phoenixblaze1412

[phoenixblaze1412]

Ahh i feel awkward asking for this again 😭😭but can we get smut general hcs/ fic of priest vampire dottore (sorry sorry its my current hyperfixation lol)

Dont worry^^ I don't mind helping your hyperfixations

His study is warm tonight—an unnatural warmth, almost suffocating. The windows are shut tight, and the only light comes from the flickering candles and the hearth, casting long shadows over shelves of ancient books and artifacts that hum with forgotten power.

Dottore sits at his desk, quill discarded beside parchment inked with half-written scripture. He’s not focused. Not on work. Not on doctrine. His eyes haven’t left you for the past five minutes.

“You’ve been staring,” you murmur, half-playful, half-nervous.

He doesn’t deny it. “You’ve been haunting my thoughts,” he replies, voice low, husky. “Even when I close my eyes, I still see you.”

You should laugh. Tease him, maybe. But your heart clenches.

So you speak.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Then—he rises slowly from the chair. You think he might reject you. He’s a priest. A vampire. A being older and darker than you can fully understand.

But he crosses the room instead, standing in front of you, and reaches for your hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into my cursed mansion and looked at me like I was something human,” he breathes. “I’ve tried to resist it. I can’t anymore.”

Your heart stutters.

He lifts your hand, kissing the skin near your wrist—right where your pulse beats strongest. “Say it again,” he murmurs.

“I love you.”

That’s all it takes.

---

His lips crash into yours like he’s starved for you, like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy his eternal hunger. It’s not neat or restrained—there’s desperation in the way he kisses you, tongue sliding into your mouth, fangs grazing your lip but not piercing. Not yet.

You gasp when he presses you against the bookshelf, his body caging you there, hands roaming your waist and lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to ruin you,” he growls softly.

“You’re a priest,” you whisper, dazed.

“I’m not a saint.”

He lifts you effortlessly, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he carries you across the room to his bed—heavy, carved mahogany with black silk sheets. It smells faintly of him—cedar, candle smoke, and blood.

He lays you down as if in worship.

Then he strips you slowly. Carefully. His hands don’t shake, but his breath does. Every piece of clothing he removes feels ceremonial. Reverent.

When you’re bare before him, his red gaze devours you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Soft. Warm. Alive.”

“And you?” you whisper, reaching up to trace his collar, sliding his robe off his shoulders. “You’re mine.”

He shudders.

You pull him down into another kiss, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. You can feel him now—hard against your thigh, restrained only by layers he quickly strips away.

He kisses every inch of you before he takes you—neck, collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. When his mouth brushes over your inner thighs, he groans, fangs accidentally dragging against tender skin.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, voice trembling—not with fear, but restraint.

“Y-Yes.”

He bites lightly—just a drop of blood—and licks it clean, moaning softly at the flavor. “Sweet,” he mutters. “Even your blood is sweet.”

You reach for him, your voice breathless. “Dottore… please…”

He finally moves over you, aligning himself, his eyes locking onto yours.

“This may hurt,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, “but I’ll go slow.”

When he pushes in, it’s with infinite care—but he’s thick, and your breath hitches as your body stretches to accommodate him. He shushes you gently, stroking your sides, kissing your throat.

You cling to him as he begins to move, every thrust deliberate and deep, filling you completely. The sensation of him inside you is overwhelming—pleasure tinged with something darker, something sacred.

“Feel that?” he whispers against your ear. “That’s me claiming you.”

You nod, moaning softly, your nails raking down his back.

His lips kiss your throat again, but this time… he bites.

The fangs pierce you gently, and the wave of sensation that follows makes your eyes roll back. The pain is dulled, overtaken by ecstasy as he drinks from you—just a little—while still moving inside you.

He’s careful not to take too much. Just enough to feel you. To taste the love blooming in your blood.

When you climax, your cry is muffled in his shoulder. You tremble beneath him, walls tightening around his length, and that’s what undoes him. He moans your name, thrusts harder, deeper—and then stills as he spills inside you, groaning like a man who’s finally found peace.

---

He doesn’t move for a while.

You lie tangled together in the sheets, his head buried against your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

He kisses the bite mark. It’s already healing.

“I’ll never let you go,” he murmurs.

You smile, fingers stroking his hair. “Good. I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

He lifts his head just enough to kiss you again—slow this time. Sweet. Deep. Then whispers:

“Mine.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

Dottore with a child (preferably fem) that the segments secretly spoiled so much that she's lowkey a brat now (wants dresses, sweets and absolutely will throw a tantrum for 2 two hours if she doesn't get it)

It started with the cupcake.

“I SAID I WANTED THE PINK ONE WITH THE SPARKLES!” you screamed, voice echoing off the walls like a siren of doom. Your tiny fists pounded the marble floor of the lab while your face scrunched up, trembling with rage.

“I gave you the chocolate swirl,” Omega said calmly, holding a clipboard. “It has 37% more sugar.”

“I! DON’T! CARE!!!” You kicked over a crate of test tubes. Theta, who had just walked in with a dress draped over his arm, gasped.

“She’s going feral again,” he whispered dramatically.

Beta immediately crouched beside you. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Look! I’ll bake you another cupcake myself—ten cupcakes! With extra glitter!”

You turned away with a sob and stomped your foot. “TOO LATE. I HATE YOU ALL.”

Sigma, watching with his arms crossed, muttered, “We should’ve stopped at dollhouse number four.”

———

In a futile attempt to pacify you, the segments fell into a flurry of activities:

Theta pulled out five different dresses from his stash of “emergency wardrobe options.”

Beta tried to sing a lullaby while holding a unicorn plushie toward you like an offering.

Sigma was already talking to a fatui soldier to order an entire bakery's worth of desserts.

Omega, with a deep sigh, was calculating the probability of your tantrum ending before nightfall (2.4%).

You, meanwhile, rolled around on the floor like a particularly stubborn caterpillar. “I want EVERYTHING! And I want it NOOOW!”

The door slammed open. Dottore walked in with the aura of a stormcloud and the kind of silence that screamed 'I am done with this.'

“Enough,” he said.

The room froze.

With mechanical efficiency, Dottore grabbed all four segments by the back of their collars. Protests rose immediately..

“I was about to get her the gold-trimmed lace dress!” Theta shrieked.

“She was gonna stop crying after the macaron pyramid!” Beta whined.

“This is unconstitutional,” Omega deadpanned as Dottore dragged them to the corner.

Dottore tied all the segments up in an absurdly dramatic bundle using a glowing electro-rope. They lay tangled on the floor, limbs flailing.

“Why is this rope scented like lavender?” Sigma muttered.

“You added calming pheromones to the bindings?” Omega asked, raising a brow.

Dottore ignored them. He turned to you. “You. Come here.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Beta whispered from the floor.

“She’s going to fight him,” Theta gasped. “My girl. Brave. Reckless. I raised her right.”

Dottore crouched down to your level and calmly handed you—

—a broom.

“Clean the glitter. All of it.”

You looked at him like he’d asked you to eat raw broccoli. “W-what… NO!”

“You threw it. You clean it.”

“I’M GOING TO DIIIIE.” You screamed and collapsed dramatically.

From the corner, the segments began running their comments:

“Oh the horror,” Theta moaned. “Manual labor.”

“She’s too delicate for this,” Beta sniffled.

“You are actively ruining her character arc,” Omega scolded Dottore.

“She is going to sue us when she grows up,” Sigma added.

