Z0mbzb££

Author and artist.

[z0mbzbee]

HIIIII IM BACKKK (heres art i'm working on!!!!)

[bardoftheshire]

When you're looking for a fluff fic but everyone is horny for the character so all you get is smut

[kimiiii2]

HARLEY SAWYER HEADCANONS PT.2

PART 1: HERE PART 2: HERE PART 3: HERE

GENERAL DISCLAIMERS: bad language, probably not canon-accurate. mild depictions of gore, leith and harley prank wars.

a/n: first part kinda blew up and even MORE so after the revelation he didn't die!! so i made this bc i 1, love the attention this is getting, and 2, I love this man. these are long examples for the most part, so if you're looking for short, sharp examples, this isn't for you.

human!harley

・Heavy coffee drinker. Caffeine is his lifeline in this job.

・Gets very pissed off when an experiment is done incorrectly by one of the lab boys. Will chase up whoever made the mistake and will make sure they never have a future at this company.

・Doesn't care if he comes to work with the appearance of a drunk person who looks like they slept on the streets. Will come into work looking like he got dragged through mud, but as long as he's sanitary enough to perform on the experiments, he doesn't really care how he looks.

・New scientists who would try to talk to the man would soon enough realise why older employees stay away from him. Newer employees assume he's like them and just looks burnt out from the work until they hear him open his mouth and almost call someone a really bad word, stare at his nametag and realise they fucked up.

・LOATHES having to do any work around the factory that doesn't directly involve him. Boring paperwork about the ins and outs of a proposed experiment isn't something he enjoys doing when the alternative is practical surgery.

・Is very much a people watcher. Can and will find out how to get under your skin if you so much as look at him the wrong way.

・Is either a smoker or a bad drinker. Or both. Knows its bad for him, but he couldn't care less; he hated this job.

・Very bad at reading other people's tones or even his own tone. Could sound rude or off-putting when he wasn't even meaning to. Helps with his persona, however, so he doesn't bother fixing it.

・Definitely has road rage. His language on the road would shock you.

・Finds it funny and watches when other people experience misfortune.

・Tells everyone his glasses are only reading glasses. They are actually supposed to be worn all the time, but he just doesn't want to tell anyone that. Leith took them once as a prank, thinking the doctor wouldn't even realise, but after the first hour, Leith realised Harley was actually blind as a bat.

・In retaliation, Harley took the man's coffee mug for a day, since he knew the man only drank out of his 'innovation is the key' mug. Leith scrambled to find the shittin' thing but never found it. Harley would chuckle as he witnessed the usual cheerful head of innovation grumble through the hallways.

・Has heard enough doctor jokes to make an entire corny joke book with it. Eddie really likes using those 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away' jokes while Harley shoves him off to the side and walks away with a scoff.

・Hates all the executives with a burning passion, especially that dickwad Leith Pierre. His cheery disposition upsets Harley immensely.

doctor!harley

・The TV 'head' on his neck is really heavy on his metal body. After the event, he had to adjust almost every one of the bodies to move the head into a better position so it didn't weigh as heavily. He has missed a few bodies, though, and sometimes switches into one of them and gets really upset.

・He kinda likes to hear himself talk, hence why he tends to talk so much over the speakers in canon game time.

・Likes to study the mini experiments from time to time when his usual work slows down. He'll set out Yarnaby to go fetch some random critter, then open up the insides of one of them to see if he can recognise his own handiwork. Maybe he'll even add some new additions to the creature if he's feeling particularly creative that day.

・Doesn't actually need to sleep, but his consciousness does benefit from a shutdown every few days or so. Could sleep for an hour or two, or many, many hours. Yarnaby would find him during these sessions and try to sit on the giant robot. The Doctor would be fuming every time he woke to the yarn beast sitting on him, but never directly did anything to stop him from doing it.

・He would never admit it, but the prototype does scare him a little. That sinister, lasting grin would linger in his mind long after the creature was gone.

・The list of failed experiments was small, almost nonexistent. But the times in which he had failed made him lose all his sanity. He'd feed them to Yarnaby while screaming about how it 'must have been something wrong with the wretched creature' and nothing to do with his actions.

・Still enjoys listening to some old tunes when the radio signal is good enough to play something. A nice jazz tune is usually his go-to, but he's fine with anything when the occasion arises.

・The player genuinely interests him. A human, after so long, lucky him! He assumes the player must have been a former scientist or colleague he would have spoken to on the rare occasion, since the face was somewhat memorable to him.

・Often reads back through some of his or his other co-workers' old notes regarding experiments and their processes for doing them. Chuckles when Dr White does something stupid since the man always had a knack for messing things up without him to fix it up.

・Sometimes, while wandering around, I would find some of the bodies of several employees he knew on the factory floor or down in the labs. Usually, he didn't care for any of them. His gaze would linger down to their stomachs as their intestines lay scrambled out on the floor. Good thing that would never be him. He was cursed to a robotic body.

before exp.1354!harley (Mini-Oneshot)

・The day most of the scientists knew about. The day Harley never expected to really ever happen.

・Harley was sitting in his office, sifting through experiment paperwork. The one thing about the job he really hated was the paperwork side of it. He heard a knock at his door.

・Leith strode in, head held high. "Sawyer! Good day to you!" The man smiled down at the head of special projects.

・" Pierre, what a surprise." He scoffed out, unamused. "What do you need now? I'm busy." The coffee on his desk is now being picked up to be sipped.

・"The lab boys got'ta question for you. Wanted me to grab ya for a minute." Leith answered, opening the door up for the doctor to walk out into the hallway.

・Harley grumbled and stood up, stretching his back out, a small crack making itself audible. "Fine, only this once."

・The two strode down the hallway, Pierre leading the other. "So Sawyer, I've wanted to pick your brain about a question i've been pondering."

・"Spill it, Pierre. I don't have all day." Harley interrupted. Leith seemed unaffected by the sudden interruption. The other smirked.

・"How do you think you got away with the theatre incident that while back, hm?"

・Harleys pace slowed at the man's words. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

・"Sure you do! After all, it was your mistakes that made that incident occur in the first place."

・"You don't know what you're talking about! I didn't have anything to do with-" Harley started, but then cut himself off as he felt the arms of two others pulling him back by his upper arms. "Hey, what is this?!"

・Leith smirked yet again at the scientist. "We can't let these incidents weigh down the company, Sawyer. You're a liability, a liability we can't continue to have fester."

・ Harley struggled against his captors. He can make out the faint grumblings from them, "Don't make this hard, Sawyer" "This doesn't have to be done harshy Doctor." He continued to try and wrangle his way out of their hold.

・"N-no! You can't do this to me! After all I've done for this company! You need me." Sawyer pleaded with the executive, who simply stood in front of him with his arms behind his back.

"Don't worry, Sawyer, you're going to be just fine. At least you know your intellect is useful. You should be lucky it's going for a good cause, and not down the drain."

・Harley screams out his pleas, but they fall on deaf ears. Leith smiles at the erratic man. "You'll be all shiny and new by the time White and his team are done with you."

・"You're a DEAD MAN, Leith. You will never be safe when I get my hands on you!"

・"Sure, Harley, Sure." Leith coos the man before ushering the men holding Sawyer to bring him to the operating room.

・ Harley thrashes and screams. Leith grins as the man is dragged off. One problem down. Now, to make sure it doesn't happen a second time if all goes correctly.

a/n: ok i'll admit i got carried away at the end, but i really wanted to write my interpretation of how harley got turned into 1354. it never gets explained fully, sooooooo i wanted to write my own heheheh. hope whoever reads this liked the headcanons and drop a like if u did, it really helps support my motivation!!

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

Okay okay so I just did a Harley Sawyer/Reader sickfic with some fluff and I really liked it, but it got me thinking about the darker (probably more realistic) version, where the doctor is MUCH more of an asshole who probably gets off on how much the player is struggling 🫶

Warnings for needles, some more mentions of wounds and gory medical stuff, Sawyer himself is a plethora of warnings (sadism, dacryphilia, and just being an ass)

Obviously he’d have to tie you down.

To keep you from moving too much while he worked, of course.

Though, when he actually did restrain you, it wasn’t exactly needed at the time. You would indeed get to the point where the pain was too much to keep still, but you were far from it at that moment.

When you did get there, however, it was bad.

The fever had you delirious, but it wasn’t enough to dull the fiery sting coursing over you. When Sawyer poured the saline solution on your wound, you couldn’t help but bite out a fractured cry as pain ripped through your abdomen.

It got worse from there, especially when he said he would have to remove some of the infected material.

Every movement from his end had you shrieking.

He seemed annoyed when he rolled his eyes at you, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Every scream and whimper was ecstasy in audible form.

Still, maybe to hide his enjoyment, or just another excuse to put his hands on you, he forced his palm over your mouth, nearly sighing in pleasure when one of your tears slipped over his pinky finger.

Finally, he backed away, grabbing a syringe and filling it with a few milligrams of antibiotics.

He couldn’t help but noticed the way your eyes widened when he approached, pupils widened in fear as they zeroed in on the needle.

“Will it help?”

Fuck

You sounded so gloriously desperate.

So needy.

So scared.

If he had any less self-control, he might have taken you then and there.

Instead, he shrugged, slightly hoping the indifference might increase the anxiety beating through your chest. “Some. It might hurt less, but it will still hurt.”

The response was honest, but he couldn’t help enjoy the way it had you biting your tongue in nervousness.

Nor could he help but enjoy the way you attempted to pull away when he got near, fruitlessly pulling against the leather resistants as he easily gripped your throat in his hand, pulling you towards his chest and forcing the end of the needle into your neck.

And there you were.

Writhing on the examination table, so small and pitiful and pathetic.

It was beautiful.

For someone who had paraded themselves around the factory like they owned the place, it was more than satisfying seeing you reduced to this by his own hand.

Who knew?

Maybe he would try to be nicer once you got better, seeing as nothing but a weak little creature beneath that confident, feisty exterior.

Maybe he’d hold back teasing you about the way you had begged for mercy, begged him to help you while simultaneously pleading for him to stop.

But realistically?

Probably not.

[dreamingofagalaxy]

Vital Signs: Unknown (Human!Harley Sawyer x Reader)

summary: you're a fourth year medical student hooking up with Dr. Sawyer.

warnings: smut, dom/sub themes, power dinamic, hospital/medical settings

a/n: english is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. This sets before the events of the Poppy Playtime games, so Harley is still working on the health field as a neurosurgery resident.

When it’s over for Harley, it is over. There are no tender kisses, no sweet words murmured into the dark to cushion the comedown. No pretending. No borrowed romance. Just silence.

Not because he’s cruel—not exactly—but because he’s honest. Brutally, inflexibly honest.

“Words waste time,” he once told you.

It wasn’t meant to hurt. It was just who he was. A man of logic, not lullabies.

And you never asked for more. You both agreed —from the very beginning—this wasn’t about feelings. It was clinical. Controlled. Mutual benefit. And you thanked him for it.

The problem, of course, was that the heart doesn’t follow contracts. It rebels. Quietly at first, then all at once. And before your mind could smother it with reason, it had already started reaching for something Harley wasn’t offering.

Still, you remind yourself: at least he never let you leave unsatisfied. He was meticulous, even in that.

Where others would lie back in post-action haze, maybe reach for your waist, mumble about staying the night — Harley was already on his feet, his voice steady and professional.

“Are you alright?”

If you nodded, he would offer a hand, guide you to the bathroom like he was prepping a patient for post-op care.

“You already know this,” he’d say as the water ran, his tone neutral. “But this helps with muscle recovery and lowers infection risk.”

