sound of it dripping.
You can’t think...you can’t even remember why you were running.
All you know is that you’re burning, aching, dripping, and the man who just killed your boyfriend is standing right behind you.
“There we go…” he purrs, slow footsteps finally stopping beside you. “That’s what I wanted to see. Fascinating.”
His red eyes pierced through your trembling form like twin scalpels, cutting straight through whatever was left of your dignity.
You’re on the floor in a puddle of your own slick, thighs shaking violently, chest heaving as another wave of that cursed heat slams into you.
Shame burns hotter than the aphrodisiac.
Shame on you.
Shame on you for even considering giving him another chance.
That stupid letter he sent you had sounded so sweet, so almost-human.
You’d actually let yourself believe he might’ve changed.
What a fuckin' joke.
You left him for a reason.
No matter how tenderly he touched you, you could never tell if he was holding you because he missed you or because he was quietly counting your pulse for some new “stress test.”
Every damn time he looked at you, it felt like he was staring at a particularly interesting petri dish.
Those segments gave you the worst hive-mind uncanny valley feeling, like you were dating twenty versions of the same man who all saw you as data.
You were so fucking sure that Dottore didn’t actually love you.
That you were just his favorite little experiment.
And yet here you are.
Dripping all over his floor. Whimpering like a bitch in heat while he stands over you, looking as smug as always.
“Pathetic,” voice low and clinical, but there’s something darker threaded underneath it.
He crouches slowly beside you, gloved fingers tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet those crimson eyes. “Look at you. Running from me only to end up like this.”
You try to snarl at him, but it comes out as a broken moan instead.
Hips twitch uselessly against the cold tile, cunt clenching hard around nothing as another gush of slick leaks out of you. The shame is suffocating.
“I left you-” you gasp, voice cracking, “-because you don’t even love me. You look at me like I’m just another specimen. Those Segments… It’s like dating twenty of you, and none of them actually want me; they just want the data-”
Your words cut off into a sharp cry as he drags two fingers through your soaked folds, spreading you open without warning.
“Such a dramatic little thing,” Dottore coos, mocking. “All that fire with your pussy drooling all over my fingers the second I touch it. You really think I don’t love you?”
He laughs softly, dark and cruel.
“If I didn’t, would I have gone through the trouble of killing that worthless fling of yours? Would I have spent weeks perfecting this particular strain of aphrodisiac simply so I could watch you fall apart so beautifully?”
Your ex smiled eerily and slowly took off his glove.
“Did you have your fun? Did you get it all out?--” He pressed two thick fingers inside you without mercy, curling them viciously against that spot that makes your vision spark white. “-It’s time to come back to me.”
You sob, hips jerking, tears spilling down your flushed cheeks. “Zandik- hah- please”
“Please, what?” Twisting his fingers deeper, thumb circling your swollen clit with slow, teasing strokes. “Use your words, darling. You were so eloquent a moment ago about how I don’t love you. Tell me exactly what you need from the man who supposedly feels nothing for you.”
Your pride is crumbling fast.
The heat is unbearable now, every inch of you burning, pulsing, begging. You’re so pent up it hurts.
“I— I can’t— fuck— Zandik, please, I need—”
He pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine pathetically at the loss, hips chasing his hand like a desperate whore.
“Beg properly,” he says coldly, eyes glittering with wicked delight. “Beg the man you claim doesn’t love you to fuck the need out of your pitiful, dripping cunt. Or perhaps I should just leave you here like this?... Let you writhe on the floor until the aphrodisiac drives you truly insane? Hm?~”
Damn him
You break. Tears streaming, voice shaking, pussy throbbing so hard it’s painful, you sob out the words he wants to hear.
“Please… please, Zandik, I need your cock— I need you to fuck me, please— I can’t take it anymore—”
Dottore's mouth curls, slow and terrifyingly satisfied. “Good girl.”
Two thick fingers push back inside you without warning, curling viciously against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
You sob, hips jerking hard as another gush of slick floods out around his hand, pooling on the cold tile beneath you.
The pleasure is too much. Too fast. Your cunt keeps spasming and fluttering uselessly, greedy and desperate even as shame burns through you.
You try to close your legs. Try to bite back the whimpers.
Smack!
