chrysoberyi

[chrysoberyi]

A few little darling dance cutouts n shit :333

If anything here isn’t from the original artist and ive been fooled PLEASE let me kneow :333

[chrysoberyi]

" ушко не подсматривает " div psd

hi there !! i 'm ushka／bombyx and this is my editing blog . im a minor and go by any prns + my neos (๑•ᴗ•๑)♡ 

i started this account around three months ago but took a small break ; but i 'm looking to revive it again huehe !

so what can i do ?

v themepacks , layouts ( any social ) , renders , graphics , stamps . x anything nsfw , my fictkins ( ushka + scara ) , irl people , psds .

more abt me : i'm open to pretty much any requests , and just want to get back into editing !! some of my work huehe :

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · tags 4 reach (lmk if you want to be removed ! ) : @jokakech @ffashiion @swizzele @vinvcloudzt @shiftedrella @okiritani @stomachbooks @immentallyillbutanimated @ame-chan-unoffical @formulaalex @pwrf4it @akitoxo @cocokitty200

lolishos + dottore yumes dni please ! i'm nonsharing for him unlike masacrik (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

[chrysoberyi]

Puella Magi Madoka Magica

[chrysoberyi]

EVERYONE who romanticises obsessing iver people and tries to portray it ina silly light way WILL be met with a hammer to their groin im so serious

[chrysoberyi]

and also their profile is weirdly ??? similiar to mine (my editblr one) ?? same dividers same bio same way of tagging our posts (w kaomojis). umm. idk is it a coincidence but like. that a bit TOO coincidental

hell naw i tried reaching out to an old / hildhood friend and they blocked me immedieately.

is it because ethey have a bf smh i do NOT want you i want my glorious glorious crush whos texted me whilst she was working out hnnnng

[chrysoberyi]

hell naw i tried reaching out to an old / hildhood friend and they blocked me immedieately.

is it because ethey have a bf smh i do NOT want you i want my glorious glorious crush whos texted me whilst she was working out hnnnng

[chrysoberyi]

can we please stop crossposting jirai stuff into the menhera tag??? the ideologies of the 3 cultures literally contradict and its not exactly ideal having landmine posts in the menhera space. a space for recovery.

[chrysoberyi]

" ушко не подсматривает " div psd

hi there !! i 'm ushka／bombyx and this is my editing blog . im a minor and go by any prns + my neos (๑•ᴗ•๑)♡ 

i started this account around three months ago but took a small break ; but i 'm looking to revive it again huehe !

so what can i do ?

v themepacks , layouts ( any social ) , renders , graphics , stamps . x anything nsfw , my fictkins ( ushka + scara ) , irl people , psds .

more abt me : i'm open to pretty much any requests , and just want to get back into editing !! some of my work huehe :

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · tags 4 reach (lmk if you want to be removed ! ) : @jokakech @ffashiion @swizzele @vinvcloudzt @shiftedrella @okiritani @stomachbooks @immentallyillbutanimated @ame-chan-unoffical @formulaalex @pwrf4it @akitoxo @cocokitty200

lolishos + dottore yumes dni please ! i'm nonsharing for him unlike masacrik (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

[chrysoberyi]

TW: meds, blood, needles/syringes, etc.!!

I don't own these!! they were found on various internet sources!! so no creds needed,, unless you recognize any of them as someone else's creation and they require creds, lmk!!

[chrysoberyi]

Sleepy sheep & long meetings

word count: ≈535

pairing: dottore/sheep!reader

tags: fluff, probably soooo ooc but soft!dottore lives in my brain, assumptions about snezhnaya i didn't want to pull up the wiki, sheep!reader (hybrid, not literal. we don't do that here. think sucrose, xilonen, etc.), "lamb" as a pet name

a/n: finished this up at 3 am on a school night.. wish me luck in the morning. short fic ! (that took me 3 days), soft!dottore x sheep!reader has been taking over my every waking thought. idek if i tagged right.. this blog is run by a minor.