He no longer asks whether you prefer warm or cold water. He memorized it after the second time. Just like everything else. The temperature. The pressure. The exact brand of soap you use.

He adjusts the faucet with precision, then steps aside, his gaze flicking over you once—clinical, not lingering.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Get in.”

The water hits your skin gently, the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones. You exhale. Harley waits — arms crossed, watching, but never impatient. He always knows when you’ve had enough.

Tonight, he joins you wordlessly.

No question. No permission sought.

You don’t mind. You had a hellish week on the trauma floor, and maybe he noticed.

His hands move over you with slow certainty, washing away more than just sweat. And for once, neither of you fills the quiet.

It’s not uncomfortable. It’s intimate.

“Let me know if anything hurts,” he says softly.

“Lean on me.”

“Is this okay?”

That voice — so often sharp and cold in the hallways — becomes something else in this space. Low. Careful. Almost...reverent.

You know this version of him is rare. Others would not even believe it exists, and maybe it’s not so illogical, what your heart yearns for.

He dries you afterward with a clean towel, hands gentler than his eyes will ever be. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask what you’re thinking. He just moves with the focus of a man repairing something delicate.

Then, like clockwork:

“You can stay.” He offers.

But you always decline, and hate yourself for it.

You also know — staying would make it real. And real is not part of the arrangement.

Harley doesn’t let you go home alone, of course. He drives. Watches you walk inside. Waits until the door is closed.

It's efficient. It's polite.

It's Harley.

And yet, as you lie awake later, replaying the rhythm of his chest, the pressure of his hands, the silence between words, you realize something that can’t be measured, monitored, or charted.

Some vitals…are unknown.

The next time you see him in the hospital, he won’t mention it. He never does.

But every time he touches you — every time he says "get some rest," or "you forgot to eat again" — you wonder if maybe, maybe... there’s something deeper than what you agreed to.

But you don’t ask.

Because that would break the logic and Harley lives by logic. Even if it’s killing you.

~

In the hospital, everything must be done fast, precisely, without hesitation. Second-guessing costs time, and time costs lives. It’s exhausting. But you knew that when you chose this path. No one becomes a doctor to sleep easy.

Today, you're transferring from Emergency to the Internal Medicine floor — the next stage in your clinical rotation. Maybe, just maybe, this one will be less chaotic. Quieter.

You’re not holding your breath.

Your colleagues are already waiting in the hallway, shuffling in place and chattering in soft, hopeful tones. You join the cluster, exchanging smiles and small jokes. The mood is lighter here — less clipped, less blood-soaked. But still: alert.

“They say IM is a calm storm,” one of the students murmurs.

“Looks calm until a liver fails,” another snorts.

Then:

“Good morning.” The voice cuts through conversation like a scalpel.

You all straighten instinctively, snapping to attention as if summoned by some invisible drill sergeant. Medical school does that — it drills obedience into your spine.

A man in his late thirties steps forward.

“Well,” he says with a warm chuckle. “Looks like the ER trained you all like soldiers.”

His smile puts some of the group at ease.

“I’m Dr. Lawrence Moore. You can call me Lawrence — unless you're screwing up. Then it’s Doctor Moore.”

A few nervous laughs ripple.

“Internal medicine isn’t as fast as the ER, but that doesn't mean it’s easy. The patients here are often quiet...until they’re not. Pay attention.”

You listen.

He’s clear. Sharp. The kind of attending who expects you to learn, not just watch. His voice is calm, composed — a noticeable contrast to the chaos of trauma units. He gestures as he leads your group down the hallway, introducing the IM wing.

“These rooms house patients with chronic illnesses — renal failure, diabetes complications, advanced COPD. Not glamorous, but essential. Here’s the dialysis unit. If you’re not comfortable watching someone throw up blood, don’t worry — you’ll get used to it.”

The other students ask questions, most of which he answers with a thoughtful nod, or a soft correction. Even when a question is clumsy, Lawrence never makes anyone feel stupid. Unlike the ER.

He walks you through protocols. Notes. Where to find charts. What nurses hate. When to speak. When to stay invisible. All with a quiet, methodical rhythm.

You exhale, just slightly. Internal Medicine feels survivable.

He introduces you to the residents on rotation — all slightly older, bleary-eyed, but more human than the ER zombies. Then the nurses — many polite, a few curt, all very competent always.

One of them eyes your group like they’ve already failed. You know that look. Don’t touch anything. Don’t slow us down. Fair enough.

Days pass. Routines settle. You stop flinching at every overhead code call. Internal Medicine is not forgiving — but it’s deliberate. Thoughtful. You track labs, assist in rounding, shadow the residents as they debate the merits of diuretics versus IV fluids in an old woman’s swollen lungs.

The pace is more humane.

Still, you know better than to relax completely. Hospitals are just calm between collapses.

You’re learning the nurses’ names — the sharp ones, the kind ones, the ones who will save your life when you forget to double-check a potassium level. You’ve already had a few too many awkward conversations, but you’re learning.

One of the fourth-years — tall, confident, with her stethoscope always perfectly looped — starts inviting you to lunch. You sit together sometimes and trade horror stories from past rotations. It’s nice. But you feel something...unspoken in the air lately. Like the floor’s about to shift.

And it does.

It happens mid-morning. You’re reviewing a case file at the nurse’s station, flipping through labs and trying to decode a confusing ECG. The usual hum of the floor surrounds you — nurses discussing meds, residents bickering, students fidgeting.

Then the air changes. Not temperature. Not lighting. Just—something.

Conversation falters. Laughter dies mid-syllable. You feel it before you hear it: that collective shift into silence. Heads turn. Postures straighten.

You don’t even need to look.

But you do.

He’s walking down the hallway like he owns the floor.

Dr. Harley Sawyer.

His expression perfectly controlled, like everything else about him. A pristine white coat swaying with each step. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the eyes you once saw up close, too close.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

No nods. No smiles. Just a glance at the chart in his hand, and forward motion — calibrated, composed. You’ve seen those hands twist open a retractor and undo your spine at the same time.

“That’s Dr. Harley Sawyer,” a nurse murmurs beside you.

They say it like it’s a warning.

“Neurosurgery. Final year.”

“Doesn’t talk unless he has to.”

“He’s terrifying.”

“What’s he doing on this floor?”

“No one knows.”

“No one asks.”

You should keep reading the ECG. You don’t. Your eyes track him, like everyone else’s.

Except yours are different.

You’re not in awe. You’re not intimidated. You’re remembering nights, not charts. Fingers gripping your hips instead of scalpels. The sharpness of his voice when he told you to keep your eyes open. The silence that always followed when it was over.

“Don’t confuse this for more than it is.”

You didn’t.

At least, you tried not to.

“Avoid him,” a student mutters to your left. “He’s brilliant. But he’ll ruin you if you get in his way.”

You don’t respond. You already know.

You watch him pass without a glance your way. And still—your pulse stutters.

Not from fear. From recognition.

From the very specific ache of watching a man walk past you like you’re a stranger — even though he’s memorized exactly how you fall apart in his hands.

You look back down at your chart.

But the lines blur for just a second too long.

~

The patient in 12B has been deteriorating since morning.

Post-op from a car accident — stable yesterday, confused today. Slurred speech, left-sided weakness, vomiting. Neurological signs. Could be pressure. Could be a slow bleed. Could be nothing.

But the IM resident isn’t willing to take that chance.

“Page neurosurgery,” she says, quickly scribbling a note. “We’ll need their input before imaging. Go with them, will you?” she nods at you. “Help coordinate, follow the consult.”

You nod.

You don’t ask who’s on call. You don’t have to.

Fifteen minutes later, he walks in.

Dr. Sawyer.

White coat unwrinkled. Glasses shining under the fluorescent light. Clipboard in hand. He doesn’t look at anyone. He doesn’t need to.

“You paged?” he says.

The resident straightens slightly. Everyone does when he speaks.

“Yes. Patient in 12B. Post-op day two, status change this morning. Confusion, vomiting, some left-side weakness. We’re concerned about a possible bleed.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, reviews the chart, and then turns to the patient without ceremony.

You step aside to give him room — not because he asked. Just instinct.

His voice is calm as he runs the exam. Reflexes. Eye movement. Grip strength. All without wasted words.

“Get a stat CT head. I’ll review the imaging myself.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Not once has he looked at you. Not once has he let anything crack the polished mask.

And yet, every part of you is on fire.

Because you can feel it. Beneath the silence. Beneath the white coat and the perfect notes.

You remember how that voice sounds at 2 AM, gravel rough and low in your ear.

You remember the weight of those hands — now gloved and clinical — pressing you into the mattress like you were something to dissect.

But he says nothing. And so do you.

The resident steps away to place the imaging order. That leaves you alone. With him.

Harley finally turns to you. Briefly. His expression doesn’t change. His voice doesn’t lower.

“Walk with me.”

You do.

You follow him down the corridor in silence, heading toward radiology.

You know what this looks like — two professionals on a consult. Calm. Focused.

But inside, you’re barely breathing.

At last, near the stairwell, where no one else lingers, he speaks. Still looking straight ahead.

“You should’ve said something,” He breaks the silence.

“About what?”

“That you were rotating on IM.”

Your throat tightens. You keep your tone neutral.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stops. Turns his head just enough to look at you.

“It doesn’t.”

And it does. You both know it. But neither of you will admit it.

He walks ahead again.

You follow.

The CT scan confirms what everyone feared.

A slow subdural hematoma — thin, crescent-shaped, putting pressure on the right hemisphere. The kind that doesn’t scream until it’s too late. Harley reviews the film with the radiologist, standing like a statue, his arms crossed and eyes scanning every frame without blinking.

You stand nearby, hands folded behind your back, watching him pretend he doesn’t know the curve of your spine beneath your white coat.

“He’ll need burr hole drainage,” Harley says. “Not urgent yet, but soon. Within the hour. I’ll take him upstairs.”

The Internal Medicine resident nods quickly, impressed and slightly intimidated.

“Should I get consent from the family?” she asks.

“Already did,” Harley replies without looking at her. “He’s under my service now.”

Then he turns — finally — and meets your eyes. Just for a moment. It feels like a slap and a secret, both at once.

“You’re assisting.” His voice is flat, precise.

“Of course.”

No one flinches. Not even you.

No one suspects that he once whispered “Don’t move” against your collarbone like a prayer he couldn’t control.

In the OR prep, everything runs like clockwork. You’ve assisted in procedures before, but not like this. Not with him.

Every instruction he gives is sharp. Efficient. Unforgiving. And you follow each one flawlessly.

“Retractor.”

“Suction.”

“Hold here.”

You don’t falter. Don’t breathe too loud. You are calm. Clinical.

But under the sterile lights, sweat prickles behind your surgical cap — not from nerves, not from fear — but from the tension that coils tighter with every brush of gloved hands and every wordless glance.

When the operation is done — a clean evacuation, no complications — Harley peels off his gloves like he’s washing his hands of the whole world.

“He’ll make it,” he says to the room, and nothing else.

And just like that, he’s gone.

No one notices how fast your heartbeat is when you leave the OR.

Later, while charting on a shared computer, one of the other med students sidles up beside you.

“So…what’s he like?”

You blink. “Who?”

“Dr. Sawyer.”

You shrug, nonchalant. “Exacting. Cold. Efficient.”

“So all the rumors are true, huh? That he’s brilliant but psycho?”

You fake a laugh. “I mean, I haven’t seen him throw a scalpel. Yet.”

They snort, satisfied.

“He’s terrifying. I heard a nurse cried last week ‘cause he snapped at her for mislabeling a scan.”

You nod. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

You play along. Smooth. Effortless. Like your body doesn't still remember the way his hand held your neck—firm, never cruel.