You tried sweeping one patch. The broom scattering the glitter even more. You wailed but your father only ignored you, resulting in you slowly but surely sweeping the floor clean while sniffling. The segments were all in agony just watching you both cry and clean.

But it didn’t stop there.

“Oh, you think you’re done?” Dottore asked, smirking as he rolled in a whiteboard.

“W-what’s that?” you sniffled.

“Long division worksheets.”

A scream tore through the lab. “NOOOOOO!”

“She can’t do numbers when she’s upset!” Beta shouted.

“She can’t do numbers when she’s happy either!” Theta cried.

“Please, not math.” Omega struggled against the bindings.

“She has the emotional stability of a soufflé,” Sigma muttered.

You sat at the desk, stubby pencil in hand, glaring at a line of numbers like they insulted your unicorn plushie.

“I’m going to explode,” you hissed.

“You can’t even spell division,” Dottore chuckled. “Now do five pages.”

And it only got worse.

“Now, pronounce these chemical compound names.”

You blinked at the list. “What the HECK is ‘Methyl…methy…’?”

“Language, dear. That’s methylchloroisothiazolinone.”

“I’m four!”

“She’s not ready!” Beta sobbed.

“She needs chocolate before science!” Theta howled.

“She’s going to start crying again,” Omega warned.

“Good,” Dottore said, smirking. “It fuels me.”

After sweeping, calculating, pronouncing, organizing plushies by taxonomy, and even—gasp—folding socks, you collapsed in a beanbag chair, face buried.

“I’m…never throwing glitter again,” you muttered.

Dottore gave you a slow clap. “Progress.”

The segments screamed from the floor. “LET US SEE OUR DAUGHTER!”

Dottore finally cut the ropes with a flick of his scalpel. They bolted toward you like you’d just come back from war.

“My poor star!” Beta sobbed.

“Your light was stolen by knowledge!” Theta wept.

“She folded socks,” Omega said reverently.

“She grew up too fast,” Sigma whispered.

You clung to Beta’s shirt, hiccupping. “N-no more numbers.”

Later that night, you sat on the couch in an oversized lab coat, eating a cupcake shaped like a glittery fox. The segments hovered around like overprotective nannies.

Dottore stood nearby, arms crossed but smiling just faintly.

“You did good today,” he said.

“I still hate chores,” you pouted.

“No need to be dramatic. You survived.”

“…Barely.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

It's a small idea... for now. Just want to know what you guys think if I made a series.

Set in a modern au, akademiya zandik age-wise but he is ooc (sorry chat if you don't like that😔), lotsss of nsfw (if you want that) so be warned with that, basically clingy ooc boyfriend gamer zandik core

Lemme give y'all a preview.

Once again this be nsfw so minors! Be warned.

“You live here now,” he purred every ten minutes. “You're mine. Officially.”

You were still unpacking your monitor setup when he snuck behind you, pressed his face to your neck, and hummed like you were his favorite background music.

"I’m streaming in ten," Zandik whispered, biting your earlobe. "But I want a kiss before I go live."

—————

"Chat," Zandik said smoothly, voice low, “I’ll have you know I’m feeling very satisfied today.”

—————

“Apologize?” he scoffed. “I’ve been edging myself all stream thinking about you walking around in my apartment—knowing I can’t touch you until I’m done. You owe me.”

—————

“I barely made it through that last match,” he growled. “Every time you bent over behind me—fuck, I almost ended stream early.”

You gasped when his fingers pushed past the waistband, slipping into your panties and finding you already wet.

“So fucking ready,” he hummed. “Always ready for me.”

—————

That's about it :P

[phoenixblaze1412]

OMG HIIII MAY I REQUEST READER WHO IS ALHAITHAM'S AND KAVEH'S DAUGHTER???? OFC THE READER IS LIKE 18-19 YO. AND MAYBE LIKE THE DEVELOPMENT OF RELATIONSIP OR KIND OF HOW THEY MEET OR SMTH?? IM DELUSIONAL.

You never expected a chance meeting in the rain would change your life.

You were 18. Homeless. Alone. Backpack soaked, shoes worn through. You’d been camping outside the House of Daena’s library steps every night—close enough to hear the lectures, but too afraid to go inside.

It was Kaveh who first noticed you. He was late again, cloak fluttering as he rushed through the puddles. His eyes flicked toward you, pausing.

"Are you… waiting for someone?" he asked gently, umbrella tilting your way.

You shook your head. Avoided his gaze.

"...Just studying," you muttered, holding up a weathered notepad. The truth wasn't entirely a lie.

Kaveh frowned. "In the rain?"

He left you alone after that—but the next evening, he returned with a sealed box of takeout and a soft blanket. He didn’t ask anything else. Just left it beside you and disappeared into the Akademiya’s tall doors.

The third night, it was Alhaitham.

Tall, aloof, unreadable.

"You're the one Kaveh keeps fussing over."

You nodded slowly, shrinking in your hoodie. He studied you a moment longer, then sat beside you without warning and handed you a book. “Read this. Might keep your mind sharper than hypothermia.”

And that was the beginning.

———

It wasn’t fast.

It took weeks of quiet dinners on the steps, of Kaveh leaving water bottles and journals, of Alhaitham correcting your notes with red ink and deadpan comments.

Until one night, a rainstorm rolled in—merciless, cutting through Sumeru like a blade.

You woke up in a strange bed, warm and dry. A plush duvet, unfamiliar walls. A low murmur of arguing voices outside the door:

"They were freezing, Alhaitham! What was I supposed to do—leave them out there to get drowned in the rain?"

"I'm not saying you were wrong. I’m saying you should’ve asked first."

"They're a kid, not a stray cat!"

"Exactly. That’s why this is a commitment."

They quieted when they realized you were listening. Kaveh poked his head in first, his blonde hair tousled, worry in his eyes.

"Hey," he said gently. "You can stay. Just until the weather clears. Okay?"

But the weather didn’t clear. And neither did the warmth you started to feel for them.

———

Living with two grown men who were constantly bickering was a lot.

Kaveh insisted you eat full breakfasts. Alhaitham insisted you stop eating processed snacks while studying. Kaveh tried to teach you architecture. Alhaitham tried to shove philosophy texts at you. They argued over everything, but never over you.

They both… cared.

Kaveh was sunshine and anxiety. He fussed over your sleep, your socks, your dreams. He’d burst into your room to check if you’d eaten.

Alhaitham was quiet protection. He left notes beside your textbooks: "Wrong equation." "Check again." "Good improvement." He didn’t say much, but when someone insulted your background in front of you, he’d calmly dismantled their argument until they walked away fuming.

And little by little, your heart filled.

You’d been there almost a year. You were 19 now. Enrolled in classes thanks to Alhaitham’s connections. Room decorated with posters and projects, thanks to Kaveh’s help.

You were home.

But you still flinched when someone said the word family.

So when Kaveh placed a slice of cake in front of you one day and awkwardly pushed a folder toward you—something legal and official—you didn’t know how to react.

“We were thinking,” he started, fingers drumming nervously, “that maybe it’s time we… made this permanent.”

Alhaitham leaned on the counter beside him, arms crossed, tone calm as ever. “You don’t have to agree now. Or ever. But the option is yours.”

You stared down at the words. Adoption papers. Your name.

Your eyes teared up before you could stop them.

“…You want me?”

Kaveh stepped forward and hugged you tightly.

“Of course we do.”

———

It’s strange, how life builds itself from broken parts.