It was sharp - fleeting, even - but your entire body is jolting at the feeling of Dottore’s thick fingerpads smacking your poor cunt.
Right above your ravaged clit. “Ngh- Z-Zandik!”
“Z-Zandik!” he mocks your moans, voice higher than usual. “Thought you wanted hngh- to be quiet, whore?”
He grins, chuckling softly at the way you’re half-lucidly pushing at his rippling biceps - nails leaving neat little marks as you’re torn between pushing him away and wanting more, more, more-
“How are you gonna do that if you’re like this, huh?”
You fixed your quivering lips to say anything, but he did something unexpected-
He leans in and kisses you like he actually missed you.
Soft at first. Almost sweet.
His moves against yours with surprising tenderness while two thick fingers sink back into your dripping cunt, curling lovingly against that spot that makes your brain melt.
“I love you,” he whispers between kisses, his voice low and warm against your lips. “I’ve always loved you. Do you have any idea how much effort I’ve invested in you?”
At the same time, his fingers pinch your swollen clit hard, rolling the poor bud between his thumb and forefinger with mean, precise pressure.
You jolt and whimper into Dottore's mouth. “Mmnph!- no, you-”
He just kisses you deeper, swallowing every sound, murmuring sweet filth against your tongue.
“My perfect little whore,” he coos lovingly, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your tear-stained cheek, the corner of your eye. “Look at you. Such a pathetic, dripping mess on my floor. Crying and gushing like you were made for this.”
Another deep, affectionate kiss as he pinches your clit even harder, tugging on it while his fingers fuck into you with wet, filthy sounds.
“I love you so much,” he breathes tenderly, like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. “I’ve discarded less valuable things for far smaller reasons.”
You’re shaking, overwhelmed and confused at the constant contrast between his soft kisses, gentle confessions, and the ruthless way he’s abusing your clit is driving you insane.
He kisses you again — slow, deep, devoted — right as he gives your clit one last vicious pinch.
That’s what breaks you.
Your orgasm hits like lightning. You scream into his mouth as your cunt clamps down around his fingers, gushing everywhere in messy, humiliating waves.
Dottore keeps kissing you through it. Sweet. Loving. Like he’s proud of you.
Only when your body finally goes limp does he pull back, red eyes glowing with satisfaction.
Then his smile turns sharper.
“That aphrodisiac I gave you?” he says calmly, still stroking your hair like a lover. “It was always a hybrid. The paralyzing agent activates right after orgasm.”
You try to move your legs.
Nothing.
From the waist down… you’re completely paralyzed.
“Fascinating…” Zandik leans down and presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead, his voice soft and affectionate.
“You won’t need legs anymore, darling. I’ll take care of you from now on.”
🔪 RERIR — Fuck Your New Guy
He’s going to kill him. Right now.
That’s what the eye contact is for. You understand that now, tied to the headboard, gag wet from crying, that the man you’ve been seeing for three months is going to die in front of you.
Watching Rerir’s hand coil around your man’s throat, slowly wanting you to see all of it.
Your fling is begging. Grabbing at his wrist with both hands, saying things — please and wait and something pathetic about not even knowing you that well — and your true lover doesn’t even flinch.
Pink eyes bore holes through you, and somehow, you knew exactly what they were silently communicating at this moment.
You ran, his eyes say.
Across a continent, across a whole ass ocean. Inazuma. You made it to Inazuma and stood in your new home, and almost convinced yourself it was over.
His grip tightens slow n’ deliberate…You feel it in your stomach even from across the room, this horrible, telegraphed knowing, and you’re pulling at the rope again without deciding to, wrists burning, throat working around nothing-
CRACK!
The sound was loud. Wrong in a way that lives in your body now, permanent, a sound you will never un-hear for the rest of your life.
You closed your eyes tight as if that would make this go away. Flinching when you heard the deep thud of your ex's body dropping to the floor.
Still not opening your eyes. Just squeezed them shut harder, biting your lip behind the gag so the sob stays where it is.
How did this happen?
Why you?
Why not some other girl - there’s no way he’s this obsessed, right?!
It’s ok, it’s all a dream once you open your eyes; this’ll all be some sick nightmare that you can laugh about—
He’s right in front of you.