~

Days start bleeding into each other.

You wake before the sun — not because you want to, but because the hospital doesn’t care about wanting. The air in your apartment is cold, your coffee is colder, and the walk to the bus stop feels longer every morning. By the time you’re stepping onto the ward, you’ve already been up for hours, pulse settling into the rhythm of the day.

The fluorescent lights never change. The beeping never stops. The smell of antiseptic has settled into your hair.

You learn small survival tricks: which vending machine jams less, which elevator doesn’t shake between floors, which nurses will answer questions without making you feel like an idiot. You can tell which attending will quiz you until you sweat and which ones will pretend you don’t exist.

Harley Sawyer is firmly in the first category.

On shift, he doesn’t look at you unless he’s asking a question. And it’s never easy. It’s never “How’s your day?” It’s:

“What are the differential diagnoses for acute unilateral mydriasis?”

Or...

“Explain the vascular supply to the brainstem — all of it.”

No room for hesitation. No mercy in his expression.

Today, there are five of you trailing behind him like shadows as he strides down the neurology ward, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, white coat sharp against the dim beige walls. His voice, when it cuts through the corridor, is smooth and controlled — too smooth.

He stops abruptly. Turns. His eyes land on the student nearest to him, a girl clutching her notebook like it might save her.

“Causes of Horner’s syndrome,” he says, tone almost gentle. Too gentle.

She blinks rapidly. “Um… lesion of the sympathetic chain, uh, carotid artery dissection, maybe—”

“Maybe?” His voice doesn’t rise, but it hardens, each syllable enunciated like a blade pressed flat. “You are in medicine. We do not ‘maybe.’ We know.”

Her face flushes crimson. She stammers, “Carotid dissection, apical lung tumor, brainstem stroke…”

He watches her falter through the list, then cuts her off, voice cold.

“Incomplete. You have studied poorly. Horner’s syndrome is not rare. Any competent physician should summon the causes in an instant. Do you understand?”

She nods quickly, eyes downcast.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” he adds, voice soft but sharp enough to sting.

Her chin jerks up. His gaze bores into her for one long, uncomfortable moment before he pivots on his heel and resumes walking, as if nothing had happened.

The silence among the group is heavy. You can feel everyone’s pulse thudding, everyone praying he won’t turn next to them.

He does.

“Mr. Klein,” he says, without slowing. “You. Pathophysiology of subarachnoid hemorrhage.”

The tall boy swallows. “Uh—rupture of a berry aneurysm in the circle of Willis, leading to bleeding into the subarachnoid space, which—uh—raises intracranial pressure and—”

“Stop.” Harley halts so suddenly the group stumbles again. He turns fully toward Klein, his expression unreadable but his voice deceptively mild.

“You think stammering through a half-formed thought is an adequate answer?”

Klein stutters, “N-no, Doctor.”

“No. It is not.” His tone sharpens, slicing now. “Subarachnoid hemorrhage presents with sudden-onset headache, photophobia, nuchal rigidity. Blood in the cerebrospinal fluid causes meningeal irritation, vasospasm, and hydrocephalus. If you cannot recite that without hesitation, you are not safe in a hospital. You are a liability. Do better, or do something else with your life.”

The words hang there, heavy, brutal in their precision. Klein nods mutely, throat bobbing.

And then, finally, Harley’s gaze turns to you.

Your chest tightens, but your face stays blank. He tilts his head a fraction, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Blood supply to the cerebellum,” he says.

Your voice is steady. “Vertebral arteries give rise to posterior inferior cerebellar arteries. Basilar artery gives rise to...anterior inferior cerebellar arteries and superior cerebellar arteries.”

There’s a silence. His gaze doesn’t move. For a second too long, it rests on you, unreadable — assessing, calculating.

“Correct.” He turns away, already walking again.

It’s nothing.

It’s always nothing.

But the back of your neck burns, as though he had touched you there.

The rest of the students scribble furiously in their notebooks, desperate to memorize not just the content of his questions but the exact cadence of his corrections — as though aping his tone might protect them from his contempt.

When another student misidentifies a CT slice, he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. He simply says, “How disappointing. You are supposed to know that. If you cannot recognize a basal ganglia hemorrhage, you have no place here.

The boy stammers an apology. Harley doesn’t even look at him.

“Spare me your apologies. Learn or leave.”

And the hallway is silent again, filled only with the sound of his shoes against the linoleum, crisp and even, as though he hadn’t just dismantled someone’s confidence with a single sentence.

~

The hospital after midnight never really sleeps, it just lowers its voice.

Floors hum under flickering fluorescent lights, nurses murmur in clipped tones, and somewhere down the hall an ancient paging system crackles like a dying cigarette.

You’ve been up for…what, eighteen hours? Twenty? It doesn’t matter. You had a twenty-minute nap during the lull between admits, ate half a vending-machine sandwich and now you’re steady again. Functional. Able to think.

You’re writing orders for a septic patient, focusing hard on each line so you don’t screw up your numbers. Your pen scratches across paper. The chart smells faintly of disinfectant and ink.

A sharp knock hits the doorframe.

You look up.

Harley stands there.

Not the version of him that leads you to his apartment at 11 p.m. Not the one who moves your hips so easily you forget your own name. Not the one who presses his forehead to yours and breathes like he’s starving.

This one is fully uniformed: white coat open, scrub shirt wrinkled, pager clipped to his belt. Eyes cold. Awake in the way exhausted surgeons are — alive only because adrenaline refuses to leave their bloodstream.

“Your patient in 14,” he says. “What are you giving them?”

It’s not unfriendly. It’s just…clinical.

You straighten a little. “Cefazolin, two grams IV every eight hours. Blood cultures drawn already, still waiting on—”

“Their renal function?” he cuts in.

You flip the chart, heartbeat stuttering. “I—yes, I checked. Creatinine was…”

Your voice trails. You look at the number and your stomach drops.

You misread it earlier. You wrote orders too quickly.

You didn’t dose-adjust.

Harley sees the shift on your face before you speak.

“Too high,” he says bluntly. “They need modified dosing.”

You swallow. “I’ll fix it.”

His jaw tightens — not anger, more…recognition. 

You know that look. You’ve seen it in his room, when he studies you quietly before touching you. Except now there’s no warmth. Just expectation.

“Look at me,” he says softly, but not kindly.

You do.

“This is someone’s life,” he says. “Not a worksheet. Not an exam. You double-check everything, even at two-thirty in the morning.” A beat. “You don’t get shortcuts.”

The words hit harder because there’s no venom. Just truth.

You nod, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Harley exhales through his nose — a long, tired breath. He’s been on for thirty hours, maybe more. 

“This is your rotation,” he says. “You want internal? Then act like it. You’re capable.” His tone softens by about two percent — enough for you to feel it, not enough for anyone else to detect. “But I won’t treat you differently.”

You stiffen. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, “but you might have expected it.”

He isn’t cruel. He isn’t mocking. He isn’t wrong.

You shake your head. “Harley—”

He lifts a hand, stopping the conversation before it starts.

“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not on a shift. Not in this building.”

The hallway hums behind him — an orderly rolling a cart, a monitor beeping two doors down, the night nurse laughing quietly at a joke you can’t hear.

Harley stands still. Like he’s carved from the same steel as the instruments he spends his life controlling.

“Fix the order,” he says. “Then recheck your patient.”

You nod. “Yes, doctor.”

For a half-second, something flickers in his eyes. A small break. A private ache.

Then it seals.

He pushes off the doorframe.

“Good,” he says, stepping back. “Page me if they decompensate.”

He turns, walking down the hallway, coat swaying behind him, stride sharp with exhaustion and authority.

You stare at the chart for a long moment, pulse unsteady.

Tonight, he made sure you remembered your place.

After that night, you don’t cross the line again.

Not once.

On the floor, you call him Doctor Sawyer every time. You stand when he enters a room. You wait to speak until he addresses you. You don’t anticipate his needs the way you used to —don’t hand him things before he asks, don’t soften your tone, don’t linger.

You become exactly what he said you were.

A student.

~

It’s just after six. The ward smells like stale coffee and antiseptic. You’re standing with the other students as Harley reviews a chart, his pen tapping once against the paper.

“What’s the sodium trend?” he asks, not looking up.

You answer crisply. Correctly. No qualifiers. No hesitation.

He nods once. “Good.” Nothing more.

When he turns to the next student, your eyes stay on the floor. Professional. Neutral. You don’t meet his gaze again.

Three nights later, his pager goes off while you’re finishing notes.

He finds you at the desk ten minutes later.

“You paged,” he says.

“Yes, Doctor Sawyer.”

You explain the issue — concisely, cleanly, no extra commentary.

He listens. Interrupts only once. Approves your call.

“That was appropriate,” he says.

You nod. “Thank you.”

You turn back to your chart before he can say anything else.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he walks away.

~

It happens on a Thursday. Late. Too late for it to be accidental.

You’re locking up the chart room when you hear his voice behind you.

“You still on?”

You turn. He’s leaning against the wall, coat off. Tired. Familiar in a way that tightens something behind your ribs.

“Yes,” you say. “Another hour.”

A pause.

“Come by after,” he says, quietly.

Not a question. Not an order. Just an opening.

You search his face — for warmth, for meaning, for anything that suggests this is more than logistics.

There’s nothing there. Just expectation.

“Alright,” you reply, evenly.

And that’s when something changes.

You don’t linger when you arrive at his apartment. You don’t talk. You don’t ask how his day was. You don’t wait for him to lead. You treat it like what he told you it was.

Mutual. Efficient. Contained.

The door barely clicks shut behind you before your hands are on each other—urgent, practiced. You push him back toward the bedroom, fingers already working the buttons of his shirt, exposing the lean lines of his chest that you’ve memorized over these stolen nights. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften. His eyes are sharp behind his glasses, assessing even now, as if cataloging every response your body gives.

You strip each other with the same clinical precision you both bring to the OR—no wasted movements, no hesitation. His hands are steady on your hips as he backs you onto the bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the fire building between you. You arch into him when he kisses down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to elicit a gasp you try to swallow. He’s always like this: controlled, exacting, demanding perfection even here. His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already slick, and he hums low in approval—a rare sound that sends a shiver through you.

“Like that,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rougher than his usual clipped tone. It’s not praise, it’s observation. 

You pull him closer, guiding him inside you with a shared breath that breaks the silence. He fills you slowly at first, eyes locked on yours, watching for the flicker of discomfort he’d never allow. Then faster, deeper, the rhythm building like a crescendo he conducts flawlessly. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in as pleasure coils tight in your core. He adjusts his angle with that perfectionist instinct—there, exactly there—and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes.

His forehead drops to yours, glasses pressing cool against your skin, breaths mingling in the space between. For a moment, it’s not contained. His thrusts falter, just slightly, as if he’s fighting something unspoken. You feel it too—the pull, the ache that’s more than physical. Your heart stutters against his chest, syncing in a way that scares you, because this was never supposed to be emotional. Just bodies. Just release.

He buries his face in your neck as he comes, a low groan muffled against your pulse, his body shuddering over yours. You follow seconds later, clenching around him, waves crashing through you that leave you trembling and raw. He stays inside you longer than usual, arms caging you in, holding you there as aftershocks ripple between you.

Afterward, you sit up first. Reach for your clothes without looking at him.

“I should go,” you say.

He watches you for a moment too long—those sharp eyes softer now, conflicted behind the lenses.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice quieter than before, almost hesitant.

You shrug, tugging on your shirt to hide the way your hands shake. “I’ve got rounds in the morning.”

It’s true. It’s also distant.

He doesn’t argue. But as you stand, he reaches out—fingers brushing your wrist, light enough that you could pull away. You don’t. Not immediately.