You still argue with Alhaitham. You still cry on Kaveh’s shoulder sometimes. But now you have two toothbrushes beside yours, two voices calling you for dinner, and a framed photo of the three of you sitting proudly on the wall.

You’re not alone anymore.

You’re part of something real.

You’re loved.

And this time, it’s forever.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Part 2 of the links of my Dottore fics

Vampire Priest! Dottore x Reader

Never tease the segments

Vampire Priest! Dottore x Reader Part 2 NSFW

[phoenixblaze1412]

may i request a gn!reader being freaky with the older segments for fun and to just tease em while they’re working in the lab. Like leaving touches (caressing their faces, tracing a hand down on their chests, etc.) leaving em kisses on the neck, etc. Then just leaving them with blue balls

and one day reader gets cornered by all of em and spicy shit happens uhhh yeah

It started as a game.

You were bored.

They were brilliant—always busy with their experiments, immersed in data, ignoring your presence for hours on end.

So, naturally, you decided to interrupt.

You started with Gamma.

He was hunched over a microscope, muttering to himself. You leaned in and let your fingers brush down the back of his neck, tracing the veins beneath his skin. He stiffened immediately.

“You're tense,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You should take a break, Gamma.”

He didn’t respond—not with words. Just a sharp inhale and a faint twitch below the belt.

You smiled.

Then Theta, you traced your fingertips over his chest as he reviewed surgical notes. “Does your heart ever race in that cold body?” you murmured, letting your tongue flick over his neck before walking away.

Omega tried to ignore the kiss you left on his jaw. He clenched the table, growled your name lowly, but didn’t move.

Delta snapped a pencil in his hand when you straddled the stool behind him and massaged his shoulders, letting your breath ghost down the back of his neck.

Then you walked out of the lab.

Like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just awaken every feral instinct in four dangerous minds.

Hours passed. They said nothing. You began to think you got away with it.

Until the lights dimmed in your wing of the lab.

Until the door locked behind you.

Until four very pissed-off Segments cornered you in the dark.

Gamma was the first to grab you, slamming you against the wall, lips crashing into yours with fevered anger.

“You think we’re toys, firecracker?” he growled, grinding into your thigh. “You thought we wouldn’t make you pay?”

“Made us walk around thinking about you for hours,” Theta hissed, sliding behind you, pinning your arms back. “Now you get to be our lab rat.”

Omega and Delta circled in like sharks. Omega’s gloves were off. Delta’s shirt was unbuttoned.

“You’ll be sore for days,” Delta purred.

“Beg now,” Omega demanded. “Before we take it.”

You were already aching, but you smirked, defiant.

“Make me.”

They did.

———

They stripped you fast, leaving you exposed on a lab table, restraints locking your wrists over your head. Cold metal beneath your back, four mouths on you at once.

Theta left bite marks down your chest.

Gamma sucked bruises onto your thighs.

Omega slipped two slick fingers inside you, curling expertly while Delta whispered: “You're ours now.”

And then?

They denied you.

Over and over.

Teased to the edge. Again. And again.

Every time you begged, they laughed.

“Not yet.”

“You wanted this.”

“You don’t get to finish until we do.”

.

.

Finally, they gave it to you.

Delta pinned your hips, his length thick, ruthless, ramming into you deep while he growled filth into your ear. “Tight little tease, gonna break you open.”

Gamma grabbed your throat and let out a small coo at how you're taking the others well while thrusting into your mouth, using your tongue to vent his built-up frustration.

Theta held your legs open, letting everyone watch your hole stretch, your body twitching as you finally came..only to be flipped and taken again.

Omega rutted inside you. His release hot, punishing, enough to make you sob. “Now you’re marked. Claimed."

Each Segment took their turn.

And then again.

And again.

You were drooling, trembling, belly full, body twitching from overstimulation.

They didn’t unbind you right away.

They just stroked you gently, whispered in your ears, kissed your bruises.

“Next time,” Gamma purred, “we do it in the main lab.”

“Let’s see how loud you scream during dissection lectures,” Theta teased.

“You’re not walking tomorrow,” Delta smirked, kissing your temple.

Omega simply looked down at your cum-streaked, shaking form and said:

“Touch me during a test again… and we’ll breed you on the exam table.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

Helloooo

How are you?

I love your stories.

Can I lose one?

What would Dottore be like as a father and his segments, a reader who is about to turn 15?

Thank you and goodbye 💜🖤

Dottore would be emotionally constipated but weirdly good at this situation

Acts like he’s completely unfazed by your teenage moods, sass, silence, or outbursts.

When you slam the door? He takes notes on decibel levels.

When you say “I hate you”? He mutters, “Fascinating… hormone-driven emotional volatility peaking at 14.8 years old.”

But secretly? He notices everything. Your late-night pacing. The way your eyes dull when you’re sad. The way you act too strong sometimes.

Leaves your favorite snacks on your desk without a word. Fixes your projects in the background. Lectures the Segments when they overwhelm you.

Dottore is the calm eye of the storm, and whether you’re having a panic attack or threatening to run away, he’s always there, arms crossed, asking:

“Are you finished? Good. Now come sit. I’m teaching you how to identify venomous toxins.”

Beta is the overprotective big brother-dad

Treats you like a fragile little egg no matter how old you get.

Constantly checking if you ate, if you slept, if someone bullied you in town (he will find them).

Once punched a wall because you cried during a movie. The wall was a government facility.

Gets flustered when you yell, “It’s not a phase, Beta!” because he doesn’t understand what phase it is.

Genuinely loves you to pieces. His way of bonding? Sparring practice, sword safety, and long lectures about self-defense.

If you’re ever crying quietly in your room, he’ll knock, sit outside the door, and wait you out, even if it takes hours.

Sigma is the confused but helpful one

Doesn’t get teens but tries really hard to.

Buys you books he thinks you’ll like based on your moods. "You scowled at the sun yesterday, so I assumed you wanted something dark. Here. It’s a murder mystery."

Is constantly trying to apply psychology to you like a lab rat—you don’t let him.

But he's also the one who builds you cool tech, fixes your headphones, and quietly covers for you when you sneak out.

Once helped you fake a sick day and distracted Prime with fake lab data.

Theta is your chaos twin

Loves that you’re a dramatic, intense teenager. Treats you like an equal and stirs up mischief with you.

Encourages you to dye your hair blue. Helps you pierce your ear (badly).

Always down for rebellion but panics when Prime finds out.

“Yes, let's run away to Fontaine! Let’s fake our deaths! Wait—shit, he's coming—hide in the vents!!”

Despite being reckless, he’s the one who can pull you out of a spiral with dumb jokes and chaos energy. He’ll make you laugh when you’ve been crying for hours.

Omega is emotionally intelligent, quiet anchor

Notices the things no one else sees. Like the way you space out when memories get too heavy.

Never pushes you to talk, but always makes space for you to exist quietly.

Teaches you how to meditate, how to stitch wounds, how to regulate your breathing.

Your calmest confidant. You once told him something you never told anyone else.

Omega kept it secret. Never told Prime. Just hugged you, said,

“You’re not broken, kid. You’re just healing with the volume up.”

———

Theta runs into the lab, hair singed and eyes wide.

“She just said she wants to ‘feel something’ so she drank the acid sample! Not the fake one! The real one!”

“WHAT?!” Beta yelled out in panic.

“Don’t worry. I switched the bottles after she glared at me yesterday. She's fine.” Sigma calmy stated.

“She knew it was swapped. She wanted to see if you’d panic.” Omega commented as he took a sip of his tea.

