#child segment

[phoenixblaze1412]

Hi ! Imagine baby Zandik, or even younger segments just treating you like their parent. Go seek you when they hurt their knees from falling, ask for help with homework older segments gave them or even just asking for a hug or you playing with them. Could I request that? Only if you feel like it ofc. (Sorry if my spelling or sentence are weird, English isn't my first language)

The child was small—smaller than the other Segments, his frame frail from having been created not for war or science, but something… softer.

Dottore never said what he intended him to be. Perhaps even he didn’t know. But to you, the answer had been obvious the moment you saw him.

He was just a child.

And children deserved to be loved.

—————

"Look! Look!"

The tiny Segment tugged at your sleeve, bright eyes shining with excitement as he held up a torn page from an old book. "I drew this!"

You smiled, kneeling beside him to get a closer look. The paper was rough at the edges, a relic of one of Dottore’s discarded documents, but the scribbles covering it were bright and full of life. A mess of crayon strokes, clumsy yet full of meaning.

It was a sketch—of you.

"Is that me?" you asked, pointing at the smiling figure.

The child beamed, nodding eagerly. "And that’s me! And that’s—" he hesitated, lowering his voice. "That’s Father."

You followed his gaze to the third figure—a towering presence in a long coat, standing slightly apart.

Dottore.

The sight made your chest ache. The child's depiction of him was not unkind, but there was something uncertain in the way he had drawn him. As if he did not know where he belonged in the picture.

"You did a wonderful job," you murmured, ruffling his hair.

He giggled, pressing closer to your warmth. "I wanna draw more!"

"Then we’ll draw as much as you want."

—————

Dottore was not a sentimental man. His creations were meant to serve a purpose—each carefully calculated, each a necessary piece of his grand design.

But this child…

This child defied logic.

He was not an instrument of war, nor a mind of scientific brilliance. They were small hands covered in crayon dust. They were tiny feet padding through the lab, their laughter foreign against the sterile air. They were the one Segment that did not bow at his feet, but instead reached up with open arms.

It was baffling.

"You spend too much time with them," Dottore remarked one evening, watching as you helped the child arrange his drawings into a messy pile.

You didn’t look up. "He's just a kid."

"He is a Segment," he corrected. "Not a child."

At that, you did look at him, lips pressing into a firm line.

"He can be both."

Dottore’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. He never appreciated being challenged. But before he could respond, a tiny voice interrupted.

"Father."

The small Segment approached hesitantly, holding up a fresh drawing. Their fingers curled slightly at the edges of the paper, uncertain. "I made this one for you."

For a moment, Dottore said nothing. His gaze flickered between you and the child, before finally taking the drawing.

It was simple. Three figures, hand in hand. The crayon lines were uneven, but the warmth in it was unmistakable.

You. The child. And him.

Dottore exhaled slowly.

"...Hmph."

The child shifted, waiting for his reaction. When it didn’t come, they hesitated, then moved to your side, fingers grasping at your sleeve. You responded without hesitation, pulling them close.

Dottore watched. His hands curled slightly at his sides, the drawing still held between his fingers.

For all his intelligence, he didn’t know what to do with such a thing.

Later that night, as the lab grew quiet, you found the child curled up beside you, his tiny hands resting against your arm. Sleep had claimed him, his breath soft and steady.

Dottore stood by the doorway, watching.

"You let them cling to you like an attachment," he remarked, tone unreadable.

You exhaled softly, running a hand through the child’s hair. "If being loved is an attachment, then I don’t see the problem."

Dottore scoffed. "Love is not a necessity in my research."

You glanced at him, your gaze steady. "Maybe not in your research."

A pause.

Dottore said nothing. He only turned, his coat shifting as he left the room.

But in the dim light, forgotten on the desk, lay a single crumpled drawing.

Untouched. But not discarded.

—————

The nights were the hardest.

In the daylight, the child found distractions—doodling on scraps of paper, following you around the lab, tugging at the Segments’ coats until one of them indulged hisncuriosity. But at night, when the world was quiet and shadows stretched long across the floor, there was no escaping the fear.

It always began the same way. The shifting of blankets. A tiny, trembling breath. Then, the quiet sniffles, stifled as though the child feared making too much noise.

You stirred at the sound, blinking groggily before realizing what was happening. Without hesitation, you shifted towards him, already reaching out.

"Nightmares again?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

The child didn't answer right away. He only curled in on himself, small fingers gripping his blanket too tightly, his tiny shoulders shaking.