His thumb traces the inside of your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat you can’t hide. “This…” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening. The perfectionist in him hates the uncertainty.

You meet his gaze, and for the first time, the boundaries feel fragile. You want to ask if he feels it too—the way this keeps bleeding into something more. But you remember his words. Professional. Contained.

You pull your hand back gently. “It’s fine, Harley.”

He lets you go, but his eyes follow you to the door, lingering with an emotion he won’t name. Neither will you. Not yet.

~

Weeks pass.

On the floor, you’re untouchable. Impeccable.

You answer his questions flawlessly. You never stay late to talk. You never look for him.

Other residents start trusting you. Nurses too.

Harley starts watching. Not openly. Never openly.

But you catch it sometimes — the way his eyes linger when you present, the way his jaw tightens when another resident compliments your work.

He says nothing. 

This time, he doesn’t phrase it carefully.

“You coming over tonight,” he says, passing you in the hallway.

Not even stopping. His white coat brushes yours, the faint scent of antiseptic and coffee lingering in his wake.

“Yes,” you answer, because that’s what you’ve been doing.

Not because you need it. Not because you expect anything. Just because it’s routine.

The door to his apartment shuts with the same quiet click as always. No words at first—just the familiar pull. You’re against the wall before you reach the bedroom, his mouth on yours, hungry and unyielding. His glasses press into your cheek as he kisses you deeper, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself.

You tug at his tie, loosening it, buttons scattering as you push his shirt open. He groans low against your lips. 

“Fuck,” the sound raw, unguarded. It’s the first crack in the armor tonight.

Clothes fall away in the hallway, a trail leading to the bedroom. He lifts you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the bed. When he lays you down, his eyes rake over you—dark, intense, almost possessive. You reach for him, pulling him down, and he comes willingly, mouth trailing fire down your throat.

“Harley,” you whisper, arching when his teeth scrape your collarbone.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand slips between your thighs and he exhales shakily against your skin. “Always so ready for me,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost reverent. Two fingers slide inside you slowly, curling just right, and you moan—soft, broken.

“Please…”

He watches your face as he works you open. Your hips buck, chasing more, and he presses deeper, drawing another moan from you that sounds too much like his name.

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow—agonizingly slow. He fills you inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, glasses slightly fogged. You both still for a moment, breathing hard, foreheads touching.

“God, you feel…” he starts, voice cracking. He doesn’t finish. Just thrusts deeper, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.

You cling to him, nails raking down his back as the pace builds—harder, faster, the bed creaking under you. His breath stutters against your ear.

“Like that,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just like that—fuck—don’t stop making those sounds.”

You can’t. Every thrust pulls another moan from you, louder now, unrestrained. “Harley—ah—right there—”

He angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you cry out, clenching around him. His rhythm falters, he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like it hurts.

“Come for me,” he breathes against your skin, voice trembling. 

It breaks you. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body arching off the bed as you come with a shattered moan, pulsing around him. He follows seconds later, thrusting deep, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Stays buried in you, arms wrapped tight around your back, holding you close like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your heart pounds against his, too loud in the quiet.

Later, he helps you shower as he used to—gentle now, almost tender. His hands glide over your skin with soap, washing away the evidence, but his touch lingers longer than necessary. 

When you leave, he walks you to the door like always.

Watches you put on your coat, fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter than before, eyes searching your face behind those glasses.

You nod. “I’m fine.”

And you are.

That’s the problem.

Because you shouldn’t be. Not after the way he held you like you were something fragile. Not after the way he whispered your name like a confession.

But you smile anyway—small, distant—and step into the hallway.

Before he offers to take you home, you tell him you'll be fine on your own. This time you need space to clear your mind.

He watches you go, hand lingering on the doorframe, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Neither of you says it.

Not yet.

But it hits him in fragments.

The way you don’t hesitate anymore. The way you don’t soften when he touches you. The way you don’t look back at him when you leave.

He built the boundary. You respected it. Too well.

One night, after you dress and reach for the door, he speaks.

“You don’t stay anymore.”

You pause. Turn back.

“You told me not to confuse it for more than it is.”

Silence.

He has no answer for that.

You wait. Just long enough.

When he says nothing, you nod once — polite, professional — and leave on your own again.

The door closes softly behind you.

And for the first time, Harley stands alone in a quiet apartment, realizing that logic is very good at drawing lines…

And very bad at teaching you how to cross them back.

~

You become excellent.

Not flashy. Not loud. Just…precise.

You arrive early, charts already reviewed, labs trended neatly in the margins. Your notes grow cleaner. Your presentations sharpen. You stop filling silences with explanation. You state facts and wait.

Attendings begin to nod when you speak. Nurses stop double-checking you.

Even the residents — exhausted, half-broken — start trusting your judgment.

Harley watches all of it from a careful distance.

It’s a cramped room with a chalkboard that never quite erases cleanly. Someone’s left a cigarette burn on the edge of the table from years ago, before the rules tightened. 

You’re presenting a complicated case — cirrhosis with worsening encephalopathy, electrolytes swinging unpredictably.

You finish without embellishment.

Harley leans back slightly, arms crossed.

“And your plan?” he asks.

You meet his eyes briefly — just long enough to answer.

“Lactulose titrated to effect. Monitor ammonia. Avoid sedatives. Reassess mental status every four hours.”

A pause.

“Acceptable,” he says.

Not praise. Not warmth. But his gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than necessary.

The attending moves on. You don’t look back.

~

The morning passes without event.

You make your rounds. Check vitals. Chart updates. You’re steady in your routine — a rhythm of order and protocol.

The air on the internal medicine floor is calm today.

Until it’s not.

“Call neurosurgery,” a resident says sharply. “Now. This patient was cleared two days ago. What the hell—?”

You glance over — something's wrong in Room 18B. A woman, late fifties, recent fall. No initial signs of trauma. Admitted with confusion and a mild headache. They’d chalked it up to dehydration and anemia.

Only now she’s seizing.

The resident fumbles with the chart.

“She was lucid earlier. Talking. Vitals were fine—”

But she isn’t talking now. Her body twists violently in the bed. Alarms scream.

You hear someone call it in:

“Neuro consult. STAT. Dr. Sawyer.”

He arrives in under six minutes. Face unreadable. Eyes like blades.

You don’t need to be part of the case to feel it — the way the room shifts when he walks in. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t even register that you’re there.

Because all his fury is now focused on the trembling resident holding the chart.

“You paged this now?” His voice is sharp, low. “You wait until she’s seizing to call neuro?!”

“We—we thought it wasn’t neurological,” the resident stammers. “Vitals were—”

“You didn’t order a CT! No imaging! You relied on guesswork and hope!” He steps closer, the space between them almost threatening. “Let me ask you something,” Harley says. “What part of confusion, vomiting, and a fall makes you think not to check for a head bleed?!”

“We thought it was stable—”

“You thought,” Harley snaps. “You thought! Not the imaging! Not the evidence! Just you, an idiot playing with a woman’s life like it is a goddamn game!”

The resident opens his mouth. Closes it again.

You stay where you are — silent, distant. But watching. Always watching.

Harley turns to the patient. Barked orders now:

“Diazepam, 5mg IV. Set up for emergent CT. Get anesthesia down here—”

But it’s already too late.

By the time the scan is ready, she’s coding.

You move automatically when the crash cart arrives. Compressions. Medications. Airway support. The choreography of trying.

It doesn’t work.

The monitor flattens. Someone calls time. And the room goes silent.

Night has swallowed the hospital in blue-gray silence.

Most of the wards have gone quiet, the chaos of day replaced by tired footsteps and distant monitors beeping like metronomes for the dying. You slip away for a few minutes — to a forgotten corner near the vending machines.

You chew on a granola bar. Not because you're hungry. Just to do something.

The image of the patient lingers. The way her body arched. The twitch in her hand before she went under. The stillness that followed.

“Figures you’d be here.”

You freeze.

His voice cuts through the hum of the vending machine like a scalpel through skin.

You look up. Harley stands at the end of the hall. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

He approaches slowly, glancing around. There’s no one here. No nurses. No residents. Just you.

Just him.

He stops a few feet from you, eyes unreadable behind those damn glasses.

“When does your shift end?”

“Twenty minutes.”

He nods. Brief. Controlled.

Then, low:

“You’re coming with me.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a command.

You stare at him for a moment, the taste of protein bar and adrenaline still in your mouth.

There’s no please. There’s no would you like to.

You toss the wrapper into the trash without breaking eye contact.

“Okay.”

He turns without another word and walks away.

You’re left alone again and you already feel it — the tension in your stomach. The weight in your chest. The way your body starts to prepare itself for the next few hours.

His apartment hasn’t changed. Still immaculate. Still quiet. Still strangely impersonal, like a hotel room someone forgot to decorate. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

No lights are turned on.

You don't need them.

He sets his keys down without speaking.

You stand in the entryway, waiting.

Finally he turns to you.

“Take off your coat.”

It slips off your shoulders like compliance.

His fingers brush yours as he takes it. Cold.

He’s still in that hospital room, you realize. Still with that patient. Still angry.

He sets your coat aside without looking at you again. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch your face. Just grips your wrist and leads you through the apartment — past the kitchen, past the sterile furniture — into his bedroom.

You don’t resist.

You never do.

It’s not gentle. Yet it never is. 

He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t ask if it’s okay — not because he assumes, but because you already said yes the moment you followed him home. And you always have.

He’s not romantic. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t soften.

But tonight, he’s rougher than usual. Not cruel — not careless — but desperate in a way he doesn’t name. A rhythm that says I need to feel in control of something, and your body is the only thing that doesn’t disobey.

You let him.

You let him because you know this isn’t about you — it’s about the woman who died. The judgment he passed. The god he couldn’t be. And the rage that’s still burning behind his quiet exterior.

She shouldn’t have died.

He waited too long to page me.

They’ll forget her name tomorrow.

You hear it all in the way he touches you. Urgently. Mechanically. Like fixing a wound only he can see.

And you take it. Not because it’s romantic.

But because it’s real.

Harley places you beneath him and you sigh. Your legs are on his shoulders and he enters you. You try not to make a sound but he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. 

“You're not here,” his voice is cold. “Focus.”

And you try, because he doesn't want your empathy.  

He moves, pushing himself deeper inside of you. He breathes heavily as his pace becomes faster. It hurts at first but you don't deny the pleasure that comes with it too. 

Then he stops and places your legs at his sides this time. He enters again and you moan quietly. He begins thrusting harder, his breath warm next to your ear. You place your hands on his back, pushing him closer to you, your nails scratching him slightly. 

“Bury them,” he commands you as he continues. 

You do so and he lets out a sigh. He lowers himself more against you and you want to kiss the skin of his neck. 

Yet you don't.

You can't, or else—

“Bite,” he orders again. 

You obey. 

He moans. 

The pleasure embraces both of you. Your heavy breathing echoing in the room. He doesn't let you think of anything else. He wants you here. 

He stops and glances at you for a moment. The light from outside that enters the room allows you to see his cold eyes observing you all. 

He helps you up. Then he places you on all fours. He's feral but you can't say you don't enjoy it. You arch, your head pressed against his sheets. His hand goes to your head, while the other is on your waist, both keeping you at place.

You moan as he continues and then he moves his hand to your neck again as he leans slightly forward. 

It’s not dominance for pleasure.

It’s desperation wearing control like armor.

He slides his hand to your neck, fingers adding some pressure — never enough to fear, but enough to say stay here. Now. With me.

You do.

The rest of the world doesn't matter.

Not right now.

Not with him.

Not with this.