Dottore, calmly adjusting your medical file, finally speaks. “She’s fourteen. Her brain is soup. This is standard.”

You? You’re in the background, holding your stomach, giggling while coughing.

“You guys are so easy to mess with.”

They all stare at you in horror.

“That’s my girl.” Dottore smiled proudly.

———

The others know you don’t show emotions easily—but when you do, they hit hard.

Sometimes you lash out. Sometimes you isolate. Sometimes you cry at 3 AM under a desk.

The Segments fight over how to help. Dottore just walks in, lifts you into his coat, and lets you cry on his shoulder without a word.

Even when you yell “You don’t care!” he never flinches.

He does. In his own strange, quiet way.

“You’ll be fifteen soon,” he says one day, brushing hair from your face.

“You’re allowed to struggle. Just don’t ever forget—you're my child. And I'll do anything I can to ensure you are safe."

[phoenixblaze1412]

OK ABOUT THE PRIEST/VAMPIRE THINGY

u can like write one of them or mix them both?? Like i just wanna see a fic/hcs of a grumpy dottore in his big mansion how he met the reader and stuff

Their silly moments together like the reader touching his fangs ?? WHAT IF U MADE HIM TURN INTO A SMALL BAT AND MADE READER PLAY WITH HIM pls i made so many scenarios of priest/vampire dottore and i have no one to share them with i think im gonna explode *cries* sorry if i sound messy im just so excited to talk about it

You don’t remember what led you to the mansion on the hill—maybe a dare, maybe boredom, or maybe something in your bones pulled you to it, like iron to a lodestone.

The townspeople say it’s cursed. "Stay away from the old manor," they warn. “It’s where shadows crawl and the devil waits for souls too curious for their own good.”

Naturally, you go.

It’s empty at first glance. Cold stone walls, dusty chandeliers, the smell of time lingering like stale perfume. You’re not sure what you expected. Creaking ghosts? Bones in the foyer?

You don’t expect him.

He’s seated on a threadbare chaise like he belongs there, long legs crossed, pale fingers turning the pages of a crimson book. His robes aren’t the kind you’ve seen in the chapel, but they’re unmistakably holy. Priestly. A silver cross dangles from his neck, swaying as he looks up at you.

Sharp eyes, sharper smile.

“You’re not afraid,” he says. His voice is soft, but something coils beneath it—like honey over steel.

You blink at him. “Should I be?”

The smile deepens, revealing a glint of fang. “Most people are.”

You learn quickly that Father Dottore is more than the pious figure who preaches about salvation every week. He is revered, adored, followed blindly. But behind that pulpit smile, you now see what the others don’t.

Or refuse to.

You see the way his eyes flicker gold in low light. How the devout never seem to return from their "private confessions." How pale they look when they do, if they do. How he whispers to them that their blood is holy, a sacrifice to God.

You know better.

And yet… you stay.

“You’re really a vampire?” you ask one evening, legs curled under you on a church pew while he lazily lounges where the altar should be.

“Does the blood on my breath not prove it?” he murmurs, amused, dabbing his lips with a white cloth. “Or are you hoping I’ll bare my fangs again for your entertainment?”

“…Maybe.” You lean forward, eyes shining. “Can I touch them?”

He blinks, genuinely startled. “My fangs?”

You nod eagerly.

He exhales a laugh and leans closer. “You’re unbelievable.”

You poke one with your fingertip. It’s long, elegant, razor-sharp. You grin. “They’re pointier than I imagined.”

“And you’re disturbingly delighted by that.”

“You bite people with these. Of course I’m delighted. They're basically murder teeth.”

He raises an eyebrow, and despite yourself, you start giggling. His face twists like he’s both horrified and enchanted by you.

Later, you bring it up.

“So… can you turn into a bat?”

He pauses mid-sip from his chalice, definitely not wine, and gives you a look.

You shrug. “Come on. All the stories say vampires turn into bats. That’s like, half your aesthetic.”

“I do not perform parlor tricks.”

“Please?”

His eyes narrow. You pout. He groans like you’ve just asked him to renounce divinity itself.

And then—poof.

He’s gone, and in his place is a small, sleek bat, black as pitch, with little wings curled around his body like a cloak. He hovers midair, then flutters into your lap.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, cupping him in your hands. “You’re so tiny.”

He chitters indignantly.

You cradle him anyway, cooing, “You're adorable. My bloodsucking baby bat.”

More chittering. Probably swearing.

You kiss the top of his head.

He tries to bite your finger in retaliation.

You grin.

You start visiting him more after that—sometimes in the church, sometimes in the mansion where he sheds the façade of holy silk and shows you something rawer. Something real.

He never feeds on you, though.

He asks once, during a quiet moment when your pulse thuds loud in the silence.

“I could take just a little,” he whispers against your neck, voice thick and hungry. “It wouldn’t hurt. You’d feel warm. Floaty.”

You tilt your head, offering yourself freely. But he doesn't do it. His fangs graze your skin—he groans—but he pulls away.

“I don’t want to ruin you,” he says, as if he could.

Eventually, the town starts whispering. They sense something. They always do.

But you don’t care.

You sit beside him during evening hymns, your hands brushing beneath the pages of his prayer book. You clean his bloodied robes when he returns from "confession." You kiss his fangs and tease him for how dramatic he is when he's hungry.

You cuddle his bat form like a pet.

You touch the monster and find no fear.

You love him, and for once, the monster doesn’t bite.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Oo okay so haven’t seen you do this yet

But maybe Platonic! Yandere Dottore with

like a teen prodigy reader in the academia he’s been oddly fixated on and at first he chalks off up to being fascinated by their intelligence and starts to help them study (Let’s say the reader doesn’t know he’s fatui)

but when they stop spending as much time with him or start being wary he finally snaps and takes them away

❤️

You first met him in the House of Daena.

A man you didn’t know. A man you shouldn’t have trusted.

But you were only fifteen, a brilliant mind drowning in the pressure of being “the youngest genius in modern Sumeru,” your words always scrutinized, your schedule packed with research you didn’t even fully believe in. And he—he just listened.

“You're too sharp for the company you keep,” he told you that first day, glancing over the theory scrawled in your journal. “They're going to dull you if you’re not careful.”

You blinked. “You’re not a professor here. I’ve never seen you.”

He smiled, charming but unreadable. “I prefer not to be seen.”

--------

He helped you study.

He answered questions the sages couldn’t.

When you mentioned him in passing to a mentor, they brushed it off. “There are many visiting scholars,” they said. “Perhaps one from Fontaine?”

And he was never mean, not exactly. He was patient, insightful, gentle—so unlike the older professors who spoke at you instead of with you. He listened when you spiraled from anxiety, calmed you when your experiments failed, and smiled when your eyes lit up from discovery.

You started saving seats for him. Started seeking his approval. He always had time for you.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked once, laughing nervously.

“Not when you’re close to a breakthrough,” he replied, eyes gleaming.

You never asked his real name.

You called him “Sir,” and he never corrected you.

He called you “my little prodigy,” like it was a pet name carved in ivory, something too sharp and sacred to question.

--------

It started to go wrong when you started growing up.

Not physically—you were still young, but now you wanted your space. You found other friends. You started thinking differently. You stopped depending on him for every question.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

When you turned sixteen and stopped meeting him every day in the library, he left you books. Notes. Encouragement.

When you stopped responding to his letters, he began watching from afar again. You’d look up from your desk in the House of Daena and see someone just leaving, like they’d been standing there too long.

