rasibelll

[rasibelll]

"The Cut Between Us"

Under the sterile glow of the lab, you stand with scalpel in hand and Dottore behind you-his voice low, instructive, almost reverent. Tonight is your first time operating on a living subject. He guides your every movement, every cut, with clinical intimacy and unnerving delight. You are not just his assistant. You are his experiment in human potential.

Featuring: Dottore x Reader

Tones: Obsession, control, and power dynamics

The door shuts behind you with a soft hiss—airtight, reinforced, and final. A sterile stillness settles in your lungs the moment you breathe in. The air is cold, laced with the sharp tang of antiseptic and the coppery ghost of blood that not even scrubbing nor the recycled filters can ever fully erase. You’re used to it by now. Or at least, you tell yourself that.

The room is dim, lit only by harsh white spotlights that pool over surgical tables and glint off metal trays. Shadows cling to the corners like forgotten memories. And at the center of it all, bent over a half-prepared subject, is him.

Il Dottore doesn’t look up immediately.

He’s humming.

The tune is familiar—a Sumerian lullaby, if your memory serves you. Beautiful, in the way venomous flowers are. It’s all wrong on his tongue.

“You’re late,” he says at last, not turning. His voice is calm, but carries a weight that makes your spine stiffen. Not quite annoyed. Just… aware. Watching.

"I had to recalibrate the—" you begin, but stop yourself. Excuses are beneath you here. They’re beneath him.

He finally lifts his gaze from the body—what’s left of it—and turns.

The smile he wears is not welcoming, but it is delighted in that uniquely clinical way of his. Like you’re a puzzle piece finally slotting into place. His mask, as always, rests upon the edge of his face—half revealing, half hiding. One eye glowing faintly with restrained brilliance. The other is void-like, a black hole of calculation.

“Come,” he beckons, gloved fingers flexing as he steps aside. “You’re just in time. I haven’t made the incision yet.”

You approach, careful not to step too quickly—any hint of nervousness is a weakness he’ll smell like blood in the water. But your heart still picks up when you see the subject on the table.

Still alive.

Barely.

Skin pale from the blood drawn earlier, chest rising shallowly, wrists bound in clean leather restraints. Their eyes flicker beneath closed lids, a distant consciousness swimming somewhere beneath the haze of sedation.

Dottore watches your reaction with the fascination of a man watching glass crack under pressure. He thrives on it.

“You’ve never worked on a live one before, have you?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

You shake your head.

He tsks softly and lifts a scalpel from the tray, holding it between two fingers like a conductor’s baton. “Then today is a day of firsts. Come closer.”

You do.

His hand reaches toward you—casual, almost affectionate—and takes your wrist. His touch is cold through the glove, firm and precise, like he’s holding a tool instead of a person.

“There is a method to this,” he begins, stepping behind you, guiding your hand with the scalpel. “You don’t simply cut. You understand. Every layer, every twitch, every drop of blood tells a story.”

His voice lowers, just behind your ear.

“You are the author.”

He shifts your hand ever so slightly, angling the blade toward the subject’s sternum. His other hand comes to rest lightly on your shoulder, grounding you.

“Now. Begin just below the clavicle. A shallow incision—don’t break the membrane yet. We want to see the body respond, not collapse.”

You hesitate.

He notices, of course.

“Oh?” His breath brushes your neck, and you feel his smile. “Are you hesitating because they’re alive? Or because you are?”

You clench your jaw.

He laughs—low, unhurried, pleased.

“Good. That’s the correct answer.”

Dottore doesn’t move away.

If anything, he presses in closer—just enough that you can feel the shape of him behind you. Not touching, not entirely—but present, undeniably. A calculated pressure. He’s taller, his frame wrapping around yours in shadow. Every motion he makes, no matter how subtle, invades your space with deliberate grace.

His hand is still on yours, guiding the scalpel. The metal glints under the surgical light, trembling slightly where your grip has begun to tighten. The subject’s chest rises faintly beneath it, the skin unbroken—soft and pale like stretched silk. You feel the heat of life beneath it. The quiet drum of their heart. You wonder how long it will take to stop.