“EEP!-” You jerked back hard, skull connecting with the headboard, stars exploding across your vision.
Rerir’s hand shoots out, gripping your face hard. Cheeks squishing between his long, sharp claws, blood forming at the ends of his talons, forcing your teary eyes to meet his.
When he tore the gag off, you didn’t even breathe first. "I'm sorry!-"
Already. Before you can even think.
"I'm so sorry, okay, I know I left, but I just needed — it wasn't about you; he didn't even mean anything, I swear, I wasn't thinking. Please, I'll fix it, I'll do whatever you want, just please don't-"
Rerir stares at you, eyes narrowed in genuine confusion.
He killed for you. Crossed an ocean for you. And here you are looking at him like he’s something you have to survive.
It should bother him.
…it doesn’t.
He tunes most of it out.
The rambling.
The apologies.
The way your voice keeps cracking.
He just watches your face, searching for the girl who used to call him "Riri".
“—I can make it up to you.”
Oh
There she is.
“Make it up to me.” He drawls, repeating.
You gulp but nod frantically. “Yes. Anything! I swear! I’ll do anything.”
His eyes drop for a second, then back up to yours. “Even that?”
You know exactly what he means.
The thing you always shied away from, always found some excuse for — you’re too big, we can’t, I can’t— and he was patient.
He was.
But patience has a limit, and you just handed him an open invitation.
His giant cock visibly throbs in his pants, a wet spot spreading from the tip as he leans in close, long sharp claws trailing down your stomach.
Rerir brings two blood-stained fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow drag of his tongue, pink eyes never leaving yours.
“You said I was too big.” His voice drops low. Husky. “Said you couldn’t take it.”
Clawed hand sliding lower until he’s cupping your soaked cunt possessively. “And now you’re tied to the bed, telling me you’ll do anything.”
“Ok wait- Rerir— I didn’t mean—”
“Fuckkk, I need ya.” He crashes his mouth into yours like a starving animal.
He doesn’t give you time to breathe.
One clawed hand tilts your head aside while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His mouth attacks your neck — licking, sucking, biting marks into every inch the other man never touched.
“I need ya so badly,” he groans against your skin, “Been dreaming about this tight little virgin pussy the entire time I crossed that fucking ocean for you.”
You whimper as he frees his cock.
It’s monstrous.
Thick, veined, heavy enough that it slaps against your stomach with a wet thwack. The tip is already drooling thick ropes of precum.
“Rerir it’s— it’s way too big— I can’t— we shouldn’t—”
“Fuck no.”
He cuts you off with a sharp snap of his hips, notching that fat cockhead right against your entrance. Pink eyes gleaming with something feral.
He pushes forward with just a tip. The bigggg stretch is immediate, stinging, and impossible.
Your back arches clean off the bed, a broken cry ripping from your throat.
“You got very far. Fuck, I’ll give you that.”
He’s panting against your ear, claws digging into your thighs as he forces you open wider. “Tied up. Begging to make it up to me. This pussy’s already creamin’ all over me, and I’m barely inside.”
SCHLCK!
Another thick inch sinks in. Your walls flutter desperately around the invasion, trying and failing to adjust. “Rerir!!— ngh!—”
Rerir’s claws dig harder into your thighs as he forces another thick inch inside you.
Your pussy has never taken anything close to his size before, and it’s fighting him, walls clamping down so tight it almost hurts him too.
“NGGH-” A broken whine rips from your throat. “-IT HURTS!” Your back bows clean off the bed.
“Just relax,” he hisses against your neck, “Hah, you’re already this tight?”
He rolls his hips again.
Slow and greedy.
Another inch sinks in. The fat head of his cock pushes so deep that the bulge in your stomach becomes obvious, moving with every shallow breath you take.
You’re crying now. Legs shaking uselessly in the air while the ropes bite into your wrists.
“I can’t— I’ve never—”
“You will.”
Your pussy flutters desperately around the invasion, creaming and dripping down his length even as you sob. Rerir groans. Low. Filthy. His claws flex on your hips, yanking you down to meet the next heavy push.
“This is what you owe me.”
He starts fucking you for real then — long, sloooooppy strokes that drag every veined inch through your walls, forcing them to stretch around him whether they want to or not.
The first real thrust tears a sharp sting through you.