When you started skipping the weekly “chats” you used to treasure, he began appearing in your lectures. Always disguised. Always quiet.

And when you finally told your mentor you were worried about a man following you, they raised a brow and simply said:

“There’s no record of a visiting scholar in your circle. Are you sure he wasn’t a stress-induced delusion?”

-------

The next day, you found a familiar fountain pen on your dorm pillow. The same one you saw him write with. Your window was locked. Your door was locked.

You began sleeping with a blade under your pillow.

-------

When you stopped showing up to the House of Daena entirely, everything shattered.

You felt it. You felt it in the way the walls of the Akademiya stopped feeling safe. You felt it when every shadow in the corridor seemed to watch. You felt it when your food began tasting slightly different—too bitter, too warm, too calm.

You started avoiding meals. You stayed in public places. You wrote down what you remembered every night, just in case.

You were smart.

But he had been smarter longer.

--------

The night he took you, it was silent.

No glass shattered. No chloroform rag. No masked men.

Just a hand on your shoulder in the middle of your dorm.

You turned, heart already cold in your chest.

It was him—still unnamed—dressed simply, as if he were just a scholar again. But this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I thought you’d outgrow them,” he said softly, like you’d broken something precious. “But they got to you first.”

You stepped back, blade in hand.

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“And I did.” He stepped closer. “I was so good, wasn’t I? Patient. Quiet. Always there. Like gravity.”

“I’ll scream—”

“Go ahead. Sumeru’s greatest prodigy, babbling about ghosts and strangers.” He tilted his head. “You won’t even make it past the guards. Not when they believe I don’t exist.”

You swung the blade. He caught your wrist.

The sedative prickled a second later. You hadn’t even seen the needle.

“You should be proud,” he murmured as the world fell sideways. “They would have broken you eventually. They always do.”

His voice was the last thing you heard before darkness:

“But I’ll preserve you. Perfect. Untouched. Mine.”

------

You wake up in a room with no windows.

Every surface is clean. Sterile. Cold.

A desk filled with your research notes sits in the corner. Your books. Your fountain pen. A bed you don’t remember sleeping in.

There are no restraints. No visible cameras. And yet you know you are being watched.

The intercom clicks on.

“Good morning,” his voice purrs, warm and unhurried. “Breakfast is ready. You’ll find your tea has a mild stabilizer today. Just enough to keep you calm while we finish your revised thesis.”

You don’t respond.

“You’ll understand one day,” he adds. “I didn’t take you. I saved you.”

The intercom clicks off.

You sit on the bed. You are seventeen. Alone. Brilliant.

And perfectly, tragically, preserved.

[phoenixblaze1412]

rough sex with pantalone please (also pegging him is a MUST after he rocks our insides)

The blizzard outside Zapolyarny Palace howled against the stained-glass windows of the Regrator’s private study, but inside, it was hot.

From the firelight.

From the friction.

From the way he gripped your throat.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” Pantalone whispered, lips brushing your ear, voice like silk-draped venom as he snapped his hips into you again. “Wanted to feel what it’s like to be ruined by someone who can buy and break empires.”

You gasped beneath him, legs trembling as the edge built higher. His rhythm was unforgiving, calculated—like everything he did.

He took control like a man used to it.

And archons… it felt so good.

His gloved hand cupped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. Behind his glasses, Pantalone’s expression was unreadable—except for the glint of dark satisfaction when your breath hitched, your body arching for more.

“You’re just another asset,” he smirked. “Owned. Claimed. And if you behave... I’ll let you finish.”

You laughed.

Soft. Dangerous.

And he froze.

Because you weren’t supposed to laugh.

Not when he was in control.

Not when he had you beneath him.

But you had other plans.

Moments later, Pantalone was flat on his back—shirt undone, cravat discarded, chest rising with fast, shocked breaths. His wrists pinned above his head by your hands.

“Asset?” you purred, kissing the line of his jaw while grinding your hips against him. The strap on you wear teasingly rubbing against his hole. “Funny. Because right now, you’re the one begging.”

He glared, but it cracked when you dragged your fingers down his chest and kissed his throat—possessively.

Slowly. As if marking your territory.

“You don’t get to own me,” you whispered, voice thick with desire. “Not when you’re the one about to fall apart for me.”

And then—you slid it in. Pushing the strap deeper until it's fully inside.

His body arched, a surprised, strangled moan tearing from his throat as the harness claimed him inch by inch.

He swore.

And then…

“F-Fuck—keep going—don’t stop—!”

The Regrator comes undone.

Pantalone had never looked this wrecked.

Sweat-slick. Moaning. Head tipped back against the velvet chaise as your hips rolled into his, slow at first—teasing, making him twitch and shudder with every drag.

“You sound so pretty,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear. “Where’s that cold superiority now, mm? Can’t buy your way out of this.”

His voice cracked.

“You—hah—filthy little—fuck, I—”

You grinned.

“Aww. You like being used, don’t you?”

You fucked him harder.

The table rattled.

His moans were muffled by your hand over his mouth, his body trembling under the overwhelming pleasure. You could feel how he clenched around every thrust, starved for more. Needy.

Desperate.

“More,” he gasped finally. “I said—more—archons, don’t you dare fucking stop—!”

“I thought you ran this empire,” you teased breathlessly, “but look at you—falling apart for your own subordinate.”

He came undone the moment you said it.

You didn’t let him go right away.

Even when he was twitching, overstimulated, face flushed and lips parted—his glasses askew—you rocked into him gently, savoring how his thighs trembled around you.

“Yours,” he muttered against your shoulder, dazed, possessive even in surrender. “Only yours.”

You kissed his cheek. And then his lips. Still holding his hips, still buried in him.

“You remember that next time you try calling me an asset,” you whispered.

He chuckled—breathless, wrecked.

“You’re no asset,” he said hoarsely. “You’re my downfall.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

Hello ! I was wondering if I could request a dottore x reader who is like sparkle from honkai star rail ? I hope you're having a nice day and thank you ! (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

He doesn't like surprises.

Which is exactly why you make it your life’s mission to be one.

The doors to his private lab creak open, uninvited. He doesn't look up. Not at first.

“Zandik~”

Your voice lilts like silk, wrapped in mischief. "Guess who rerouted your test subject? Clue: they’re currently learning interpretive dance with a fungus colony."

His quill freezes mid-scratch. "You again."

"Me always," you hum, hopping onto the nearest lab bench as if it’s your personal throne. You're dressed far too brightly for the sterile gray around you — ruffles, ribbons, and a half-mask that only covers the side of your face you're least interested in using.

He finally turns. Cold red eyes flicker across you, calculating. “You tampered with my experiment.”

"I improved it. Now it’s more… avant-garde." You grin, teeth flashing behind your painted lips. “Besides, isn’t chaos the best variable?”

He strides toward you, coat swishing like a blade. “You’re testing my patience.”

"Good. Patience is so dreadfully boring. I’m testing your limits instead." You lean back on your hands, boots swinging off the table. “You think in straight lines, Dottore. I like to scribble.”

He stops mere inches from you. “What are you after?”

You tap your chin, then his nose. “Fun. Secrets. And maybe a peek into the messiest part of that brain of yours.”

"You’d be disappointed."

"I'd be delighted."

His gaze narrows, but you see it — the corner of his mouth twitching, like he's resisting the urge to smile. The game has begun.

You shift, eyes gleaming. “Do you want to know the real reason I came?”

“No.”