Dottore’s breath brushes your ear again—cool, steady, unhurried. “This is where we begin,” he murmurs, tone dangerously low, almost reverent. “The clavicle is delicate. Press too hard, and you’ll fracture the bone. Not hard enough, and the dermis resists you. You must glide, not stab.”

He adjusts your hand slightly—your elbow, your wrist, the angle of your shoulder. His touch is precise, clinical. But there’s something in it that makes your skin prickle. Like he’s dissecting you, layer by invisible layer.

“You’re shaking,” he observes.

“I’m not—”

“You are. And that’s fine,” he interrupts smoothly. “Fear is natural. Anticipation is useful. It sharpens the senses. But do not let it dull your control.”

He leans closer, and this time his chest brushes your back—just enough contact to make the hairs on your arms rise. His gloved fingers shift along your hand, repositioning the scalpel until it's angled just right. You feel him breathe in.

Then—

“Now,” he whispers.

The blade touches flesh.

The resistance is faint, like cutting fruit. You feel it first through the scalpel’s hilt—a soft give, a pop of tension—and then through your own hand, as skin parts beneath steel in a thin, clean line. Blood wells instantly, slow and dark, running like ink down the subject’s sternum. Their body twitches—reflexive. Weak.

You inhale.

Dottore doesn’t speak immediately. He watches.

And then—“There it is,” he says softly, approvingly. “The skin sings when it splits properly, doesn’t it? Such a clean line. Do you see how it flowers open?”

He takes your hand again and, with you, draws the scalpel lower—slow, elegant, deliberate. Each millimeter of flesh divides under the blade like pages turning.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he murmurs.

His voice is too close now, velvet-soft in your ear, thick with something between admiration and hunger. His hand remains on yours, guiding, steady. You’re not sure if you’re still in control.

Or if you ever were.

“Do you feel it now?” he asks, as if unveiling a divine truth. “This is what it means to understand a living thing. To see what it hides beneath its skin. No lies. No masks. Only muscle. Nerve. Blood. Truth.”

The light above flickers slightly.

And in that moment, as the first incision gleams wetly under the light, you realize something:

You’re not just opening a body.

You’re being opened, too.

The blade still sits in your fingers, slick now—not from sweat, but from the heat beneath your gloves and the thin mist of blood clinging to the hilt. Dottore’s hand lingers for a second longer.

And then, he lets go.

He doesn’t step away—he hovers, close enough that you still feel his presence, but no longer touching. His absence is louder than his grip.

“I’m not going to hold your hand for the rest of the procedure,” he says coolly, moving to your side. His eyes glitter behind the curve of his mask, the orange-red glow flickering like coals behind glass. “This is where I see what you're really made of.”

He gestures faintly to the chest cavity—still closed, but bleeding now in a single, shallow line. “Retract the dermis. Use the hook. Slowly. If you tear it, you lose integrity of the nerves beneath.”

Your fingers hesitate—just for a breath.

That’s all he needs.

His voice turns soft. Dangerous.

“Or perhaps you’d like me to do it for you,” he muses, leaning close again. “Would you prefer that? For me to take the knife and do it properly? Strip this poor soul clean while you watch?”

You feel your chest tighten. Not from fear, exactly.

But from something deeper. The urge to prove yourself. To meet him at that razor's edge where obedience meets brilliance.

“No,” you murmur. “I can do it.”

“Good,” he purrs.

Your hands move almost automatically now. You switch tools—scalpel down, hook up. Slide it gently beneath the parted skin, lifting with care. Blood drips, slow and rhythmic, pooling beneath the subject’s ribs. They’re still unconscious, but twitches ripple across their limbs. Their nerves still remember the pain, even if their mind is fogged.

Dottore watches you. Not the subject.

You.

“Look at the vascular spread,” he murmurs, mostly to himself now. “It’s resisting more than expected. Fascinating. The sedative must have altered their internal pressure. I wonder if the pineal gland’s reacting to the stimuli.”

You realize, belatedly, he’s scribbling something on a clipboard.

He speaks again without looking at you.

“Describe what you’re seeing.”

You blink. “The... the fascia is clean. Minimal tearing. Veins intact so far. No internal bleeding.”

He hums his approval. “And the diaphragm?”

You adjust your angle, lifting the skin more. “Still untouched. I can see the edge of the muscle. It’s contracting slowly.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Don’t cut that. Not yet. That’s the final part. The final breath.”