Blood.
A thin trail of red mixes with your slick, smearing down his thick cock as he forces your virgin cunt open for the first time.
The sight makes Rerir shudder so hard you feel it in your bones.
“Fuck…” he groans, voice cracking with something close to reverence. “First time.”
Each pull back has your cunt clinging to him desperately, gushing and creaming down his length like it’s trying to keep him inside.
Every brutal push forward forces another wet schlck out of you, the obscene sound mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood in the air.
You can’t think.
Can’t even speak.
Just broken little cries and whimpers every time that fat, roverin’ reddened cockhead plunges between your pussylips and hits dead-set on the back of your cunt — splattering slick, cum, and blood upwards.
Bandaged torso presses flush against you, chest heaving as he drinks in every twitch, every sob, every tear.
“C-can’t wait til ya cum f’me, my girl. First time taking all of me — I want to feel it.”
He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, fangs grazing your lip as he feels your body start to seize again.
He drags his swollen cock all the way back until only the fat tip is teasing your puffy folds, letting you feel every single throb… then slams back in with a wet SCHLORP, bottoming out so deep the bulge in your stomach is obscene.
You bit your lip so hard it bled, tears falling freely from your eyes.
Laughing low and mean, another thrust, even harder, mercilessly bashing in the top of your cervix, so smooth and slick you were - your sure his rude tip has formed a bruise there.
“Who the fuck leaves a cock this big for some pathetic little fling?” he taunts, voice dripping smug cruelty. “Do you have any idea how many sluts would kill to get split open on something this thick? And you ran far n’ wide just to let some tiny-dicked nobody be your first?”
He punctuates it with a particularly brutal ram that made your cunt gush out more fluids.
Your only coherent thought, floating somewhere above the pain and mind-melting pleasure, is:
He’s really talking shit about my ex… right now? While he’s literally taking my virginity?
Rerir seems to read it on your face, grinning genuinely for the first time in the night.
“What? Were you actually gonna let that loser pop ya cherry?-” He laughs darkly, hips never stopping their brutal rhythm. “-Cute. Stupid. But don’t worry, baby… I ngh, made the decision for you.”
His hands angled your hips to hit right in that spongy spot inside you, pain and pleasure blurred together as you hiccup and gasp.
“F-FFUCK! RIRI!”
The nickname slips out before you can stop it… Moaning mindlessly, too cockdrunk to realize what you had said, wrists burning from your frantic moving around.
Rerir goes completely still for half a second.
Then something in his face does something complicated — jaw tight, pink eyes flickering, like you just reached into his chest and squeezed.
His next thrust comes slower.
Deeper n’ more deliberate.
"T-that’s it." Rough. Barely above a whisper. “Let go f’me.”
Toes curling until it hurts — you cum so hard your vision whites out, mouth in a wide 'o' shape.
Rerir's grinding down your g-spot perfectly, making you go numb with the pleasure of him poking that tight orifice — right before you're bursting into your very first orgasm.
He doesn’t pull away even when you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.
Just keeps grinding that fat cockhead against your cervix like he’s never letting you go again.
Silky ropes of cum pour deep into the back of your pussy — thick, goopy, and endless.
Splashing around every time he fucks his groin inside, collecting right where he keeps pressing like a button he has no intention of releasing.
Being fucked through peak after peak.
Thrust after thrust all targeting that same ruined spot.
When you finally come down, those same pink predatory eyes are staring into your star-struck ones.
And you know with terrifying clarity, that he’s not chasing you a second time.
🔪 VARKA — “Too Much?”
I’m so mature.
Varka keeps telling himself that, knuckles white around the rag as he wrings it out over the bucket.
Pink. Then red. Then clear again.
Methodical. Steady. Same hands that carved through warzones without flinching. Same hands that just turned her little side-piece into red paste across the cabin walls.
Heh. Mature.
The rag rips clean down the middle.
He stares at the torn halves for half a second, lips twitching. Tosses them aside and grabs a fresh one.
I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so fucking mature.
Three weeks of that bullshit looping in his skull.
Ever since Kaeya dropped it so casually — she’s seeing someone now. Varka had just nodded, smiled, and gritted out through clenched teeth, ‘Good for her,’ with the straightest face in all of Mondstadt.