"Too bad!" you sing. You jump off the table and circle him slowly. “I had a dream you built a clone army and forgot which one was you. So I brought name tags!”

You pull them out with a flourish — absurdly glittery, gaudy things that say 'HELLO, I’M THE REAL ZANDIK™'

He actually pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

You pause.

When you speak again, your tone is velvet-dark. “Only with you.”

His head tilts. “Is that flattery or a threat?”

"Both." You lean in, whispering like you're letting him in on a cosmic joke. “I think we’re more alike than you care to admit.”

"You're delusional."

"You're intrigued."

He says nothing, which is as good as admission.

That night, he finds his notes rearranged. Not deleted. Not altered. Just… dramatically reordered with cryptic annotations in calligraphy.

“Did you ever think madness might be a kind of genius in costume?”

“Why settle for predictable when you could be magnificent?”

He should be furious.

Instead, he lets out the softest of chuckles.

Maybe surprises aren’t so bad after all.

———

You were supposed to be a nuisance. A disruption. A chaos factor in his rigid world of order and control.

But now you’re something else entirely.

A partner.

A mirror, twisted and brilliant, reflecting all the things he’d never admit he wanted.

The game shifted the moment you both realized no one else could keep up.

You didn’t just tease him anymore. You collaborated—rewriting operations, infiltrating noble houses, and turning Fatui politics into a grand stage performance. You slipped into courtrooms draped in drama, kissed enemies on the cheek with poisoned words, and left with secrets tucked into your sleeves like daggers.

Dottore called it "efficient subversion."

You called it "fun with flair."

Together, you were unstoppable. He brought precision. You brought performance. Where he dissected, you distracted. Where he threatened, you seduced. Where he plotted in shadows, you painted in light—and no one ever saw the knives beneath your smiles.

"You made him cry," Dottore muses one evening, fingers idly toying with a scalpel as he watches you across the candlelit lab.

You’re reclined on his worktable, arms behind your head, still in costume from the noble banquet. “Which him? I made at least three cry today.”

"The diplomat from Fontaine. The one who tried to blackmail me."

"Ohhh, him." You grin. “Yes. He wept beautifully. I told him if he threatened you again, I’d replace his teeth with glass shards and make him smile at children.”

Dottore chuckles — a rare sound, deep and low. “You’re terrifying.”

“We’re terrifying,” you correct, rolling to your feet. “Don’t hoard the credit.”

He doesn’t flinch when you walk straight into his space, hands curling around the collar of his coat. “Admit it. You like having me around.”

"I like results."

"But do you like me?”

He grabs your chin, firm but not cruel. Eyes like glacial fire bore into yours. “You are a weapon with a ribbon tied on it. How could I not?”

You smile. “Flattery. That’ll get you everywhere.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

Thought on Dottore x wife and assistant fem!reader who is like... Working as a real preoperative nurse but shy with everyone and the surgery team so she quit and work for her husband instead because it's make her more comfortable, sorry i'm kind of a lil delusional here :')

Thank you for readingg! Have a good day<33

The antiseptic scent of the operating room never quite left you—not even when you were no longer clocking in at the hospital.

You had once been a pre-op nurse at one of the top medical centers in the country. Calm hands. Precise. Professional. But there was always one thing that shadowed your ability: people.

You could prep a patient blindfolded, organize surgical trays to perfection, but… speaking to the team? Being in that loud, fast-paced arena where every glance felt like pressure and every sentence felt like judgment? It wore you down. You hated the sound of your own voice in the breakroom. You hated the eyes, the expectation to keep up a social rhythm you didn’t know the steps to.

So when you turned in your resignation, you weren’t expecting anything but guilt.

What you didn’t expect either was your husband—Zandik, known to the world as Il Dottore—to offer you a new position. One he had never extended to anyone else.

“Be my assistant,” he said, expression unreadable, “You’re the only one I trust in a sterile field anyway.”

That was his version of affection. You’d learned to translate it.

—

Working in his private clinic was different.

Here, you didn’t have to speak to a dozen nurses or surgeons. Just him.

You handed him scalpels in silence. You organized his files, set up the tools, sterilized, documented, observed. You never had to talk if you didn’t want to, and he never forced you to.

To the rest of his surgical research team—fellow doctors, residents, biotechnicians—he was the usual Dottore. Cold. Dismissive. Borderline robotic.

“You’re dismissed.”

“I told you already. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“That level of incompetence would be laughable if it weren’t on my time.”

They feared him. Respected him. But no one liked him.

Except you.

And you were the only one who ever saw him pull off his mask at the end of a procedure, sigh, and ask, quietly, “Are your hands sore today?”

Or who felt his hand briefly graze yours during prep, a silent signal of reassurance—he was proud of you.

You were the only one who ever got to lean against him during break hours, his long fingers tangled in your hair while he scrolled through clinical reports with his other hand.

No one knew how gently he spoke your name when he thought no one could hear.

No one else had ever seen the way his tone changed entirely when you made a mistake—not sharp, not cold, but low and measured:

“You’re okay. You didn’t ruin anything. Try again, love.”

You weren’t sure when he started calling you that at work. “Love.” As if it were a secret only he could say behind the safety of closed doors and double-locked labs.

—

One afternoon, you stood by the surgical table while he wrapped up a long robotic-assisted demonstration with an audience of international fellows. Everyone had their questions, and his answers were clipped and scathing, unimpressed by their awe.

Then his eyes flicked to you.

You were standing behind the glass window, waiting for your cue to sanitize and help with cleanup. His gaze softened—not obviously, not something anyone else would notice.

But you noticed.

He nodded. Just once.

The signal was clear: You can come in now. It’s okay. You’re safe here.

You stepped inside, hands steady, chest calm. No fear. Not like the old days.

And as you passed by him to sterilize the console, his voice dropped, so quiet only you could hear.

“You did well today. I’m… glad you’re here."

Your face flushed. He didn’t look at you when he said it. But that was his version of a kiss in public. And it meant everything.

—

Later, at home, you curled up in bed while he reviewed reports beside you. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Do you miss the hospital?” he asked.

“No,” you said truthfully. “Too many people.”

He hummed. “Good.”

You peeked up at him shyly. “You don’t mind working with someone like me?”

That made him pause.

Then he turned, gently tilted your chin, and kissed your forehead with surgical precision—soft, deliberate, and reverent.

“You are not someone like you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re mine. And there is no one else I’d rather have at my side.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

Dottore x dom male!reader where the reader is a dogboy but takes his leash off and leashes dottore instead, and uses it to pull him closer to the readers cock? And maybe a dialogue is "Im the dog, and yet youre the one leashed"

Dottore had always thought you were tame.

A leash around your neck. A collar he had fitted himself. A soft, obedient little thing who sat at his heel after long, brutal experiments—tail wagging, ears twitching, mouth ready for orders.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

He barely noticed the change until you reached up mid-kiss and unclipped your own leash.

The sudden freedom made his eyes narrow.

"...What are you doing?" he asked, voice even, eyes cold.

You smiled, slow and dangerous—canines flashing.

Then you grabbed his wrist, flipped him onto the bed, and snapped the collar and leash around his neck instead.

Leather against pale skin. Dottore froze.

“I’m the dog,” you purred, “and yet you’re the one leashed.”

His breath hitched.

The reversal was so fast, so clean, he didn’t even process it before you were straddling his hips—pressing your thigh between his legs, grinding against him while you slowly, deliberately, tugged on the leash.

He didn’t resist. He couldn’t.

You leaned in.