He doesn’t stop until you both come undone and even then — when your back arches and your breath breaks into a sigh — you don’t say his name.

You almost do.

But you swallow it. Like everything else you’re not allowed to feel.

Then he stills.

Not tender. Not cruel.

He simply lets you rest.

The sheets are half off the bed. Sweat cools slowly on your skin. Your limbs are warm and heavy. The world feels tilted, like something cracked and shifted while neither of you was watching.

You blink up at the ceiling, and your mind — traitorous, familiar — drifts once more.

Back to the hospital.

To the flatline.

To the silence that followed.

To the breath you held as you waited for someone to say she was still alive.

“You’re somewhere else, again.”

His voice slices clean through the fog.

Not loud. Not angry. Just precise — like everything he does.

You turn your head.

He’s watching you. Not with warmth. Not even irritation. 

With focus.

As if your silence is just another problem to be solved.

He pushes himself up on one elbow, his hand finding your jaw. Not rough, not gentle — just…firm. Unyielding.

“Look at me, Y/N.”

You do. Because when he says it like that, there’s no room for resistance. Your eyes lock, and it’s gravitational.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. “Don’t.”

You part your lips — maybe to apologize, maybe to explain — but he doesn’t let you.

“Focus.”

Another slow brush of his thumb.

“Stay here.”

A pause. 

A breath.

“With me.”

Something twists deep in your chest.

All this it’s about control—his—, and the fact that losing it terrifies him more than death itself.

He leans closer. His breath is warm against your lips, voice steady.

“You’re not allowed to carry that death on your shoulders,” he says. “That one’s mine.”

“Harley…”

He shakes his head.

“No. Listen, Y/N.”

His hand stays on your jaw, anchoring you as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, your thoughts will drag you somewhere he can’t follow.

“You’re not there anymore,” he says and it feels like he's talking to himself too. “That room is gone. The noise. The panic. That idiot resident. The damn distance I placed between us. All of it — gone.”

He leans in until your foreheads nearly touch.

“What’s real is this moment. Say it.”

You hesitate, breath catching.

“Say it.”

“…This is real.”

“Again.”

“This is real.”

He finally lets your face go — only to take your hand and press it flat against his chest.

His heartbeat is there. Strong. Steady. Too steady. 

“I need you here,” he says. “Not grieving for someone we couldn’t save.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his skin.

“Not wondering if this,” he adds, voice quieter now, almost like a confession he won’t fully name, “means something.”

A pause.

“It does.”

Your throat tightens.

Not because of the words.

But because of the truth he finally allowed himself to say.

You say nothing but your hand stays against his chest.

You breathe with him.

In and out. In and out.

Until the static fades, and the room feels balanced again.

Maybe tomorrow the hospital will come back.

The noise.

The chaos.

The silence of a monitor that refuses to change.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll be distant again. Controlled. Untouchable.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll pretend this moment never happened.

But tonight your hand rests over his heart, tracing the familiar beat.

Steady. Controlled. Precise. 

Just as he is.

Yet beneath the perfect rate, beneath the predictable cadence, there’s a pulse no measurement can track, a signal no formula can explain.

Some vitals…remain unknown.

[fallinangel44]

The Doctor's Angel

Harley Sawyer x F!Reader

ft. Prototype, Lily Lovebraids, CatNap, Yarnaby

Intro

TW: Horror, Blood, Gangbang, Penetration, Fingering, Gagging, Vaginal/Anal Penetration, Pain, Fear, References to physical abuse, Voyeurism/Exhibitionism, Dubcon, Bondage, Clit play, Hair pulling, Coercion, Manipulation, Blackmail, Experimentation, Overstimulation, P-in-v sex, Multiple rounds, Swearing, Sadistic Saywer (duh😭), Hate sex (one-sided), Scratching, Possible cannibalism, Dehumanization, Humiliation, Multiple positions, Unconsciousness, Nipple/breast play, Squirting, Medical talk, Porn w/ plot

AN: Literally ripped from a nightmare I had with this fucker, but less brutal. I did way too much research for this 💀

Word Count: 7.9k+

“Poppy's Angel? No… Experiment 1006's little pet.”

You glare at the eyeball that stares back at you with a mundane sort of curiosity.

“Listen, I'm just here on one of his errands. He told me to ask you for ‘the goods’”.

The Doctor's eye widens in shock before returning to its half-lidded gaze as laughter pours through the speakers. 

“Ah! The goods! Of course!” 

Why the fuck is that funny? 

You were seated in front of a bright, red “steak” at the long dining room table, while Lily and CatNap paraded around the Prototype for even an ounce of his attention. You watched the show in amusement as he just seemed to get more and more irritated.

Of course they see that thing as a God.

The Prototype had been feeding you and if you didn't eat? Well…

You look back at the two purple creatures who had started watching you out of seemingly nowhere before going back to focusing on the Prototype. 

He definitely said something about me…

Whenever those two were in charge of you, you felt like your sanity was diminishing. Lily Lovebraids’ head would twitch so much that you were afraid it was going to fall off her neck any second while CatNap always had this habit of just… Staring. He never says a word unless necessary and you end up doing whatever the Prototype tells you to just so he would turn his attention elsewhere, hopefully, that meant going back to Playcare so you didn’t have to see him again. And if you really didn't want to do something and those two weren't terrifying convincing enough? 

The Prototype always stepped in. He never gave you parental, guilt-inducing lectures about how the other toys in the factory were starving while you got to eat. A punishment like that was too lenient for something like you.

Little pinpricks dot your skin from yesterday when you had disobeyed him as you try not to scratch at them. But the thing that perturbed you the most though, was the prospect of where this meat came from. Despite how unappetizing the mystery meat was at first, you suppose it was better than starving. 

Please don't be made out of my dead friends…

And at least breakfast was a little more enjoyable today. 

You almost wanted to laugh at how the Prototype was pacing back and forth near you three. He was mumbling something in his staticky voice about “that stupid little red witch of a sister” and “she's copying me with getting her own human” while scratching pieces of plastic off of nearby walls with his needle-like fingers. 

If he wasn't already bald, I'm sure his hair would've fallen out. 

You accidentally snicker and all three of them are whipping their heads around to look at you. You quickly look down as you chew on the piece of meat that you had just popped into your mouth. 

The only sounds that fill the dining room now are you eating and the Prototype slowly making his way to you. His hands land in front of your plate as you pretend to be ignorant of your actions and his.

“Is something funny to you?”

You shake your head and he's grabbing your face and tilting your chin up to look at him. He had this habit of always wanting your eyes on him whenever he spoke and if you didn't give him that attention, he wasn't above using force. Every. Single. Time. 

“Use your pretty voice, won't you?”

He replays back to you in snippets of your own voice. You squint your eyes at him as you try not to give him a nasty look which would only piss him off even more and doom your fate to staying with Lily Lovebraids and CatNap for the rest of the day. 

The Prototype might be crazy, but at least he had a working head on his shoulders and kept Lily from speaking endlessly for hours or CatNap from just being well, CatNap... You felt like you were going insane staying with them. And much as you hated to say it, thank goodness for the tasks he had been giving you to get out of this dollhouse and away from Playcare. 

“Since the little mouse loves to laugh so much, I have a special task just for you!” 

You frown as he squishes your face threateningly playfully before letting you go. He only did that when he wanted to use you as a squishy stress relief toy before sending you on a risky mission. 

I’m going to die in this factory.

I hate the Prototype! I hate CatNap! I hate everyone, especially that annoying ass Lily!

“Mmmm.”

You shake your head as you think it over. At least you could talk to Lily like a normal person sometimes and she tried to be a gracious host, up until the Prototype would visit and then she would just become another bootlicker. As for Catnap and the Prototype themselves? 

Go to hell…

At least Lily had waved to you and wished you safe travels when you left. The Prototype had mimicked her actions to mock you while Catnap just stared at you like usual. 

“Bye! Bye! I'll see you soon!”

A small groan escapes you as you try not to bang your head against the ventilation shaft wall in frustration. You’ve been crawling for hours into another part of the factory per the Prototype’s instructions as you replayed the bullshit they made you do before letting you loose into doom, despair, and possible death. 

“Hey, I'm Ollie! Can I know your name?”

You had glared at the Prototype holding a phone up to his face while a little boy’s voice came out of the receiver end of your phone. 

“We can keep in touch like this! I'll help you on your journey!” 

You rolled your eyes before asking. 

“Why are you doing that voice?”

You can feel Catnap’s ominous presence standing behind you as his shadow looms over you. 

“Practice. For someone special.”

“So I get to take this phone with me?”

You asked as you held it up and curiously weighed it with your hands. It was heavy for a play phone and comically large.

“No.”

CatNap’s voice had come out before snatching it out of your hands and giving it back to the Prototype. You almost wanted to crush his tail for the way it wagged when the Prototype rubbed his head in praise.

“Me too! Me next! I want praise!”

You groan as you think of how you might have started to go crazy by staying around those freaks.

Maybe I should start worshipping him too?

You shake your head.

“Yep, definitely insane. Recalling memories, having conversations in my head, talking to myself out loud…” 

You mumble as you continue to crawl before reaching a grate and sighing. 

“This should be it.”

You don't even bother looking at what's in the area below you because as long as it was solid ground, you would be fine. No one would dare lay a hand on someone or something under the Prototype’s protection. Toys scatter from their prison cells at the prospect of hunting down their next meal only to take one good look at you in the dim lighting and run away again. You can hear their whispers as you walk past them and tap on the glass of a camera.

“It's the Prototype’s bitch.”

“I'm so hungry…”

Angel, but okay. Whatever. 

You wave at it, trying to get the Doctor's attention before leaning in closer to the screen. 

“Hey, I'm here under the Prototype's orders. Can you let me in so I can talk to you?”

You're not really sure where in would even be. The Prototype had only given you enough instructions to locate one of the Doctor's numerous cameras to communicate with him. You take a step back and kick at nearby rubble while waiting for a reply. A pout and frown on your face as you cross your arms. 

The Prototype could have easily done this in under an hour, but nooooo!

You quickly drop your arms and let a blank expression take place on your face as you realize you've begun to act like Lily. 

“Poppy's Angel? No… Experiment 1006's little pet.”

Alarm bells go off on your head as you look around for the source of the voice. No one would dare say such a thing to you unless they weren't afraid of the Prototype.

“To your left, little one.”

You look in the direction that the disembodied voice tells you to and see an eyeball displayed on a dusty television. You walk into the prison cell as a toy jumps in fear and dives into a hole to escape you.

They even have T.V.s in a place like this? 

You glare at the eyeball that stares back at you with a mundane sort of curiosity.

“Listen, I'm just here on one of his errands. He told me to ask you for ‘the goods’”.

The Doctor's eye widens in shock as laughter pours through the speakers. 

“Ah! The goods! Of course!” 

Why the fuck is that funny? 

“What makes you think I’ll just give ‘the goods’ to you?”

You blink as you deadpan at the eye that's returning to its half lidded gaze. You didn’t like how he was talking. Too haughty. Too sure of himself. The fact that he was even calling the Prototype by that degrading code number despite the others worshipping him as a god had you on edge.

“I don't know. The Prototype made it sound like you two had a deal and that I'm just here to act as a courier.”

“Ah~ A sacrificial dove.”

His eye curves in a way to represent amusement as you can only ponder why you're talking to an eyeball.

“Can you even eat me?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because everyone here eyes me like I'm a five-star meal.”

The Doctor's eye droops at your words and his voice falls flat. 

“I'll open a path for you to visit me. Do try not to get lost.”

Static appears on the T.V. as the loud scratching noises fill the room before fizzling out as if the plug had been pulled. You can see small toys staring at you from other prison cells in the reflection of the T.V. If anything, they seemed even more afraid of you now.