Snezhnaya is definitely the furthest thing you could get from a warm nation, thick snow constantly coating the ground all throughout the year. The lakes rarely thawed out and melted from their almost permanent state.

That's not even to mention the fatui. Tales that spread from nation to nation of the eleven harbingers painting them in a light that's so terrifying it would make a grown man cower and fear. That's why when the rumors of Dottore's sweetheart began to spread, those who hadn't witnessed the two with their own eyes were quick to deny it; even fellow harbingers.

That's exactly why it was so shocking when suddenly there was a new face in a meeting; perched on Dottore's lap with a large coat on, snuggling up to the doctor's warmth while he read. Most of the others' first thoughts when they saw the small horns and sheep ears on your head was that you were one of his experiments.. until you spoke.

So this was the doctor's sweetheart? The thought made the fellow harbingers do a double take, even the thought being astonishing considering his.. reputation.

“Darling..? Would it be rude if I were to take a nap?” You asked, voice quiet as a hand carded through Dottore's hair. 

The doctor only scoffed in response, choosing to shake his head instead of replying, his hands returning the favor, running through your hair. He sighed as he put his book down, noting the other harbingers taking their places.

And that's precisely what led to.. this. The meeting had been wrapping up, and naturally after almost two hours, you'd been starting to awake, the droopy ears attached to your head twitching ever so slightly as you began to stretch, just teetering that edge of an unconscious state and consciousness.

“No, not at all.” He simply said, watching you snuggle further into him, not quite giving much more of a thought as the last of the members shuffled in, letting out a quiet grunt as he adjusted in the uncomfortable seat.

Of course throughout some of the meeting some of the other harbingers were starting, although the attention always seemed to divert back to the meeting at hand, yet every single small move caused eyes to be drawn back to you, staring in bewilderment.

“Dearest lamb,” Dottore's voice quietly spoke, running a hand through your hair once more, the other hand resting on the cover of the book he was reading as he stared down at you.

“Must've been quite restful.. you slept through the entire meeting, little lamb,” He hummed after a moment, pressing a kiss to your forehead, hands pulling up your hood to help protect you from the biting Snezhnayan snow on the walk back to his lab.

“Have a nice nap, dear?” He asked, ruffling your hair as you looked up from where your face was buried into his shoulder, unable to keep a small smile from forming on his face at the sight.. not that he'd let anybody see it, though. He let out a quiet sigh through his nose as he gently rubbed at the fluffy sheep ears on the sides of your head, before smirking when he got a nod in response.

fabric divider - by xilonenswife & lamb divider - by dollywons

[chrysoberyi]

AND I TRY TO TALK REFINED

The one time Il Dottore speaks to you in another language, the one time he speaks to someone else in another language, and the one time you give him a taste of his own medicine.

pairing. dottore x reader

tags & content warnings. gn!reader. reader is the tsaritsa's child. reader is referred to by they/them. there's one (1) mildly suggestive sentence (and it's in a different language lol).

word count. 2.9k

author's note. so. i'm back from the dead. i have two fics for pantalone and one for diluc, around 8k+ words. (none of them are finished LMFAO) but of course i drop everything for this stupid ass man. the reader here is my tsaritsa’schild!reader, though this takes place before beauty is terror. this is set in the early days of their relationship and the start of dottore’s involvement in the fatui. reader's backstory is also implied here, but not outright stated. also i got inspiration from @fatuismooches lovely headcanons, though i strayed a bit far HAHA. thank you for letting me write this! and thank you to my two lovely delulu friends (you know who you are) bc i suddenly got into the mood to write because of them.  also, what is heavily implied to be the script of khaenri'ah in-game is based on latin, so i headcanon that latin is the language of khaenri'ah. also i had to sneak in a tsh reference lmfao it was too perfect not to. i promise i don't include it in all my fics it just so happens to be perfect for certain situations huhu. also i hope you guys catch all the little details i put in! reader and dottore have always been like this lol the title is from 'talk' by hozier.