“C’mon, Doctor,” you murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “Be a good bitch. Crawl to me.”

His pupils blew wide.

The prideful sneer on his lips twitched—but didn’t last long. Not when you yanked the leash down and made him fall to his knees between your thighs.

You were already half-hard. Tail twitching. Eyes glowing with amusement.

“That’s better,” you whispered. “Now open your mouth.”

Dottore’s lips parted before he could think. You fed him your dick slowly, using the leash to guide his mouth. His tongue was eager. He hated how much he loved it. Every time he gagged and pulled back, you just gave the leash another sharp tug.

“You’re leaking,” you chuckled, watching the wet spot on his pants grow. “You’re not even touching yourself, Doctor. You really are the bitch here.”

He growled around your length, but you silenced him by thrusting deeper, forcing him to take more—down to the base. His breath stuttered, fingers clenching on your thighs, but he didn’t stop.

You scratched behind his ear mockingly.

“Good pet.”

He moaned.

[phoenixblaze1412]

hi did you get my ask a bit ago about a hybrid dog reader?

Yes, yes I did^^ I'm now in the process of making it, anon

[phoenixblaze1412]

Can you please write Dottore relationship headcannons with a female reader who likes to wear maid outfits? They can be sweet or spicy, your choice.

When Dottore first sees you in a maid outfit, his initial reaction is a raised brow, the corner of his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Well, this is certainly unexpected,” he muses, his crimson eyes scanning your attire with an analytical yet intrigued glint.

He’s not surprised for long—Dottore has always found humans’ quirks fascinating, and you’re no exception. “Is this for aesthetic purposes, or are you testing my reactions?” His tone is teasing but also genuinely curious.

Once he learns it’s simply because you enjoy wearing maid outfits, his curiosity morphs into a peculiar sort of fondness. He finds it endearing that you embrace something so unconventional with such confidence.

Dottore is a man who appreciates precision and aesthetics, so he secretly admires the detail and effort that goes into your outfits, even if he’d never outright say it.

The contrast between the elegant, clean lines of your maid attire and the chaotic environment of his laboratory doesn’t escape him. He finds it amusing how you somehow manage to add a touch of grace to his otherwise clinical world.

On more than one occasion, he’ll tug lightly at the fabric of your apron or lace cuffs, feigning disinterest as he murmurs, “Such delicate craftsmanship... it’s almost as captivating as its wearer.”

Dottore has a habit of calling you “maid” in a teasing tone, though his voice softens when it’s just the two of you. “Maid, have you come to tidy my mess? Or perhaps you’re here to distract me?”

Despite his teasing, he secretly enjoys how your presence brightens his work environment. The sight of you bustling around in your outfit brings a rare, fleeting warmth to his otherwise cold and calculated world.

He occasionally requests that you help him in the lab—not because he needs assistance, but because he likes watching you move around in your outfit, graceful yet determined.

Dottore rarely lets his guard down, but when he does, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder while you work, his arms loosely wrapping around your waist. “You’re distracting, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice carrying a rare trace of affection.

Dottore has a habit of brushing his fingers along the ribbon at the back of your apron, his touch lingering just long enough to make your cheeks flush. “It’s tied so neatly,” he muses, his tone almost a purr. “I wonder how quickly it would come undone.”

He’s also fond of tracing the lace hem of your skirt with his gloved fingers, his eyes dark with mischief. “Such intricate details… Did you wear this to tempt me?” he asks, his smirk widening when you stammer in response.

On particularly quiet evenings, he’ll pull you into his lap under the guise of “examining the fabric,” his hands resting a little too comfortably on your hips. “You do realize how much of a distraction you are, don’t you?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck.

If you catch him staring at you for too long, he won’t deny it. Instead, he’ll lean in close, his voice low and teasing. “Can you blame me? You look absolutely stunning.”

While Dottore is not the type to outwardly display his emotions, he’s fiercely protective of you. If anyone dares to make a rude comment about your choice of attire, they’re met with a sharp glare and a cutting remark. “I’d suggest you focus on your own lackluster appearance before criticizing someone far superior to you.”

He doesn’t mind if others admire you in your maid outfits—he knows you’re his. However, if someone’s gaze lingers for too long, he’ll wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “They seem quite interested in you,” he murmurs with a smirk, his tone laced with possessiveness.

Dottore is surprisingly gentle when he helps you adjust your outfit. Whether it’s straightening your apron or retying a ribbon, his touch is soft and meticulous, his usual sharp demeanor momentarily softened.

He secretly adores how happy the outfits make you. Seeing your eyes light up as you twirl in front of the mirror brings a rare smile to his lips, though he’ll quickly mask it with a sarcastic comment.

On rare occasions, Dottore will surprise you with a new maid outfit he’s had custom-made for you. “Don’t misunderstand,” he says, handing you the package. “I simply thought it would suit you. That’s all.”

Dottore is not one for grand romantic gestures, but he has his own way of showing affection. A soft kiss to your temple as you adjust your apron, a lingering touch on your hand as you hand him a tool—each action speaks volumes about his feelings for you.

He’s especially fond of pulling you close and murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, his voice low and teasing. “You’re far too captivating for your own good, my dear maid.”

When the two of you are alone, his teasing façade often drops, replaced by a quiet, almost vulnerable tenderness. “You look beautiful,” he admits one evening, his crimson eyes locking with yours. “I hope you know that.”

[phoenixblaze1412]

I hope no one has requested this already, but after seeing Dottore with Child! Reader who is a bit too much like Pantalone, and after Child! Reader getting along with Scara, I was wondering about a child! Reader who either is a bit too much like Childe, or hell, gets along veery well with the 11th Harbinger...

I love your writing btw!

Dottore should have known better.

He designed you—engineered you, even—to be a perfectly logical being. Someone who could assist in the lab, perform delicate procedures, absorb knowledge like a sponge. A little protégé to mirror his brilliance.

Instead, he got... you.

You were chaos incarnate. Wild, reckless, and insatiably curious, but not in the way Dottore intended. You tore through the laboratory like a thunderstorm in boots, sticky-fingered and louder than a thousand malfunctioning test tubes.

And then you met Tartaglia.

That was when the real trouble began.

-----------

You bounced up to Childe the first time you saw him in the Citadel’s corridor, wide-eyed and full of energy.

“You look strong,” you declared, tiny fists on your hips. “Wanna fight?”

He blinked, then laughed—a loud, full laugh. “You remind me of my little siblings back home.”

“I’m better than them,” you said proudly. “Bet I could beat you.”

“Oh? You think you can take me?” Childe knelt down, grinning ear to ear. “That’s big talk from someone half my size.”

“Bet,” you shot back, and tried to punch him in the leg.

From then on, the two of you were inseparable.

To Dottore’s everlasting horror.

You and Childe were a whirlwind of pranks, mischief, and poorly timed explosions. Dottore would leave you alone for ten minutes. Ten. And return to find half the lab scorched, Childe clapping you on the back while you grinned with soot on your cheeks.

“You put volatile chemicals in Pantalone’s tea,” Dottore seethed one day.

“Just a little color-changing agent,” Childe said, utterly unbothered. “No permanent damage. He looked better with green teeth, anyway.”

You giggled. “He was so mad!”

“Do you want me to die of a stress aneurysm?” Dottore hissed.

You tilted your head innocently. “Maybe?”

-----------

Even Dottore’s Segments weren’t spared from your antics.

Beta was constantly dragging you back from chaos. “You are not allowed in the weapons vault,” he barked, holding you under one arm like a misbehaving puppy.