He sets the clipboard down.

And moves behind you again.

“I wonder,” he says quietly, his voice shifting—curious, hungry. “When you make that final cut... what will you feel? Satisfaction? Horror?”

His hand brushes your wrist again—light, coaxing. Not guiding this time. Just there.

“Or will you feel nothing at all?”

The question hangs in the cold air like smoke.

You draw in a slow breath. The subject shudders beneath you—still alive. Still human. But you’re deeper now. Past skin. Past mercy.

You adjust your grip.

And Dottore watches with a smile.

You finish peeling back the last layer of tissue with barely a tremor in your wrist. The subject doesn’t move now—either fully sedated or slipping past the threshold where pain can reach them. Their body lies opened beneath the surgical light, an obedient specimen of nerve and blood and still-beating vulnerability.

You wait for him to speak.

And when he doesn’t—you risk a glance back.

Dottore is watching you. Not like before, not with the cold detachment of a mentor cataloging a test subject. No.

He looks rapt.

His eye glows brighter beneath the curve of his mask, and though he hasn’t moved in the last thirty seconds, you feel the tension coil through him like a held breath. His hands are still—folded, almost reverent.

And then—he laughs.

It’s soft, quiet, and absolutely wrong.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, stepping forward at last. “You followed every instruction to the letter. But that’s not what’s impressed me most.”

His fingers reach up—not for the body on the table, but for you. He takes your chin between two gloved fingers and tilts your face toward him. You feel blood drying on your cheek. His eyes don’t flinch from it.

“It’s the way your expression didn’t change,” he says, and it sounds almost like a confession. “Not even once. Not during the incision. Not when the flesh peeled back. Not when the lungs trembled.”

His grip tightens—not hard, but enough to remind you who has the scalpel even when he’s unarmed.

“You belonged in that moment.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t dare pull away. His proximity burns now—not from heat, but from intensity. His obsession clings to you like the scent of iron in the air.

He leans down.

Close.

Too close.

“If you had failed,” he whispers, “I would’ve broken every bone in your hand, one by one, and rebuilt them until they learned to obey.”

You go still.

“But you didn’t.” His smile curves wider. “You thrived.”

He releases your chin and moves behind you again—but not to guide you this time. His hands slide over your arms, slow and calculating, fingertips dragging across the blood-slick gloves you still wear.

“You know what I see now?” he murmurs. “I see mine.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because you know—deep down—you didn’t just follow his instructions. You wanted to.

And he saw it.

He loved it.

“I could carve your name into their liver,” he muses aloud, one hand brushing across your waist, possessive. “Label it. Brand it. Proof that your hands were here. That you chose this.”

He exhales—long and satisfied.

Then steps back to admire the scene.

“You’ll stay late tonight,” he says simply. Not a request. “We’ll need to prepare the next subject. This one is... a masterpiece, but I want to see what you do under pressure.”

You nod, silently.

He chuckles again—quiet and pleased.

“You’ll become everything I dreamed of, little assistant.”

He turns toward the storage room, voice echoing as he walks.

“And when you do... you won’t want to leave me.”

[rasibelll]

"Aiming for the Heart"

When Childe offers to give you a private archery lesson, you expect a serious training session. But between missed shots, stolen glances, and a little too much hands-on guidance, you start to wonder—who's really teaching who a lesson?

Featuring: Childe (Tartaglia) x Reader

Tone: Flirty, Playful, Romantic

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the field just outside Liyue Harbor. The breeze rustled the grass beneath your boots, but all you could feel was the smug grin tugging at your lips as you twirled the bow in your hand like it was second nature.

“Sure you know how to use that?” Childe asked, arms folded, leaning against a tree like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t even look at him. “Please. I could shoot the apple off your head from here.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing. “That so? Sounds like you’re already aiming to kill me. Dangerous little thing.”

You nocked an arrow, stance already perfect — at least, in your mind. “Dangerous is boring. I’m more like… devastating.”

He pushed off the tree, making his way toward you, blue eyes gleaming with that familiar spark — the one that said you’re fun to play with. “Devastating, huh? Big words for someone who hasn't hit a target yet.”