Then went home and split a training dummy clean in half.
Now the cabin reeks of iron.
Blood on the walls, floorboards, and blood drying in his blond hair and streaked across his scars.
And he’s still cleaning...calm as you please.
Because he’s the Grand Master, he doesn’t get jealous.
He's mature.
Footsteps hit the porch — right on time, like clockwork.
That familiar little rhythm that used to make his chest warm. Now it makes his cock twitch against his thigh like a goddamn animal.
Wringing the new rag, slower now. Blood drips plip… plip… plip into the bucket while his blue eyes flick toward the door.
Frozen in the doorway. Eyes wide. Pretty little mouth falling open at the massacre he made of her ex.
3...2…1
“VARKA WHAT THE HELL!”
Flashing her that same easy, sheepish grin he always gives when he comes home late from a mission.
“Princess-” he drawls “-it’s not what it looks like.”
You’re frozen in the doorway.
The entire cabin is covered in blood. It’s everywhere — walls, floor, even the ceiling.
The smell is so thick it makes your throat close up.
And there’s Varka.
On his knees in the middle of it all. Blond hair matted with red. Scars stood out sharply against all the blood. Blue eyes looking up at you with that same easy, friendly expression he always wears.
He’s casually wiping down his claymore with a rag like he’s cleaning dirt off it after training.
Your man... or what’s left of him is lying in a heap a few feet away.
He gives you a bashful little smile. “Alright, okay, I know how this looks,” his voice warm and almost playful as he wrings the bloody rag out between his huge hands.
“Things got a little out of hand. I really did try to talk to him first, doll. Swear on my honor. But the guy just wouldn’t listen. Kept going on and on about how he was in love with you and wouldn't leave you…” He lets out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.
“I just didn’t like how obsessed he was getting with you. So… I handled it.”
Why and how the fuck is he so nochalant? Well, of course, violence wasn't new for him since he is the grandmaster...but this was insane!
This psycho literally killed your boyfriend, and for what?!-
Your eyes darted from him to the mangled corpse a few feet away then back at Varka, him catching your stare and chuckling at your expression.
That was until your knees started to buckle, and the world began to blur as the familiar feelings of danger banged in your head.
This is exactly why you left him.
The man can stand in a room full of someone else’s blood and talk to you like he just spilled juice on the carpet.
You thought if you left, he would've gotten better- you were so wrong.
You stumbled a bit, the faint deja vu of stress reeling in.
Varka notices immediately. His blue eyes widen. “Ah, doll—wait, don’t!—”
Your vision goes black before you even hit the floor.
.
.
🔪
SCHLCK! SCHLORP! SCHLCK!
He’s got you folded in half before you even wake up.
Strong forearms hooked all tight n’ draaaaagging them upwards- the moment your pussy’s smeared all open, it’s letting out the most lecherous squelch!
Your back plastered to his sweat-slick chest, pussy spread obscenely wide and already drooling all over his thick cock.
The moment he spears back in — SCHLCK! — your eyes snap open on a broken wail.
“NGHH… FUH—?!”
Varka groans low against your ear, chin digging into the crook of your neck so he can watch the way your poor cunt stretches around him.
Every brutal upward thrust makes your tits bounce, makes more of that gooey white cum he already pumped into you earlier splatter out in messy little bursts.
“Fuuuull fuckin’ Nelson,” he pants, hoarse and delighted. “There she is. There’s my good girl.”
He rocks you on his cock like you weigh nothing.
Huge hands locked behind your head, forcing you to look down at the obscene sight your puffy folds split wide, his fat, veiny length disappearing into you over and over, creamy ring of cum and slick coating his base.
Your walls flutter desperately around his girth, clenching, milking, trying to push him out and pull him deeper all at once.
Legs tremble uselessly in the air. You can’t kick or twist. Can’t do anything but take it.
“V-Varka— what?—are you AH! doing?!!”
He chuckles warmly and unhinged. Another mean thrust, cockhead bullying straight into your cervix.
“You passed out on me, princess. Looked so fuckin’ distressed. Figured this woulda helped wake n’ cheer ya up.”
SCHLORP!
Your cunt squelches obscenely with every slam. Slick sprays. His balls slap wet against your ass.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
He’s huffing against your temple now, hips never slowing.