“But I wanted to show Childe my bomb!”

“What.”

Theta hovered protectively near you anytime Childe was around, arms crossed like an angry parent. “He’s dangerous,” he warned.

You pouted. “You’re just jealous ‘cause he’s cooler than you.”

Delta walked in on you and Childe mid-prank once, stared blankly, and slowly walked away. “I saw nothing,” he muttered.

And Sigma—poor Sigma—accidentally helped disable security cameras so you two could sneak out to go monster hunting.

“Technically it was an educational field trip,” you argued when caught.

“You brought home a severed hilichurl head,” Sigma said flatly.

“Exactly!”

Omega, meanwhile, gave up entirely. “If you die,” he told Childe, “don’t expect a resurrection.”

----------

It all came to a head when Dottore found you mid-duel with Childe in the training grounds, both of you bruised, laughing, and soaked in rainwater.

“You are not a Harbinger!” Dottore shouted, storming over. “You are not a soldier! You are MY creation! You were meant to study, not fight like a bloodthirsty fool!”

“But fighting is fun,” you said, lifting your chin stubbornly.

Childe rested a hand on your shoulder. “Kid’s got a spark,” he said. “Let ‘em find out what they’re good at.”

“You’re corrupting them.”

Childe chuckled. “You made them with a mind of their own. They’re choosing this.”

Dottore wanted to argue. He wanted to demand you return to the lab, continue your studies, become the tool he had designed.

But when he saw the way you lit up around Childe—how you laughed, how you moved like the world couldn’t touch you—something cracked in his chest.

You were happy.

For all the headaches you caused, all the explosions and pranks and gray hairs… you were thriving.

And it wasn’t Childe’s influence alone. It was your choice.

-----------

From then on, he stopped fighting your nature.

He still lectured you, of course. He still punished you with chores when you caused a mess. But the edge in his voice softened. The anger dimmed.

Sometimes, he even smiled watching you and Childe spar.

Only a little.

Maybe you weren’t the precise, obedient assistant he had imagined.

But you were his.

And somehow, against all odds.. he was proud of you.

-----------

Later that week, Childe arrived to take you out again.

“Back by curfew,” Dottore said, eyes narrowed.

“Sure, sure,” Childe waved.

You bounced beside him, sword strapped to your back, grinning up at Dottore, “Love you, Father!”

Dottore froze. You rarely said that.

“…Try not to die,” he muttered, looking away.

And with a laugh, you ran off with Childe—your big brother in chaos, your partner in crime, and the only person in the Fatui who matched your madness.

Dottore sighed.

One little Harbinger of Chaos was bad enough.

Now he had two.

And strangely…

That was okay.

[phoenixblaze1412]

dottore with fem reader who's built like the eremites🤞 imagine him with a reader taller than him and him feeling up their muscles..

can you drop like..just a tiddly wink of NSFW..

It started, as many things with Dottore did, with curiosity.

You weren’t like the others—loud, boastful mercenaries desperate for coin and attention. You carried yourself with power that didn’t need to be flaunted. A quiet confidence. A calm storm.

And, much to his own shock and mild horror, Dottore was entranced.

He watched from across the camp as you lifted a crate that Beta and Sigma had deemed “unmovable.” One hand. Barely a grunt. Your muscles rippled like they had minds of their own, and Dottore may or may not have made an embarrassing sound behind his mask.

“…Doctor?” Beta asked, raising a brow. “Did you just whimper?”

“I did not,” Dottore hissed. “Silence. I am observing.”

"Uh-huh."

Later that day, he approached you under the flimsy excuse of “needing a field report.” You were sharpening your weapon, eyes half-lidded, not even looking at him when you muttered, “You don’t care about reports.”

He straightened his coat. “True. I care about… you.”

You stopped sharpening.

“…Excuse me?”

Dottore cleared his throat. “I’ve noticed your physical prowess. It's… commendable. Truly impressive. Scientific marvel, really. If I may be so bold—”

“You’re flirting.”

“I am researching,” he corrected swiftly, then caught himself. “But… if my methods also include admiring your biceps up close, perhaps even—hypothetically—touching them... for science, of course…”

You stared.

He was sweating. He never sweated.

“…You want to touch my arms.”

“I want to study them,” he said with a completely unconvincing smile. “And if, in the process, I win your favor and affections and you consider letting me take you on a—hypothetical—outing, I would not be opposed.”

You hummed. “So, to summarize: you want to flirt, be held like a dainty bird, and also grope my arms.”

“…Yes.”

You slowly extended one arm toward him, and Dottore blinked in disbelief.

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

He reached out reverently, almost trembling, both hands ghosting over your bicep like you were carved from marble. His fingers curled around the muscle, squeezed once—and he gasped.

“This is better than I imagined.”

You raised a brow. “You imagined it?”

“…Often.”

You laughed, and he looked like he’d just discovered the cure to death itself.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you teased.

Dottore straightened up immediately, smug and pleased with himself.

“So I am cute.”

“Debatable,” you said, walking past him and letting your fingers drag along his waist as you did.

He froze.

Then immediately turned to Beta, who was watching nearby with a deadpan look.

“She touched me. I’m marrying her.”

Beta sighed. “You are the most dramatic man alive.”

Dottore didn’t care. He was too busy smiling like an idiot and staring after you like a man possessed.

———

Days passed after your arm-flex encounter, and Dottore had not let up.

Every morning, he found an excuse to be near you—offering tea, asking for "muscle-based insights" on carrying heavy lab equipment, or casually inviting you to "private muscle inspection sessions" (you declined, laughing). He was relentless. Affectionate in the weirdest, most Dottore way possible.

You'd lie if you said it wasn't endearing.

He'd pop in while you were training, arms crossed, trying not to stare as your muscles flexed under sweat-slick skin.

“That form is very effective,” he’d murmur.

“For killing or seducing?” you’d ask with a smirk.

“…Both,” he’d reply, eyes wide and mouth dry.

But you made him wait.

Because watching him squirm was fun.

———

It was after a particularly rough mission. You were leaning against a column, sweat drying on your brow, and Dottore approached with an actual towel, handing it over wordlessly.

“Awfully sweet of you,” you teased, taking it.

“I can be sweet,” he muttered.

You turned to him, towel around your neck, and gave him a good, long look.

“You’ve been following me around for two weeks now, Dottore.”

“I would argue that’s an exaggeration—”

“You brought me a protein-rich meal yesterday and told me I was built like a living masterpiece.”

“I was simply being factual—”

“And you nearly moaned when I carried two of your Segments at once.”

“…They were heavy.”

You stepped closer, and he tilted his chin up to keep your eyes. Despite the height difference, he didn’t back down—though his breath hitched.

“I should warn you,” you said lowly, “I don’t do things halfway.”

His throat bobbed. “Neither do I.”

That was all you needed.

One hand curled around the back of his neck, the other at his waist, pulling him against you. He let out a startled gasp—one that you stole as your lips crashed into his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t delicate. It was everything he’d dreamed: rough, passionate, and laced with the electric tension of two strong-willed people finally giving in.

His hands clutched your sides, unsure whether to pull you closer or collapse. Your strength dwarfed his, and he loved it—melting into the kiss with an eager hum.

When you finally pulled away, he looked dazed. Flushed. Delighted.

“I think I’ve fallen in love,” he whispered.

You grinned. “You’ve been in love. You’re just finally getting a taste of it.”

He blinked slowly, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

“…Do it again?”

And so you did.