You are undoubtedly the worst teacher Dottore has ever had, bar none. 

Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye, leaving him dumbfounded. Your teaching sessions, if they could be called that, are filled with constant interrogations of his life and large infusions of food. Half the time you aren’t even teaching him, you’re simply rambling about whatever it is you ramble about (he’s learned to tune you out, partly because he doesn’t care and partly because he can’t understand what you’re saying). He is truly reconsidering forgoing learning Snezhnayan — at the pace you're going, he might as well take his chances and learn by himself.  

“But Mother said,” you remind him, petulantly, like a small child. Yes, the Tsaritsa commanded him to learn Snezhnayan, and commanded you to teach him, but he is greatly tempted to ask her to send another teacher. It has only been two weeks since your lessons begun and he might truly go mad. Sometimes he thinks this might be the worst thing a divine being has ever inflicted on him.

In truth, he already knows Snezhnayan, but only enough to hold a polite conversation. It is his least favorite of the languages he learned from his teachers in the Akademiya, and anyway, he never quite had a deftness for tongues. He is always most at home working with his hands, destroying and creating physical matter, covered in dust and soot, cracking open the world’s secrets like an egg. But the Tsartisa willed him to learn, and he is nothing if not a scholar. 

“But Mother said,” he mocks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. He’s learned that you have no convictions about his personality. If anything, you seemed to embrace it. Whereas he dons a respectful — as respectful as he can conjure, anyways — mask with the Jester and the Tsaritsa, it’s… looser, with you. Still, he is careful not to cross the line. He is only allowed this because he amuses you. You've been treating him like some sort of pet to be played with whenever you desire since his coming here. “Your mother also said to teach me how to speak Snezhnayan, but this is the third time you’ve called for snacks in three hours.” 

You flash a lazy glare at him and go back to eating your beloved pastilas. “You require a tremendous amount of effort to teach.” You’ve switched back to speaking the common tongue, obviously for his sake. “You’re a horrible student.” 

“You’re a horrible teacher!” 

You sniff and take another bite of your pastry. “You’re just really bad at learning.” 

For that, you get a glance heavenward. He is tempted to simply throttle you and be done with it. Treason seems like a fair price to pay for shutting you up. But he considers his options and decides that he would rather not be on the receiving end of your mother’s wrath — it’s too fucking cold here already. Still, greatly offended by this statement, he vents out his anger by cursing at you.

In the language of Sumeru. 

He does not really think of it; his use of his mother tongue has greatly decreased since coming here, but even then, it simply rolls off his tongue as naturally as water flows from a river's mouth.

Your brows shoot up. You open your mouth, pause, and for a moment he fears he is in danger of being exiled or thrown in the dungeon. But then you cock your head to the side. “What does that mean?” You ask. 

An idea unravels in his mind, sparkling with mischief. “It means you’re bad at teaching.” 

You frown. “For some reason, I feel like you’re lying.” 

He curses at you again. Your frown deepens. There is something so satisfying about the way those frustrated lines burrow into your face. When he does it a third time, you actually put down the pastila. 

“What does it mean?” You demand. “You aren’t saying anything bad, are you?” 

It means you’re an insufferable little bastard of mean intelligence and he hopes you fall into a ditch, so yes, he definitely is saying something bad. “It means you’re the most gorgeous, most wonderful person in the world,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the syllables. When you look genuinely taken aback, he lets out a cruel, derisive scoff. “It means you should trust me more.” 

“That seems like a horrible idea.” 

He shrugs and reaches over to take one of the pastilas, light pink with a white, foamy top, vaguely aware that another one of your language lessons has gone considerably off course. Perhaps that was too light a description. It shot in one direction and came speeding back the other way. “Suit yourself, Your Imperial Highness.” 

You smack his hand away, gently. Almost too gently. “Those are mine.” 

He eats it, anyway, and learns many new colorful Snezhnayan curses for it, though he detects no real annoyance in your voice. You ring for another batch of desserts. He counts it as a successful lesson. 