You turned your head slightly, your smirk wicked. “Give me a real target, and I’ll show you.”

Childe’s lips curved into a slow, amused grin. “Oh, I’ve got a target for you.” He stopped behind you, voice dropping near your ear. “But you’ll need a little help with your form first.”

You rolled your eyes — dramatically, of course — but didn’t move as his hands found your arms, adjusting your posture with annoyingly gentle precision.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “But you’re too stiff. Relax a little. Archery’s about flow, not force.”

“I’m relaxed,” you said, even though your muscles were definitely not relaxed with him this close.

“Sure,” he said, his breath brushing your neck. “You’re vibrating with confidence.”

You exhaled, narrowed your eyes at the target. “Bet I can land a bullseye on the first shot.”

“And if you don’t?”

You tilted your head, throwing him a side-glance full of mock challenge. “Then you can keep playing teacher, sir.”

Childe grinned like he’d already won.

“Deal.”

You raised the bow, but your smirk only deepened. “You sure you want to make bets with me, Childe? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Behind you, he let out a soft laugh — smug, smooth, and entirely too pleased. “Oh, I love a little disappointment. Gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away as his fingers slid down your arm, correcting your elbow again — unnecessarily, if you were honest. You were cocky, not clueless.

“I’m starting to think you signed up for this lesson just to get handsy,” you said, tone light and mocking.

“Starting?” Childe echoed with a grin. “You really are slow, huh?”

You turned your head just enough to catch his expression. That usual flirtatious glint was there, but his eyes had that faint undercurrent of sincerity—barely noticeable, but it lingered. Just for a second.

Your pulse jumped.

“I’m faster than you think,” you said, voice low. “But I’m letting you catch up. You’d be lost without me.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was the one guiding you.” He leaned in, his voice like a smirk made sound. “But if you want to take control, sweetheart, be my guest.”

That nickname made heat crawl up your neck — which only made your glare sharper.

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. That’s what you call someone when you’re trying to distract them.”

He hummed. “Is it working?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you focused on the target down the field — a simple circle pinned to a wooden post. Wind direction, angle, tension — all lining up in your mind, even while Childe’s presence hummed just behind you like static.

You loosed the arrow.

It flew clean.

But it hit the edge of the bullseye — close, impressive, but not quite perfect.

Childe let out a low whistle. “Oof. So close. That’s… what, two centimeters off?”

You lowered the bow with an exaggerated shrug. “Still hit the mark. I’d say that’s a win.”

He walked around in front of you, slow and casual, hands behind his back as he looked at the target and then back at you.

“That wasn’t the deal,” he said, smiling like the cat that caught the canary. “You said bullseye. You miss by an inch, you miss by a mile.”

You raised a brow. “Says the guy who dodges spears like he’s dancing. Pretty bold coming from someone who dodges commitment, too.”

He laughed. Actually laughed — head tilted back slightly, arms loose at his sides.

“Touché,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “But hey, I didn’t dodge this. I offered to train you, didn’t I? That counts as commitment.”

“Oh please,” you snorted. “You just like watching me struggle.”

Childe stepped in closer — not quite invading your space, but toeing the line. “Wrong again. I like watching you pretend to struggle. You’ve got a whole act, don’t you? The bratty confidence, the smug attitude…”

He tilted his head, gaze softening just slightly.

“But it’s all just cover, isn’t it? You’re trying so hard not to let me see how much you like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and that was exactly what he wanted — you could see it in the way his grin curled just a bit higher.

You crossed your arms. “Cocky much?”

“I learned from the best,” he said. “Now…” He leaned down just enough so your faces were close — not kissing-close, but enough to make it feel like the air between you changed. “How about another shot?”

You rolled your eyes again, but your pulse betrayed you. “Only if you stop breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy.”

He grinned wider. “No promises.”

He didn’t back off — of course he didn’t.

Childe stayed right where he was, like your words meant nothing, like the spark of heat in the air between you was a game he’d already mastered.

“Y’know,” he said, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up — bold and deliberate, “for someone so mouthy, you’re awful quiet all of a sudden.”

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “Just trying not to yawn. Your flirting’s getting predictable.”