You sputtered, “FUH- hah! please- this is- ngh- too much!”
“Too much?” His forearms flex harder beneath your knees, yanking you down another inch so his cock grinds mean against your cervix. “Princess, I just redecorated the whole damn cabin for ya and yer tellin’ me this is too much?”
You sob again, voice hoarse, head lolling against his sweat-slick shoulder, trying to calm him down like you used to do before.
“Y-You killed him- we can’t just! fuck— okay, o-okay, slow down, talk to me— we can fix t-this!—”
The word “fix” makes something in him snap clean in half.
He groans way more animalistic than before.
Teeth sinking into the side of your neck as he grinds his cock in deep, swollen tip kissing your cervix over and over like he’s trying to knock it open.
“Fix?” His voice is hoarse now. Shaky. That warm Grand Master tone is completely gone. “There’s nothing to fix. Yer mine, always have been. That pathetic fuck thought he could have ya, and I handled it.”
“I’m bein’ so mature about this,” Varka grits out, teeth clenched so hard you hear them click.
One brutal thrust punches the air out of you.
“So fuckin’ mature. Could’ve killed ya too the second you ran off with that nobody. Could’ve snapped yer pretty neck and kept ya here forever.”
That made you whimper, realizing he still could do it with the way he gripped your head.
His hips are pistoning harder, cock buried deep in your stomach battering it over, and over and over-
“But I didn’t. I was good. I waited. I cleaned up my mess like a big boy and now yer cryin’ and beggin’ me to slow down?”
Every word gets more feral.
Every time you try to talk Varka down, he fucks you harder, like he’s punishing you for even suggesting he’s out of control.
You whimper, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “I-I’m sorry— please just talk to me; we don’t have to—”
He cuts you off with a broken moan that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“Talk?” The word comes out shaky n’ unstable. “Ya really want me to talk while this pussy’s squeezin’ me so good? While you’re still drippin’ down my balls after I killed for you?”
His thrusts turn punishing. Short, deep, cervix-kissing jabs that make your vision spark white.
“I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so— fuckin’ mature—”
The mantra is falling apart. His voice is cracking. That easy smile you loved is gone, replaced by something wild and teeth-bared and terrifyingly fond.
You try one last time, voice small and trembling between moans.
“Ok look Varka… you’re scaring me—”
He buries his face in your neck, blond hair tickling your skin, and you feel his lips pull into a grin against your pulse.
“Good.”
Because he is scaring you.
And that fact alone has his cock throbbing so hard inside you it hurts.
You left him weeks ago.
Packed a bag in the middle of the night while he was out on some Grand Master bullshit.
Left nothing but a note that said you couldn’t do it anymore; the hovering, overprotectiveness, it all felt suffocating.
You ran.
He let you.
Told himself he was being mature. That if you needed space, he’d give it.
That the Grand Master of Mondstadt doesn’t chase. Doesn’t obsess. Doesn’t break.
Cause’ he’s handling it well!
Now here you are.
Folded in half in his arms like a fucking rag doll. Pussy gushing and fluttering and creaming all over the cock that just painted your ex across every surface of this cabin.
And you’re still trying to talk him down.
“You left me a note, princess. A fucking note. While I was out keeping Mondstadt safe. And the whole time I was tellin’ myself I was bein’ so goddamn mature.”
He shifted justttt enough to look at your face — eyes wild, pupils blown wide with obsession.
“Look at me. Being reasonable.”
His next thrust is so deep you completely went limp. "OHHH SHIT!-" Your eyes crossed, mouth slack.
SCHLORP—!
Thick ropes of fresh cum flood your insides without warning.
Hot. Endless. He doesn’t stop moving.
Just keeps grinding through his orgasm, fucking every last drop deeper while your own high crashes into you like a freight train.
You sob his name, orgasm crashing through, thighs violently shaking in the air.
Cunt clenching and gushing around him as he fills you past the point of overflowing, dripping down his cock to his balls.
Varka just holds you there. Folded. Full. His.
Pressing a slow, almost tender kiss to your tear-streaked cheek, blood from his face smearing against your skin.
“So glad I didn’t hafta kill ya princess,” he nuzzles into your neck chuckling lowly.
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