He continues speaking in Sumerian when you're near. It’s the greatest of treasures, seeing you frown and demand to know what he had just uttered in your presence. Sometimes he just says the first phrase that enters his head, most times he insults you and relishes in your clueless blinking. You can't do the same to him — he's been picking up on Snezhnayan at an exponential pace, and he's made sure to memorize all of the insults and swears first. Obviously. It’s his talent for machinations that he prides himself on, but lately, he’s been deriving vicious pleasure from the fact he can speak twenty languages, though it never mattered much to him before. It’s a good, safe outlet for his annoyance whenever you’re near, which you seem to always be, nowadays. 

Even outside the language ‘lessons’ (the word lessons being used extremely lightly) you seem to trail him wherever he goes. Ambushing him in the halls, materializing in the laboratory, and in general trailing him like some attention-starved puppy. He resents it, resents the stars that float through your eyes whenever he enters your view, resents the way you immediately disengage from whatever it was that you were doing to attach yourself to him, all smiles. 

He actively avoids you, but somehow you keep running into him. On purpose or accidentally, he has no idea. He suspects it is the former.

Today is one of those days. You’re by his side, again, chatting happily about… something. He’s trying to tune you out, focusing on the long walk back to his laboratories after a meeting with the Tsaritsa. He needs to do something about that, it’s woefully inconvenient to have to walk a mile every time she calls on him. Some sort of contraption that could go up and down easily would be of great use, and he wouldn’t have to climb so many fucking stairs.

Then — it happens. In your excitement, you bump into some government official accompanied by another, what his role is Dottore does not know and does not care to, but he must be quite high up if he allows himself to glare at you for an instant before it disappears into a cool stare. Or maybe he just has a lot of gall.

"Oh, my apologies sir," you murmur, ducking your head. 

"Quite alright, Your Highness," he says smoothly, "have a good day." He turns his back and starts to mutter to his companion, their heads bent together, completely unaware that with your godly senses and his recent enhancements to his body, you both can hear every word.

"How clumsy," the first man tuts, "what does their mother teach them? She's been too soft on them."

"She lets them run amok doing whatever they please. The other day, they—"

"—yes, I heard. Look at those clothes, aren't they too plain for the heir?"

His companion makes an agreeing noise. "And the company they keep… " 

Dottore doesn't particularly care about what other people think of him, and perhaps if it was only the last sentence that had been uttered he wouldn't have said a word, but the tirade of their complaints makes irritation, absurdly, flare inside him. He whips his head back to their retreating figures, and you throw him a glaring warning, so he clenches his jaw and stays where he is. He isn't one to do nothing, however. 

“Kol khara,” he says to them, viciously. Eat shit. He hears you stifle a sound that might be a laugh and briefly wonders why exactly you would laugh. 

The men turn back around. “Excuse me?” The first one says. 

“Nothing,” he says, curtly, his eyes like sharp daggers, “go on." They throw each other confused glances but say nothing further, going further down the hall until he can no longer see their backs. You both stay in the middle of the now-empty hallway, staring silently off into the distance.

You’ve never been able to contain your curiosity for long. After a good minute of silence, you turn inquisitive eyes on him. He’s been expecting your question.

"What did you say?" You ask.

He shrugs; makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. "I know it isn't nothing. It was something bad, right? You've said it to me before.” Clever you, he thinks briefly. Nothing gets past you. When he stays enclosed in icy silence, you press on further, “I won’t be mad. It doesn’t bother me — I think it’s funny. Just tell me.” He has no idea why you would ever think it’s funny. Nonetheless, he stays silent. 

You try again. “Tell me.” 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me,” you say again, but this time you slip into the voice of the noble, unshakeable heir to Winter. The two words are a command, and they leave no room for argument. He must follow. 

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “It means I want them to eat shit.” 