One. Two. Three. 

Bored. Extremely bored.

Boredom was the only way to put it as you maneuvered empty, crumbling hallways, and went down flights of stairs. The Doctor made sure to give you the “scenic” route. 

“And this is where we would dissect experiments who had-”

He had commentary for every room you walked into. You couldn't roll your eyes anymore if you wanted to, too scared of them getting stuck behind your head. You knew he could see you, but he didn't seem to care one bit of what you thought. It's like you were on a guided tour with an eyeball for a pre-programmed tour guide. 

“Hey Doc, how much longer? I think the Prototype is waiting for me.”

A lie. You just hoped he wouldn't be able to tell as you gave him an obviously forced smile. 

“Right…”

His voice drawls into a deep timber as his pupil looks to the side. 

“Carry on then. I won't disturb your quality time alone.”

Finally!

Another reason why you loved it when the Prototype sent you out. You could take a certain amount of time to relax before going back to Sweet Street, as long as you didn’t overdo it and got the job done.

I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me relaxing a little before the job is done, right?

You were pretty sure that the Prototype couldn’t even enter this area because of the Doctor, which meant… You could theoretically spend as much time as you wanted here!

You sigh as you let your shoulders sag before rolling them to get rid of lingering aches and pains from the stress of being thrown into situations beyond your control. You yawn as you remember that you were rudely woken up by CatNap holding you upside down and lightly shaking you like you owed the mob money.

It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap.

You tell yourself as you sit down in a corner where the Doctor’s camera can clearly see you. It felt more safe that way.

Haha, territories. This really is like some weird mafia movie…

It’s eerie now. A terrifying silence has blanketed the area while you were sleeping and it made your anxiety skyrocket to uncontrollable levels once you awoke. No skittering of little paws or mechanical movement of the camera that was supposedly watching you. 

You’ve never once known quiet in this factory besides when you were alone and lost, in fear for your life, from Huggy and the Prototype hunting you down. You couldn’t stand silence anymore. Even at “night” when Lily Lovebraids would tuck you in and go do whatever she does, you could still hear her humming a sweet, but deranged lullaby while wandering around in the halls. Your rapidly beating heart and shaky hands have you reflexively dipping back into your old habits of checking around corners and prying open a vent for a quick escape if need be.

“What are you doing?”

“Ha! Ahhh!”

Your scream comes out as a whispered gasp. 

If you make noise, you’ll be caught.

But no one was coming to hurt you. 

The Doctor’s eye watches you as he waits for your explanation as to why you found the need to tear the metal grate off of a vent when he had literally just opened a door for you down the hallway.

“I… Uh…”

You hold the knife that you would use as a makeshift screwdriver and watch it gleam in your sweaty palm.

What am I doing…?

It’s not my fault…

“S-sorry…”

You put the knife back into your belt as the Doctor sighs in disappointment.

“No need to answer I suppose. I shall assume the lack of noise was facilitating a heightened sense of paranoia and fear in you from being alone for an extended period of time. Someone will be joining you promptly since my presence is so clearly unwanted.”

Unwanted? Oh. Was it when I-

“Doc, I’m sorry for cutting you off before.”

His eye doesn’t open any wider and continues to gaze at you with a lack of interest before disappearing with a few parting words.

“I’ll send my pet to accompany you.”

My pet?

“What do you mean-”

But he’s already gone and you know he won’t come back to speak with you again unless he thinks it’s necessary. You’re left wondering what his pet could be and also with the troubling connection that the voice the Prototype would use the most when insulting others in a controlled rage belonged to none other than Sawyer…

Surely it can’t be much further!

Your legs trembled as anxiety started to build up in your chest again. It had been about ten minutes since the Doctor had told you his pet would be coming and with the overarching silence and trepidation of what it could be, you kind of wished his pet wouldn’t appear.

Grawrrr… 

You’re fucking with me.

Heavy footsteps thud across the floor as something growls and roars while sniffing the air. You have half a mind to just run back into the hallway where you had loosened a vent, if it weren’t for the giant yarn covered creature a few feet away. Its glassy eyes are unfocused as it looks around before landing on you.

It’s kind of cute…

The smile that was about to appear on your face at seeing such a colorful, docile doll quickly vanishes when it splits its head in half to show off a ginormous hollow space that serves as a cavern of a mouth. Large strings of spit fly all over the place and you’re running away without wasting another second.

If I live, I have to tell the Prototype to never send me back here again!

It’s depressing that all you can think about when being close to death is snitching to your boss, but it’s not like you had really had anything else in this place. You almost shudder at the thought of him handing you over to Lily and basically placing you under house arrest with her for turning tail and not getting what he asked you to. But the constant footfalls of that monster behind you that’s accompanied by its heavy breathing has you keeping your mind on the present. 

“DOCTOR, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

You scream as you swerve around a 90 degree curve in the hallway before running into an adjacent room. You can hear the toy running into the wall, unable to turn in time, and then shaking off the blunt force of the damage they had caused onto themselves. 

Dead end.

Your brain works overtime as you try to find a vent, hole, or hiding spot, but it’s just an empty room with crumbling walls.

The Prototype is going to be so mad…

You hoped he would be angry enough at losing you to enact some sort of revenge at the Doctor, but… You knew just as much as everyone else that he would probably just turn some poor toys wrongside out at losing a pawn and not visit Lily for a while. The only one who would miss you enough to do something, but isn’t allowed to do anything, would probably be Lily.

Your back hits the wall as you turn around to face the filthy, tangled up creature in front of you. Its body shakes as it starts to open its mouth to charge at you and devour you whole.

Goddammit. 

“Oh, Yarnaby~”

Grawr.

It immediately stops much to your surprise and stares at the screen where you can see the Doctor’s eye watching the scene with joy.

“I told you to treat our guest with courtesy. She’s come a very long way…”

Faux pity fills his voice as he barely scolds Yarnaby for nearly shredding you to pieces. The creature turns back into a gentle plush and plops itself down in front of the screen.

“Where were you?!”

You shout as you unstick yourself from where you had been attached to the wall in desperation. You make sure you stand in front of his screen and glare at him while barely suppressing the more colorful words that tempted to fall from your lips. His eye curves in joy at the explosive reactions he had finally gotten from you.

“Watching all the fun you just had with Yarnaby of course.”

“That’s it!?”

Your face starts to turn bright red with an emotion that you had learned to lock away to avoid the scrutiny of the Prototype larger toys. Swears and angry strings of insults finally start to fly out at the screen as the Doctor’s expression doesn’t change.

“And I’m not a pet! I’m not here to play with your…”

You trail off as you look at the stupid yarn lion-dog creature that just watches the scene without any opinion to share.

“This thing.”

You gesture to it and the only reaction it gives is to tilt its head at you.

“Oh no, my dear. You seem to be mistaken. I know full well that you’re not a pet.”

“Really?”

You scrutinize the Doctor as you cross your arms while trying to reign in your emotions.

“Yarnaby is a pet. He doesn’t know what’s right or wrong nor can he tell his left from his right unless I say so. You see, that’s the difference between an angel and a pet. A pet blindly obeys their master for they know nothing. Yet, an angel knows the difference, but still willingly follows their God.”

“Well, I know you’re a bitch!”

So much for controlling your anger. 

As if he knows what I’m going through with that needles for hands freak!

His amusement continues to grow the longer he listens to your raging, swear-filled shouts.

“Oh my, it seems that 1006 really has rubbed off on you.”

“I’ve never heard that fucker swear the whole time I’ve been here!”

“I meant your anger. How compulsive and emotional you are. I forgot humans were so easy to rile up.”

Ew…

You feel the rage inside of you dissipate as it’s replaced with disgust and exhaustion at being compared to your captor.

“Did you truly work yourself into such a fit that you can no longer find it in you to stand properly?”

“I need to rest for a small while…”

You mumble as you go sit down in a dim corner where the camera’s scope fails to fully see.

“Yarnaby, keep her company and remember, treat her well. As for you, Prototype’s angel, I’ll be waiting for you~”

You lay your head against soothing cold tiles on the only wall that still has some smooth surfaces.

Ahwh.

Your eyes flit over to see Yarnaby yawning slightly before calmly sitting down near your feet. 

Does he really not remember trying to kill me not even an half an hour ago?

You reach out a hand to touch one of the absurdly large strands of yarn sticking out of him. You freeze as he makes another noise and rubs at his face with a paw before staring off into space again. 

There really are no thoughts behind those eyes…

Soft yet unruly threads sift under your fingers as you finally pet him. He has no reaction to your gentle handling and doesn’t do anything besides blink every once in a while, one eye at a time. 

The difference between a pet and an angel, huh? Maybe I am just his bitch…

“Huh? What’s happening?”

You mumble sleepily as you wake up to a weird swaying motion. 

Did I honestly fall asleep again? I hate this place.

Your hands are gripping onto bunches of yarn and your body is lying on top of several bumpy nodules. 

Wait, am I riding Yarnaby?

You rub at your eyes as you sit up and register that you are actually on top of Yarnaby as he carries you to your destination like a mule. 

“Oh, uhm, I guess this is better for me.”

Your legs dangle off of the large toy as you try to maneuver yourself into an even more comfortable position. 

“So where we going, Yarnaby?”

You ask the currently docile creature who only lets out a strange high-pitched sound and keeps walking. A small chuckle slips out as you continue to pet its hair while it takes you to your destination. 

Shit. The Prototype's going to be so mad at how late I'm going to be…

You're too busy cuddling the plushie and thinking about how the Prototype might punish you to see the nine foot robots that hid nearby. The walls filled with T.V. screens block them from clear view and they seemed to gain life as you went past them. 

Grwr.

Yarnaby shakes its head as it comes to a stop. 

“Oh, we're here?”

You ask as you're about to hop off, only to feel Yarnaby slide you off of him and send you plummeting through a hole in the floor.

You can't be serious! 

Above you, you see Yarnaby looking down at you and a T.V. screen waving to you with its robotic arms. 

T.V.s don't have arms…

Shit. My head. 

You rub the side of your head as you wake up in a dingy lower area. Or you at least tried to. 

Shink. Shink.

The shackles around your limbs prevent you from doing anything, but squirm and writhe under the watchful gaze of a tall robot with one singular eye. 

“Okay Doctor, what are you doing?”

His eye morphs into a crescent shape full of joy.

“Ah, so you recognize my visage despite my change in appearance?”

You jolt as you feel a cold finger trail up your arm before stopping in the center of your palm. 

“You got that same stupid eye. Now tell me why I'm locked up like a medieval prisoner.”

You hated how strangely exposed you felt even if you were still fully clothed. Arms up and held wide, legs spread apart, and your stomach slightly showing from under your shirt which the Doctor was currently fixating on. 

“Are you like a perv or something?” 

“Hmmm.”

He gives you another amused hum before beginning to reveal more of your stomach. 

“H-hey now!”

“I've never had a chance to experiment on an adult female before.”

Experiment?! 

Catnap and the Prototype had prior warned you of the eccentric and sadistic Doctor before sending you here. You thought it was just to scare you, but the more the Doctor pushed your shirt up, the more you became sure they weren't joking. 

Catnap doesn't joke. Fuck me. 

“What are you going to do with me?”

You didn't want to give him any ideas, the best questions were probably general ones. 

“Oh dear little angel, I'm not going to harm you if that's what you're worried about. Just a simple and small test.”

Test?

“To see if your body is still in working order after what the Prototype has been putting you through.”

His voice drawls into a sympathetic tone that felt more condescending than actually kind and concerned about you. 

“I think I'm fine.”

“Let a doctor confirm that.”

“Hah.. Ah.”