Gently, you pried their hands free and pulled them into your arms. He came willingly, burying his face in your shirt as if trying to disappear into your warmth.

"It’s alright," you murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles on their back. "I’m here."

His breath hitched. "It was dark," he whispered. "I couldn’t see you."

Your heart twisted painfully at the quiet admission.

The lab was often dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the cold glow of alchemical solutions, but the dark of night was different. It was isolating, stretching on endlessly, swallowing up small, scared children who just wanted to be held.

You tightened your hold, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

"I’m here," you repeated, firmer this time. "And I’ll always be here."

For a moment, he simply clung to you, his tiny body trembling against yours. You continued to hold him, running gentle fingers through his hair, humming quietly—a tune with no name, just something soft enough to keep them grounded.

Eventually, his grip loosened. His breathing slowed, steadied. The tension in their small limbs melted away, and warmth seeped into you as they relaxed completely.

Even in sleep, their fingers curled lightly against your shirt, as if making sure you wouldn't leave.

You pressed another kiss to their forehead and whispered a promise—one only they would hear, nestled safely in your arms.

"I won’t let you face that darkness alone."

—————

Dottore found you both in the garden.

The child was curled up in your lap, clutching a small, broken machine—one of his old prototypes. Their fingers worked clumsily, trying to fix it while you guided their hands, voice patient and warm.

Dottore didn’t speak right away.

For the longest time, he simply watched.

The way you held the child with such care. The way their eyes shone with delight at your praise.

The way they trusted you so completely.

"You’ve grown attached," he finally said.

You didn’t look up. "They deserve kindness."

Dottore hummed, stepping closer. The child noticed him then, eyes lighting up as they scrambled to their feet.

"Father! Look what we fixed!"

He held up the machine, wobbling slightly in their eagerness.

Dottore took it, examining their work with an unreadable expression. Then, after a long pause—

"Acceptable," he muttered.

The child grinned, turning to you with wide eyes. "Did you hear that?! He said it’s acceptable!"

You laughed, ruffling their hair. "See? I told you you were brilliant."

Dottore exhaled, shaking his head. "You’ve made them insufferable."

"And you love them anyway," you replied easily.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he placed a hand on the child’s head—gentle, brief, but unmistakably fond.

The child beamed, practically glowing under his touch.

And in that moment, even Dottore couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Life in the lab remained the same—filled with research, experiments, and the constant hum of machinery. But in the quiet moments, the ones that existed outside the rush of work and duty, a softer reality had settled into place.

The child was a constant presence, trailing after you or one of the Segments, always eager to learn, to build, to understand the world in their own way. And though Dottore rarely voiced his approval, he was always watching.

One evening, you found him in his study, reviewing reports, when a familiar weight settled against his side. The child had climbed onto his chair, pressing against him with a sleepy murmur.

Dottore tensed for a moment before sighing, setting his work aside. "You're supposed to be asleep."

The child yawned, clinging to his sleeve. "Was waiting for you."

His fingers twitched. After a long moment, he hesitantly rested his hand on their back. The child hummed contentedly, shifting closer.

From the doorway, you watched with a small smile, not saying a word.

Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud. And for all his denials, for all his exasperated sighs and muttered complaints, Dottore never once pushed the child away.

[firesmokeandashes]

Mha "could've been canon" quotes/scenarios

Fake Deku: *walks into the common room and over to Katsuki*

Fake Deku: "Hey Bakugou! Want to go spa-"

Half of class 1 a: *suddenly jumps the fake deku*

Fake Deku: "Wait! What are you guys doing! Get off me!"

Ochako: "Cut the bullshit, we know you're not Deku"

Fake Deku: *detransforms into some random villain*

Villain: "But how? I haven't done anything out of the ordinary!"

Todoroki: "Midoriya never calls Bakugou, Bakugou"

Tenya: "In fact we're not entirely sure he knows how to say Bakugo's real name"

Katsuki: Besides, danger sense would have alerted Izuku before everyone jumped you and gotten out of the way. So really you're just stupid"

Jirou: "Wait, sense this guy isn't Deku-"

Momo: "Where's the real one!?"

●●●●●●●

Meanwhile at the villain's hideout:

Izuku: "So you see, you can be whatever you want to be, you don't have to be a villain"

Villain 1: *sniffling* "That's so deep man"

Villain 2: *crying* "No one's ever told us that before! Thank you!"

Villain 3: *sobbing uncontrollably* "Thank you so much! Im gonna turn my whole life around now, I promise!"