A moment of silence passes and Dottore wonders if he should start running. Then, you start to laugh. A small laugh, so small he almost thinks he could cup it in his hands and never let it go. But he recognizes it as different from the laughs you’ve given him before. This one is warm and sweet, conjured from the belly upwards. Summer in a sound. 

He tries very hard not to smile when he says, “you aren’t mad?” 

“No,” you say, still laughing, “I suppose I do deserve it.” He silently agrees. “Anyways, after coming to my defense, I forgive you.” 

He snarls, that sudden irritation reviving itself. “I wasn’t coming to your defense.” 

You shrug, not looking bothered at all. “Fine. Defending yourself and by extension — and complete coincidence — me.” 

He decides it is best not to argue, and listens quietly as you walk with him back to his laboratory, chatting happily away once more. If you notice that over the next few days, his outbursts toward you decrease, you say nothing of it. And if you notice he is insulting other people more in other languages, seemingly for the sole purpose of making you laugh, you say nothing of it, too. 

You’re speaking Sumerian. 

Fluent Sumerian. Rapid-fire Sumerian, without blinking or stumbling over your words. Clean, pure Sumerian, speaking everything with the perfect enunciation of a noble. You don’t notice him behind you, utterly bemused, as you speak to a foreign dignitary from his homeland. The First drags him out of the underground labs from time to time in order to socialize and familiarize himself with the political atmosphere, but Dottore lets you do all the work for him. You engage in polite small talk, though delivered with much more enthusiasm than necessary. But the words are barely intelligible in his head. It isn’t possible that you’ve learned how to speak fluent Sumerian in such a short about of time. He will begrudgingly admit your brightness, small as it is, but even he cannot master a language within a few months. Which means there must only be one conclusion. 

When you notice him, your face morphs into one of surprised panic. Oh. He’s sure his fury is plain to see. It’s at that precise moment the dignitary — Dottore does not see the point in blessings but, Archons bless her — chooses to excuse herself, leaving you open and without a proper excuse to escape with. 

“You can speak Sumerian,” he says, plainly, having immediately taken the empty spot at your side. You take  cautious, half-step backwards. 

You look both amused and slightly abashed. 

He grits his teeth. “For how long?” 

“... since I was five." A pause. You look thoughtful. "Actually, it was your Greater Lord Rukkhadevata who first taught me."

This new piece of information surprises him so much that the flames of his anger are snuffed out, if only for a second. Then they come back raging, and he cannot contain it.

"You knew what I was saying this entire time!" He rages, jabbing an accusing finger at you. You cringe away. "You could understand all of it!"

"Not all of it—" When you see the exasperation that crosses his face, you smile. "Alright. Most of it." 

You begin to walk away, but he furiously follows you. "You lied to me!"

"You were cursing me to my face. I think it's a fair exchange." You shrug with one shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It was funny, anyway. Your cluelessness, that is." And then, "you should know, now that you know — I can speak the main languages of each nation." 

"I can too," he says haughtily, raising his chin up at you. 

"Really?" You laugh. "Cubitum eamus?"

"What?"

"Nothing." 

"What does that mean?" He demands, only half aware he's repeating the interaction you once had over a plate of pink and white sweets. He's never heard a language sounding quite like that. Perhaps it could be a dialect, but it doesn't sound similar to any currently existing language. "What language is that?"

You deliver your coup de grâce with such smooth smugness on your face. "It's Khaenri'ahn." The dead language. 

He blinks. Opens his mouth dumbly. And lunges.

As he chases you through the halls, your laughter floats warm and clear in the frigid winter air. You easily outpace him, but perhaps out of pity, you let him catch you and drag you to — well, he doesn't exactly know where he's going, only that he does not want to let you escape his rage. You thrash in his arms like a trapped animal, still controlled by a laughing fit all the while. 

"I hate you," he grumbles later, when you've calmed him with a slice of strawberry cheesecake from the kitchens. He's still quite angry, but not angry enough to not accept your peace offering. "You're horrible."

"So are you." 