“Too sensitive.”

You're literally sticking your fingers in me! 

“Since when were you a gynecologist?!” 

You try not to arch your back as you struggle against the chains keeping you bound. 

“I am a doctor, after all.”

That doesn't sound right!

“Hmmm…”

You bite your lip as you try to contain your moans. You can feel two fingers stretching you out your pussy as the ridges and bumps brush against your walls and add to the pleasure. 

“I don't…  I don't think gynos dig this deep!”

You barely manage to shout without whimpering as the Doctor chuckles. 

“Healthy elasticity of the vaginal canal and a perfect bodily reaction.”

His fingers slip out with a wet pop as you relax and let your back touch the cool metal once more. 

“Hah! Ah! No wait!”

You squirm as his fingers shove themselves back into you. They feel longer and wider than before. 

How many is he using?!

“How could I forget? I can't let a patient leave without thorough satisfaction. It would be such a pitiful thing for you to leave in a foul mood.” 

“Ah! No! I'm okay! Promise!”

The shackles shake against your wrists and ankles as the Doctor finds your clit with surprising ease and leaves feather-light touches on it. 

“You can't-!”

Your thighs begin to tremble as the pressure on your clit grows. His fingers have never once stopped mapping your pussy as they twist and push deeper inside of you. 

Blinding white fills your vision as your back arches off the table and the only thing you can feel is the intense warmth spreading through you. 

“Do you hear that?”

Your eyes are glazed over as you struggle to catch your breath. His question is the last thing on your mind. You whimper as he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, savoring the dripping liquid that clings to his hand and the noises of filth that emanate from your core. 

“Has the Prototype even demanded you not touch yourself?”

You hear him making clicking sounds reminiscent of someone clicking their tongue in disappointment.

“Sexual health is deeply intertwined with overall health.”

It is?

“Let the Doctor take care of you~”

“There's too many… I've never…”

You nervously look at the white cloaked robots that surround you. You have yet to feel this exposed at a gynecological or physical exam.

“Every doctor needs an assistant.”

Liar.

Red marks litter your ankles and wrists from the bindings you had been released from. Your hole flutters against the cold metal as your essence continues to drip out and keep the attention of the robot in front of you. 

“Ever since you’ve entered this factory with those friends of yours, I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

Your heartbeat stutters at the mention of your friends of whom you still didn’t have time to properly grieve.

“I believed you wouldn’t make it far.”

His fingers curl around your ankle.

“You escaped Experiment 1170, slipped past Experiment 1222 undetected, and even managed to escape Experiment 1006 himself before ultimately being caught by 1188.”

You can feel the fabric of his cloak against your calves.

“1006 must have been very curious about how a little human like you could have made it this far, especially with the little knowledge you clearly possess.”

His hands travel to your inner thighs as the other robots pry them open for him and bare all. You start to become nervous under his unwavering eyes, focused on your dripping pussy.

It’s not like he has a dick or any-

You feel the breath being stolen from you as something thick and solid rubs against the sensitive flesh of your opening.

He’s just a robot! He can’t possibly-!

You try to sit up to look at what he could be rubbing against you, only for the two other robots to push you back down. Their metallic hands are quick to splay themselves onto your upper half as the Doctor in front of your fluttering pussy throws your legs over his elbows.

H-He can’t be serious!

“Mmmm!”

You let out a small whimper as fingers clinically grab your areola before pinching it and pulling it from your body. The other one on your right dips his hand between your thighs as he reaches for your sensitive nub. Cold steel meets tender flesh that jolts under the pressure of his mechanical joints. 

“Wait!”

“So sensitive~”

“It’s- It’s because-!”

You throw your head back as you feel whatever he had barely pushed into you pull out before ricocheting back into your pussy. The force reverberates through your walls and has you clamping down even harder. Sawyer shows no signs of your body affecting him in even the slightest while you’re struggling to control waves of blissful pleasure spreading through you.

“You stupid fucking eye.”

You manage to say with slurred speech and through grit teeth.

“I think I may be a little more than that, darling~”

Every word out of his mouth just makes you even more ticked off despite how much your pussy was slobbering over his dick.

“You rotten, low-life scum of the-”

“Shut her up.”

“Eawhaa-”

You feel ridged fingers segregated into multiple parts roughly shove themselves into your mouth. Iron floods your tastebuds as you whine, but they’re only slid in deeper. Your eyes start to roll back as you hear the loud squelching noises slipping from where Sawyer was fucking into you. His hands dug harshly into your hips as his thrusts began to speed up. The fingers in your mouth were slowly starting to match his tempo and the ones squeezing your breasts flicked your nipples in rapid succession. 

Wait! Ah! No!

“Mwmmmm!”

They allow your body to spasm and lift from the now lukewarm surface. You struggle to find something to hold onto, but eventually grasp an arm of the robots to your side who let you pull them closer to you. Unblinking red eyes on T.V. screens cast away the haze your orgasm had cast on you as you nearly startle from how little distance is left between you three.

“Darling, don’t forget about me~”

“Hah!”

Your legs squirm in futility as you feel his appendage brush against your cervix.

“Haven’t you got what you wanted yet?!”

“Oh come now dear, I made it just for you. Surely we must test the full capabilities of it before I can give you what 1006 sent you here for.”

“B-b-but-”

You stutter as you try to close your legs which proves to be futile as the Doctor simply doesn't budge. 

“Besides, you're enjoying this exam too, aren't you?”

A sob-like moan leaves your body as he pulls out and thrusts back into you. Your breasts shake from the force in the hands of one of the clones as the other tangles its hand into your hair and roughly tilts your head to the side. You're forced to look into its red eye as small moans slip past your lips while the Doctor continues to force your hips against his. Its fingers invade your mouth as cold steel presses against soft flesh. Your tongue bends and swirls around them as he moves them deeper and deeper until you're gagging on the rusted metal. The appendage muddling up your insides has several bumps and ridges that rub against your walls and make your pussy squelch louder. 

Hot, cold, warm, icy; your body heat conflicts and rises with each of his inorganic touches that have your nipples stiffening and your clit throbbing. Droplets of your essence amass into a small puddle from the ricochet of his thrusts into your core that have you screaming and arching your back off the table. The clones let go of you and you slam back onto the table with a thud as you pant and tremble. Your hole clenches around the Doctor with venomous spite who only laughs at your state. 

“You're enjoying it far more than I had originally predicted. You really are just a slut. Do you let the Prototype touch you like this too?”

“Go… to… hell…”

You weakly whimper out. You're unable to move properly to even look at him as a deep flush sets over your body. 

“Mmmm!”

Your hands scramble to grab the edges of the table as he thrusts into you harshly. 

“I'm too sensitive!”

“You can handle it.”

You hear him snap his fingers and the clones on your side are pulling you up by your arms and handing you to the Doctor. You whimper as you feel his dick slip out before poking against your soft ass. He holds you in his arms as if you weigh nothing. His elbows are under your legs again and his fingers are already pressing into your skin and pulling your asscheeks apart. 

“If only I had enough time to install tactile sensors before your arrival…”

You let out a small, shaky pant as you hold onto his shoulders and lay your head against a mangle of wires that serve as a crude imitation of a chest. 

“W-what?”

“Breath.”

Your legs flail as pitiful whines escape your throat. You try to pull yourself off of his dick as he starts to spear you onto it. 

“Ah! No! It'll rip me apart!”

He laughs at you as he watches you struggle to escape the torturous descent of being impaled on his appendage.

“It didn't change size. It's the same one that was just inside of you. Changing the shape of your walls.”

You flush an even deeper red as his voice seems to echo off in the enclosed space before going into your ears. 

“Morphing your insides to be as I desire.”

“D-don't say that!” 

You can feel yourself getting more full by the second and he's still pushing more inches inside of you. Your eyes roll back as you struggle to focus on his words. 

“Bringing you pleasure beyond what could have ever been thought of by a mortal mind.”

“Hah~”

You can't see anything but the robot behind you as your head hangs back with your eyes still trying to realign your pupils. Smooth metal settles against the base of your pussy and taint as you uselessly twitch in his arms. You hear strange noises emanate from the robots as if they've been powered back on and their hands are immediately on you.

“Ah! Hah!”

They roughly squeeze your supple flesh between their fingers as you bury your head further against the Doctor and hold onto him like a lifeline. 

You whimper as he slowly begins to bounce you in his arms. Your toes curl and your pussy drips salaciously as it coats his mechanical parts with fluid. 

“Hm, hic-”

Small whimpers and sobs are ripped from your throat as you feel like the Doctor is everywhere on you and within you. He lets out a chuckle before leaning down to whisper to you. 

“Do you wish for more of me to join us?”

You shake your head as you already can't handle the ones fucking you. You can feel bruises forming from their rough handling as they squeeze your tits and thighs before gently brushing against your other hole. 

“No! Ah! Not there! Doctor!”

You lean away from their curious touches on your asshole as the Doctor only laughs at you impaling yourself even more on his “dick”. 

I'm going to lose my mind…

Drool slips from your lips as the smack of your wet pussy against the Doctor's hard pelvis echoes through your skull. Moans slip past without you even realizing you're saying anything anymore. 

You can feel the clones toying with your ass while still gripping onto a boob each and flicking your nipples. 

I can't… I can't think anymore…

One hand settles on each asscheek as they pry your ass apart to watch your hole flutter under their gaze with each thrust from the primary Doctor. 

“AH! Hah! No~”

Cool metal brushes against the rim of your hole. You can feel the two fingers retract and breath a sigh of relief, only for those same two fingers to move to your pussy and brutalize your poor clit. The rapid taps and pressure on the sensitive nub drive you into another orgasm as you see stars while screaming the Doctor's name.

“No more… No more…”

You're twitching in his arms as you try to come down from your high and the Doctor finally gives you a little mercy so that you can slump onto his chest and relax. His hand gently touches your cheek as he tilts your head to look at his eye. 

“Hmmm…”

Your eyes are glazed over, your lips are glossed with your drool that sticks to him with delicate strings, and your skin has long erupted into a deep red flush. 

“You can handle one more trial.”

Your eyes widen in panic and shock, as you're about to threaten him, but he's already pistoning back into you. 

What could I have even threatened him with…

“Ah. Hah!” 

You wrap your arms around his torso as you let out broken sobs from the overwhelming pleasure, while he laughs at you from above. 

Unbeknownst to you, his clones have scooped up most of your essence and were lubricating their fingers and your asshole. You could feel swipes of metal, but couldn't quite pinpoint what was happening as everything felt too overwhelming. It's not until you feel something pushing into your other hole do you throw your head back and see the clones’ eyes focused on you.

Amusement. The single primary feeling linked through all the clones as the Doctor in front of you ravaged your pussy and the ones behind you prepared to use your ass. 

You scream as your nerves are set ablaze from a single finger penetrating you. You clench furiously around the Doctor while babbling nonsense and trying to stay awake. You can feel your consciousness slipping once more as he only gives you enough time to recover before pummeling into you again and having his clones play with your nipples while fucking your ass. 

Your legs shake wildly as you feel two fingers pushing in and out of your ass, taking turns to make sure no part of you is left untouched until eventually they're both able to set an uneven pace torturing your poor hole. 

“Ah! Ah! Doctor!”

They had all set their own pace with the Doctor brushing against your cervix and the clones pushing in and out as they pleased. Two fingers, one finger, no fingers, and then both of them shoving themselves back in with the Doctor being the only one to have a steady pace while fucking into you. Whatever they felt like doing, occurred, and your brain could no longer process anything but mind-numbing pleasure. 