That earned a soft chuckle, low and smooth. “Ouch. Brutal.” He stepped even closer now, and this time he was in your space, body barely brushing against yours. “But if I’m so predictable, why haven’t you moved away yet?”

You raised your chin, refusing to break eye contact. “Because I like the view.”

That caught him off guard — just for a beat. His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise that vanished behind a slow, amused smile.

“Careful,” he said, voice like velvet, “you’re starting to sound like me.”

“I’m better at it,” you said, grinning. “Wanna bet?”

He tilted his head, and you saw the shift — the brief softening in his eyes. Less teasing now. Something a little more real beneath the charm.

“I don’t think I need to bet,” he murmured. “I already know how good you are at getting under my skin.”

And that?

That actually made your breath hitch.

Just slightly.

But enough for him to notice.

You hated that.

Loved it, too.

He stepped past you then, suddenly — breaking the tension on purpose, like he knew dragging it out would only make you want it more.

“Alright, hotshot,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s see you try again. I’ll even keep my hands to myself this time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

Childe laughed. “Only when it’s fun.”

Still half-dazed from the closeness, you took your stance again, forcing your focus back on the target.

“You get one more try,” he said, circling back around, his tone lighter again but still laced with that undercurrent — that awareness between you. “Then I decide your prize.”

You snorted. “Who says you’re in charge?”

He grinned, stepping close behind you again — not touching this time, but close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him.

“Oh, I’m not in charge,” he murmured, voice low. “I just make the rules. You’re the one who breaks them.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smirk this time. “Damn right I do.”

You lined up your next shot, but your arms felt just a little less steady than before. Not from strain — from him. From the lingering warmth of his presence, from the words still echoing in your ears. Under my skin.

You hated the effect he had on you. Hated how much you wanted to hear more.

The arrow flew.

Thump.

Dead center.

Bullseye.

You lowered the bow with a smug little toss of your hair. “There. Happy now?”

Childe let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Look at you.”

He walked forward, boots crunching softly in the grass, stopping just in front of you. His eyes flicked from the target back to you, a glint of something proud—and maybe a little impressed—shining in his gaze.

“You earned that one,” he said, voice quieter now, more genuine.

You blinked. “What, no sarcastic comment? No snide remark? You feeling okay?”

Childe laughed under his breath and looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’m just… caught off guard. That was a damn good shot.”

You grinned. “Told you I was devastating.”

His gaze returned to yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You really are.”

For once, you didn’t have a smart reply ready.

He stepped in closer, slower this time—not with swagger, but with something gentler. He lifted a hand like he was going to touch your cheek, then hesitated. Fingers hovered, close but not quite making contact.

“I could kiss you right now,” he said softly, eyes locked with yours.

Your pulse stuttered.

“I know,” you replied, cocky on instinct—but your voice came out quieter than you expected.

He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Of course you do.”

But he still didn’t move.

Didn’t close the gap.

You could feel the moment stretching, charged and delicate, like pulling the string on a bow just before release.

Then, just as you leaned forward—

He pulled back.

Not all the way, just enough. His hand fell back to his side, and his smile turned rueful.

“I want to,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But if I do, I’ll forget why I started all this in the first place.”

You frowned. “Started what?”

Childe looked away, toward the field, eyes distant for once. “I told myself I wasn’t going to get attached. Not again. Not like this.”

That threw you off-balance more than any flirt ever could.

You shifted your weight, tone quieter now. “And yet here you are. Teaching me archery like some lovesick idiot.”

He laughed, short and surprised. “Yeah. Idiot’s right.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything more. You watched his jaw tighten slightly, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

“I’ve done some… ugly things,” he said finally. “Things I can’t take back. But you look at me like I’m more than that. And it’s terrifying.”

You stared at him, your earlier smugness slipping away.

“Then stop running,” you said simply.

He looked at you again, really looked. And for the first time, he didn’t try to charm you, didn’t smirk or flirt or deflect. He just looked like a man standing on the edge of something real.

“Just one more lesson,” he said softly.

You raised a brow. “Archery or emotional damage?”

He snorted. “Bit of both.”

This time, when he stepped forward, there was no pause. He cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing your skin like you were something precious. And yet, even then—

He didn’t kiss you.

Just rested his forehead against yours.

Quiet. Close.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Then die happy.”