A pause, then, "Teach me Khaenri'ahn," he says, leaning forward, a bright idea sparking in his chest. "There's so many texts I have yet to decipher — you have no idea the knowledge I can grasp if you teach me." He thinks of the old Ruin Golems in Sumeru. How hard it was to learn how to control them! But with your help, with your knowledge, he could crack the world open like an egg and watch its secrets spill like yolk. 

"I thought I was a bad teacher."

"Bad is better than none at all."

The utterly offended look that flashes on your face teases a grin from his mouth. "You're horrible."

"So are you."

He thinks he sees the corner of your mouth involuntarily curl upward. You twirl your fork in your fingers, humming thoughtfully. "Why should I?" 

"... For the pleasure of contributing to my research?" The look you give him tells him you're not at all convinced. He continues, "My research that is so very essential to the success of this nation?"

You scoff, but you cannot deny it. He would not be alive if he wasn't useful to Snezhnaya.

"You'll owe me," you tell him. 

He shrugs. "There's worse things in the world. Let's start."

It startles you somewhat. "What, now?"

"Yes, now. Unless you have other things to do?" 

You don't. Your language lessons with him already ended when he reached an acceptable mastery over Snezhnayan according to your mother, and he knows that though you have a schedule (mysterious and utterly incomprehensible though it is — not even he has been able to figure it out), you'd drop everything in an instant if something else interests you. Your other engagements are often boring things, too, and the only duty you ever truly commit to are the strange missions your mother sends you on, ones that could go for months on end. He's fairly certain you'll acquiesce to his request.

You pretend to consider it, before shrugging with hardwon carelessness and saying, "Fine."

You're exactly the same. Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye. Half the cheesecake is eaten before you even start on the alphabet, and the journey to that is filled with endless detours that consist of bickering, fighting over the (large) cake, and kicking each other like children under his work table. His intelligence is insulted more times in half an hour than in his entire years of study at the Akademiya.

Dottore decides, with solid determination, after eating the last slice of cake, finally learning the pronunciation of the vowels and consonants, and being on the receiving end of an onslaught of Khaeri’ahn curses he truly cannot understand — which is horribly ironic considering the past few weeks — that he might as well beg the Jester for lessons instead, and no one can do a damn thing about it. He tells this to you, chin up, resolute and unwavering in his declaration. 

He never does get around to doing that. 

[chrysoberyi]

in your basement, i grow cold.

featuring. il dottore x reader

content. gore (specifically eye gore), relationship isn't romantic isn't platonic but a secret third thing, toxic dynamics, reader is called dottore's pet, scaramouche appearance, reader is mean to scaramouche, reader is generally fucked in the head, alluded kidnapping + medical experimentation, body horror, injections, electrocution

word count. 1.6k

notes. this was an xmas gift for a friend but ummm might as well post it i guess :p this is silly. i'm a certified dottore hater but he's fun to explore psychologically. also used this as gore practise. i don't think it's majorly disgusting but i'm not very squeamish generally so i might be biased.

♪ strangers — ethel cain

There is some peace to be found in ugliness. 

The Balladeer has yet to learn the same lesson. With every session he seethes and hits, he bawls and curses. The Doctor takes it all standing up, though, a flex of his wax-sheen gloves brushing the Balladeer off as though he were no more than an irksome fly. The doll scowls as you strap him in, hook wires and tubes into his artificial body. Sometimes the voltage is too high and he jerks and turns purple in the face, roasting from the inside out. Sometimes you think Dottore does that on purpose, his own small dose of revenge. 

The Balladeer despises you. He calls you Dottore’s little mouse at first, scampering around quietly doing the Doctor’s bidding. He sneers at you, a curled lip of cold command. “I see he’s let you out of the cage for another evening,” he remarks, violet eyes watching unblinkingly as you hurry between operating tables. “Try not to roll over and die with the shock of your newfound freedom. It would be a shame for Dottore to lose his favourite…” He rolls the words around in his mouth for a moment, considering, before flashing a smirk your way. “Pet.”