“Doctor…”

You mumble out as you feel a weird pit coiling in your stomach. It was like a tied hose, waiting to be unraveled before it could explode. You feel all three of them shove themselves inside of you and the dam bursts with you spraying onto the Doctor's spine and wires. 

“Ahhhhh! Doctor! Doctor!” 

His appendage stills as he lets you bounce on his dick and ride his fingers of your own accord. The pleasure is too much for you as you soak everything in front of you with your essence while the Doctor watches. 

“No… I can't…”

The world starts to fade as your body finally gives up. “Good girl. Maybe you do have a use, Angel.”

Huh? Where am I? Not again…

Your limbs feel like jelly, but you're no longer tied up and you're once again fully clothed. You want to say it was all just a silly nightmare or hallucination conjured up by the Red Smoke but… You know better.

Your legs wobble as you stand up and lean against the walls of the padded cell while a T.V. flickers to life in front of you. 

“Ah, so the sleeping princess awakes.”

“Shut the fuck up and give me the goods.”

The Doctor's eye widens in surprise at your crude words before shaping into one of mock pity. 

“And after all I did for you? It really does hurt to be such a kind and selfless person~” 

You hate that weird condescending lilt to his voice at the end of his sentences and continue to glare at him until he finally sighs and looks away. 

“Oh, alright. If you had bothered to analyze your surroundings upon waking, you would've seen that box in the corner.”

Confused, you look behind you and see a decent-sized cardboard box. 

That's it? 

“Oh, and do try not to peek inside. I'd hate to see you get ripped to shreds by the Prototype~”

Fuck you. 

You glance back at him and speak through gritted teeth. 

“Thanks.”

“Oh, you're very welcome, my dear. Yarnaby will help you go as far as he can and then you're on your own. But do know, I will always be watching. Next time, I'll have enough genitalia for you to satiate yourself with.”

His condescending laughter pours through the speakers before the T.V. fizzles back into static. 

“Ugh. Fucking pervert.”

Like hell there’s gonna be a next time.

“She’s here! She’s here!”

Lily shouts as you enter the playhouse. You can hear the Prototype’s neck snap before seeing him and know he’s already going to be on your case. 

I'm too tired for this bullshit. 

“Where were you?”

The Prototype asks as his legs hit the floor with more force than normal. Your pupils drift upwards to see him menacingly looking down at you.

“Box. Goods.”

You manage to say with trembling hands and shaky legs. The Doctor had sucked the life out of you and it made it impossible for you to walk normally without feeling like you were going to collapse or die. 

“Y/N, you're out of breath! Let me go get you some water!” 

Lily exclaims as she runs off while the Prototype takes the box from you and shakes it in his hand to hear something violently hitting the sides of the cardboard. He eventually rips it open with his claws as you waddle over to the dining room table and lay your head down with a loud thud. The utensils shake from the impact and even the Prototype turns to look at you in confusion.

“Water! Water, water!” 

Lily sing-songs as she brings you a glass filled with water. The plumbing in the kitchen didn't even work, so where did she- 

Actually, I don’t care.

You take the cup from her and down it all in one swing.

“Wow! You were gone for like forever, y'know!”

“I was…? How long was I gone?”

Lily puts a finger to her chin and looks upwards as she stands across from you. 

“Hours. Days. Maybe even weeks!”

“It was under 48 hours.”

You hear the Prototype say as he strides to the T.V. with a VHS tape in hand. 

Was that what was in the box?

You find it hard to believe that the Prototype would send you all the way across the factory for a stupid piece of film, but then again… He’s put you through much worse for much less.

“Are there some company secrets in there?”

You ask as he pushes the tape into the VCR.

“We’ll see.”

Half of the tapes are just people talking anyways about some bullshit happening in the company.

He probably just needs the code for a safe or something.

You lay your head back down as you start to drift off to sleep again.

“Ah! Doctor! It’s too much!”

“Your body can handle it.”

Your eyes immediately shoot open as you hear something you don’t remember saying at all, especially not over the rush of your blood thrumming through your head and ears.

No… No, that can’t be.

The Prototype’s bells jingle as his head twitches rapidly and you nervously look up, only a tiny amount, to see Lily staring at the T.V. in confusion.

“Wh-”

She barely gets a word out before you’re both flinching and gasping at the Prototype skewering his entire hand through the T.V. 

“Not my T.V.!”

It dangles uselessly on his wrist before he’s flinging it against a wall where it shatters into an innumerable amount of pieces. 

You nervously turn back around as you hear his nails being dragged through the plastic of the playhouse walls and see him sagging over. 

In a normal human, that meant they were upset or tired, but with someone like him? It only meant one thing.

Anger.

You quietly slip out of your chair and onto the floor. You let out a small gasp as you get into a crawling position, your legs still dangerously sore and threatening to drop you onto your face. None of that mattered though, as you heard Lily shouting while the Prototype went on a rampage. 

Fuck me!

You luckily manage to sneak out of there and to one of the rooms that Lily had designated as your bedroom before you can hear him flipping over the table and letting out garbled static. You tuck yourself into bed while hugging one of the inanimate plush toys whose room this belonged to before you.

“You two will be roommates! Sounds like so much fun! We should have a sleepover together, right Candy!?”

While you stared at her with blood on your clothes and tousled hair from being almost killed in a vent by a Wrongside Outimal. 

“My pretty things!”

You hear Lily screeching downstairs before the Prototype starts to shout at her in the angriest tone you’ve ever heard.

Just go to sleep. Go to dreamland!

You bury yourself further into your blanket as you hope the Prototype doesn’t throw something heavy that breaks through the wall of the bedroom and crushes you to death.

Does Lily even own anything that heavy?

You were too tired to even care because after all, dying in your sleep was one of the most peaceful ways to go in this hell.

If you wanna support me -> Here's my Ko-Fi 💌

More Here -> General ML - Twisted Wonderland ML

Taglist: @lurulu-ru, @yan-love-reader, @sleepystuffnigth, @what-is-wrong-with-everyone, @lucky-whispers, @lovley-valentine7, @alisiujana, @rincommittedarsin, @mspurpl3, @alexa24, @uniquecutie-puffs, @snowmis, @stuff6969fuckyou, @sansars-s, @himikoquack -> DM or comment that you want to be added to everything or for a specific character/AU 💜

Dividers: @hyuneskkami, @pixopix, @saradika-graphics

[thevanityofthefox]

I've been reading Dr. Sawyer fanfics 😐

[z0mbzbee]

Bald ass bitch

[shkoffu]

Since people have been drawing Sawyer as Glowby

[z0mbzbee]

"Melancholic regret "

[heliopart]

2025 reani sketches part 2!!!!

starting off with a bang with danbert smooching it up (that may or may not be referenced from heated rivalry hehehe)

(more under the cut!)

soft and sad.... (heated rivalry pose ref again)

yall know nonbinary diva herbert from too silly au right 👀

herbert rolls up to the miskatonic staff party like this (dan got him that shirt btw)

doodles of me and my herbert west action figure i carry around everywhere (@herbertwesttravels hehehhe)

and finally a redraw of my photo op with jeff and bruce!! peace and love

ok goodbye!!!!

[nezbeanz]

Herbert is done with subtlety

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[imanutcase-10]

Then bring me luck

[thirddeadlysin]

the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work

[ropuszysko]

listen i am in the trenches rn i am not risking fucking up even more bc i skipped a tumblr chain post.

[z0mbzbee]

For my art mabye mr.potato?

[glassanomaly]

correct answer! you will be spared

[z0mbzbee]

HELP SPARED-.... 😭

[comfortventure]

anyone got a walkthrough of this game? I can’t find anything about it anywhere.

[z0mbzbee]

explodes from artist back pain

its not even done 😭😭😭 or close to finished

it might be an animation or theres gonna be a second drawing to it

[violntfemme]

^tagged by @soctherapy but the post was getting too long

this isnt a win for me.......

Tags!: @rae-unbeloved @lil-gae-disaster @fictionalcharactergraveyard @livelaughlovelams @alexanderhamiltonhasafatass

[failureboylikestocvt]

LOOOL

@schizootemmie @bubbled016 @disaster-grrl @madilynsalivec0rpse @guttd-0ut-doll1ezz

[bubbled016]

A win is a win 🙂‍↕️

@sana090 @kawaiinotenshi @chr0nicallypained @cut-up-pwushie + open tags

[kawaiinotenshi]

Huh.

@cqtey @dudejealousy @totallyestrogen @silverstar1325 @ohhelpohgodtheyfoundme @cyber-angels-forever @cutieririka @de4d-m4n +open tags

[totallyestrogen]

YES BOOM SHAKALAKA YES GAWD

@obsesseddemonlord-offical @pupshark145 @slayventurine +open tags

[pupshark145]

I NEED THAT COOKIE SO FUCKING BAD YES

@starblaze-the-traveler @loser-37 @jjlovessharks @star-noa @nowah-star + moots + open tags

[buttertoya]

:00 Gen (It would be something)

Ty an.

for the tag !

@yourlocalsayorikin @yume-kari @charlies-trainhopping @starrs-non-rp-blog @mentallyunw3ll @touloserrrr + open tags!

[touloserrrr]

Shosuke ily but no ty

NPT: @blueberriez17 @therovingace @lylacynth13 @ilovemygfbro @starblaze-the-traveler @spagetdomain and opennnn

[lylacynth13]

Hi Kotoko please don’t kill me I’ll vote you inno I promise

@sockssekai @luckyashes @harrowharr0w @charlies-trainhopping @yourlocalsayorikin

[harrowharr0w]

hell yeah

@deadwo0d @fatherfigurefusion @rainbowghostcat

[deadwo0d]

wooo woo yea yea nene kusanagi rotated horizontally

tags {no pressure}!: @silverpaintedstars @sincerely-sammi @coffee-without-anesthetics @theanonymoussmileyface and anyone else can join

[ieatkitkatswrong]

Oh noooooo 😭

@toastdragon01 @ihavenoconsistentinterests @mpmc2g @paint-me-in-watercolour + anyone else!

[mpmc2g]

OMG YOU AND UR HUSBAND ARE BACK TOGETHER!!!!

Anyway heres mine

OH HELL YEAH LETS FUCKING GO

@paint-me-in-watercolour @ieatkitkatswrong @ihavenoconsistentinterests and anyone else :)

[ihavenoconsistentinterests]

OMG KAT AND HER HUSBAND ARE BACK TOGETHER YEAHH

i mean im not complaining :D

@ieatchildren-72 @troidvoid @r3ad1ng-is-punk-rock @paint-me-in-watercolour @acanieve @theskyequakes @antonia-taskmaster-masters @theanonymoussmileyface @worstwolverinesbf @narwhals-randomness

[antonia-taskmaster-masters]

Oh gods, send help

[unstableomni]

@antonia-taskmaster-masters we seem to be at an impasse.

[lavatichellborn]

..Yeah sure I’ll take Larry the Lobster

[shnowyfux]

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

chat ime done for

@banesberry-anomoly @sarcosticsarcomere @kitkatisvibing @carnobot @azzycomets moots get ur asses over here

[soundwaves-memorybanks]

Art we saved for the fictive we split earlier today. Lowkey Id be fine with this, more for the polycule 💥

No pressure tags (aka i gen dont care if you reblog or not but its a funny thing to think about regardless): @stellyfins (cant remember how to spell ur reblog user 😭), @nyashingtonn (I think I know whos its gonna be), @uraniumdecayed / @auranecho, @twig-the-edgelord, @pumadoe

[twig-the-edgelord]

In hashtag the poly

@michael87878 @rottingmyguts @tentakilly

[z0mbzbee]

i think he counts? added another incase the first one doesnt count @about17moths @littleguypumpkinsheep @stellyfins @banesberry-anomoly @balalaka