You get your own small revenges on Balladeer. Dottore languishes in pain, but you like to watch his sadness. When he’s under, he often dreams, and when he wakes he often cries. Sometimes he even cries in his sleep. You wish to bottle his tears whilst he’s unconscious, scrape them up into little crystal vials until you have enough to fill a chest. Then when he begins with his glaring and his remarking, you will open it in front of him and show him cruel, irrefutable proof of his weakness. Tears enough to drown a man. Not him, though, because he is not a man. He’s not even human. And despite how much he looks down on humanity, he bristles each time at the reminder. 

Dottore finds your ugly streak endearing, in the same way someone might find a cat with three legs endearing. Mostly his mask stays on, sinking most of his features into shadow, but sometimes you find his jaw twitching or a smile curling at his mouth. 

What you find exhilarating about helping to operate on the Balladeer is that you had been in his place once. Strapped down to the table whilst Dottore poked and prodded at you with his various instruments. And Dottore had been hardly gentle with his bedside manner. He’s been open about the fact that he expected you to die on that slab. Archon residue was no blood transfusion; it pumped hatred into your body and festered there, under your blood, pickling your veins. The results had not been pretty; an injection into your left eye had resulted in it bursting inside its socket like a red flower blooming too fast. Dottore had knelt, scooped up the residue in his gloved hands, rubbed between his fingers. The scarlet slip-slide of your innards. It felt like being touched for the first time; his lips hung open, parted in a gentle sort of awe. That time, when you spat at him, he only smiled and ruffled your hair. 

Sometimes he lets you wear a patch. Mostly he likes to look, observe how it heals, what irritates it, documents how long until it stops bleeding. He wonders about nerve damage in the area. You have a constant headache in your lower-left frontal lobe now, pressing against your skull like a bruise. 

You’d expected the Balladeer to laugh himself hoarse at the ugly emptiness of your right socket, but instead he went quite quiet. As you were hauling his body into the machine, he reached out, traced the gaping maw with delicate fingers. Your good eye flicked behind him where Dottore stood, finding the twitch of displeasure in his jaw. He didn’t like the Balladeer touching his handiwork. What’s more, you didn’t—the doll’s touch was gentler than you’d had in years, but you’d grown accustomed to Dottore’s clinical coldness. It was precise, even when it did hurt. The Balladeer’s caress feels clumsy in comparison, and you jerk away. He doesn’t try to touch you again. 

Whatever rapport you have with the Balladeer dies quickly. Once you might have sympathised, but as the years wear on, you start seeing him as Dottore does. A doll. A means to an end. And the Balladeer pretty quickly stops seeing you as a mouse. Sometimes, the way his gaze lingers on you out of the corner of your eye, the way he looks away when you catch him at it, you think he’s more afraid of you than he is of Dottore. 

You enjoy fitting the Balladeer’s body into the wires. You stab them through his artificial skin with prejudice, observe the way he tries not to wince. Your fingers brush over the ball-joints in his limbs, skirting under with a nail just to see him shudder and glare. And you love his tears. He rarely cries when he’s awake, especially in front of Dottore if he can help it. But he’s such a willing crier when he’s lost to his unconsciousness. He murmurs words, too. Mother is a frequent one. He calls out for her more than you did for your own in the beginning. But there’s also Niwa and Katsuragi, Tatarasuna and Escher. 

“Poor puppet,” you hum, swinging your legs. Dottore glances over, mouth a thin line.

“Do not bother pitying him,” he muses. “He won’t soon thank you for it.”

You don’t answer, gaze locked onto the Balladeer’s sleeping form until Dottore steps in front of you, obscuring your vision. “Have you tended to your eye today?”

You shrug, trying to peer past him. “I’ll get to it later.”

“You’ll do it now.” His fingers grasp your chin. “What is study and science without consistency? A mad scramble to find pattern, that is all. I’ll do it, if you insist on being stubborn.”

You bat his hand away, snarling. “I can do it myself.”

“Will you?” Dottore says sharply. “It’s been a while since you were tied down to this operating table, but I can certainly make an amendment.”

Your glare is poisonous. “Get your fuckin’ hand off me,” you grunt. 

Dottore smirks. “You’ve grown so bold from the shrinking violet I brought you in as. Some days I miss the subservience of that form.” He pauses. “Then again, most days not.”

Of course. Dottore isn’t afraid to say the quiet part aloud, but he doesn’t have to: he likes violence. He relishes in getting his hands bloody. Poking around your eye socket, fingering the innards, like digging for shrapnel in a wound. He likes the fight back. He likes when you hiss and spit and hit like a feral cat, like a dog who has just learned it has teeth. He likes it even better when you leave a mark. 

Your last appointment before the Balladeer leaves for Sumeru. He sits on the table, spine a gentle slope. His skin is marred with holes and titanium anchors. You run your fingers down the knobs of his back and he shivers. He is unusually subdued, despite how his exuberance over being made into a god had been cumulatively climbing for the past few months. 

“I leave soon,” he tells you as though you don’t know. “I will see a new land, and new people. They will have no idea that they will soon kneel before a new god.” His fingers flex as though physically reaching out to grasp this power. “Will you stay?”

You stare at him and realise you can no longer picture the world outside this laboratory. Your silence seems enough for him; you almost think he pities you. You are particularly vicious with your ministrations that time, reducing him near tears before he’s even slipped unconscious. Dottore watches, the ever-present spectre, smiling and smiling and smiling.

The Balladeer tries one more time before he leaves, in his own way. “Sometimes I miss that little mouse,” he says ruefully. “Now? You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing. You’re just as bad as him.”

You know you’re beyond saving, because that idea makes your stomach flip. 

You’re under no illusion that Dottore cares for you. Dottore cares for nothing beyond his own experiments and deductions and projects. He doesn’t care about the Fatui. He doesn’t seem to even really care about the Tsaritsa. Only what she can offer him. Dottore is more likely to cut you up and decorate the lab with your insides than confess any sort of love. But it’s alright, truly, because you don’t love him either. You suppose he’s become something of idolatry for you, in the worst possible way. You despise him for what he did to you, but now you cannot picture being any other way. The Balladeer may miss the little mouse, but you certainly do not. Gone are the days of your weakness. Now, in the darkness that Dottore had pumped into you, one injection and cut and fever at a time, there is power. 

Maybe one day you’ll grow to consume him whole. Maybe it starts with spitting in his face and hitting back, but maybe it blossoms to something more. Maybe one day you’d get him down on that operating table, prise that mask of his away to see the way his eyes widen in surprise. Maybe you’d get the scalpel or the wires or the syringe and turn him into the false gods he was so obsessed with puppeteering. And maybe he’d be your little mouse, afraid to catch your eye. 

Idle daydreams. Sometimes you think he can see them in the corner of your eye, because there are days he regards you almost with wariness. But he never exiles you. You suppose, in the way you’ve grown attached to him (as disease grows attached to a person) the same can be said for him. 

You’ll take advantage of it, sometime. You can’t wait to feel his insides on your hands. 

[chrysoberyi]

gen im going from one of the smartest in my class to failing my exams. what the fuck man

‘haha having obsessing over people is so cute so me’ me after crashing out for over a year and being unable to function qithout a specific person im going to kill myself

[chrysoberyi]

should i rethem…. hm……. a huohuo theme is speaking to me

or a dottoee theme since i wanna start posting my yume art of him more…. hm,,,,,

[chrysoberyi]

[chrysoberyi]

༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ . -🍵 Heart thumps and you jump .

୭ . ❇️ ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🫒 Coming down with goosebumps .

— HuoHuo edits. ܀⊹

Like or reblog and credit if using . ♡

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[chrysoberyi]

♡ — 1 nd 2 pfp @ rorokonaa give the credits.