Villain 4: *sitting in a corner contemplating their life choices and having a mental crisis*

Izuku: *slightly flustered* "There's really no need to thank me! You guys should have been told all this from the beginning!"

All four villains: *thinking* 'And he's humble too!'

●●●●●●●

Back at UA:

Aizawa: "So you mean to tell me he's been missing for FIVE HOURS!?"

Katsuki: *frustrated sigh* Yeah"

Aizawa: *insert groan of dissapointed and frustration*

Aizawa's phone: *rings*

Aizawa: "What!?"

Villain 1: "Um, is this Erasurehead?"

Aizawa: "Yes, what do want? I'm in the middle of important business!"

Villain 1: "Well, you see, we have one of your students, Midoriya, and we want to know where we should drop him off at?"

Aizawa: "...."

Aizawa: "What do mean 'drop him off at'"?

Villain 1: Well, he kind of gave us a talk about how we don't need to be villains and now we all feel bad about the stuff we did and want to give him back to you"

Aizawa: *sighs tiredly while dragging his hand down his face*

Aizawa: "Meet me at the abandoned choclate factory over on 15th street"

Villain 1: "Okay! Yeah, we can do that and I just want to say how sorry we are for kidnapping him! We're fully expecting to be arrested when we get there, so don't worry about us putting up a fight"

Aizawa: *sighs tiredly and hangs up*

Katsuki who listened to the whole conversation on speaker phone: "So he did it again?"

Aizawa: "Yup."

Katsuki: "And now you have to call the police and do more paperwork than you want to?"

Aizawa: "Yup."

Katsuki: "Want me to go with you to pick him up or..."

Aizawa: "Yes, lord knows he's gonna need someone to talk to on the way back and I cannot deal with him right now."

Katsuki: "So... what do we do with this guy?"

Katsuki: *jabs finger towards the shapeshifing villain who is tied and gagged with sero's tape snd spewing muffled curses at them*

Aizawa:"Hand him over to campus security and let them take care of him"

Katsuki: *nods and drags the screaming villain out the door with him*

Aizawa: "Im getting too old for this"

●●●●●

Later at the abandoned Chocolate Factory:

Aizawa, Katsuki, and a handful of cops walk into the Factory:

Izuku: *jumping up and down while waving his hand*

Cops: *rush over to arrest the villains*

Izuku: "Sensei! Kacchan!! Over here!"

Katsuki: "We know, idiot! We aren't blind!"

Villain 1 being arrested: *whispering* That's 'Kacchan'? I thought he'd be nicer"

Villains 2-4 also being arrested: *nod in agreement*

Izuku: *bounds over to Aizawa and Katsuki*

Izuku: "Sensei! Kacchan! You're not going to believe the day I've had!"

Izuku: *begins rambling*

Aizawa looks tiredly at Katsuki: "You take care of him, I have a big enough headache as it is"

Katsuki: *nods and turns back to listen to Izuku's rant and scold him for being reckless and getting in trouble again*

■■■■■■■

[hauntingofhouses]

Taigen x Mizu mentioned in the The Making of Netflix’s “Blue Eye Samurai”

Taken from the livestream organised by Gnomon

Jane Wu:

Next slide, Taigen...

Brian Kesinger:

Everyone's favourite samurai, uh, Taigen. Uh, so, he was designed a bit over the top. The, the, peak of male samurai, even down to the quite prodigious hair bun, which he doesn't have on screen for much. Uh, but, um, he is the visual opposite of Mizu, right, so it was fun to kinda let her design dictate what his design should be, and, you know, I think that, you know, especially for all you Taigen x Mizu fans out there, I think that might be one of the reasons why he's attracted to her. Um, or in my brain, he's attracted to her, uh, is because she is who she wants to be, and doesn't have to put on airs. Uh, and that's a lesson that he has to learn and he literally, I mean, it's on the nose but, he lets his hair down. And that's the start of his journey of discovery, um, which he needs to go. He's, he's got a lot of growing still left to do. Um—

Jane Wu:

I also think he has a, has a talent—he has like a... sword crush on her right, he has like a martial arts crush on her, yeah. Talent crush, yeah.

Brian Kesinger:

Right, yeah. Talent crush. Yes. Yes, for sure.

---

For context, Jane Wu is Blue Eye Samurai's supervising director and Producer, while Brian Kesinger is the lead character designer. Others presenting for this livestream were production designer Toby Wilson and art director Emil Mitev.

[kaphkas]

Girl what the hell kind of palaver is this?

[1singulargrape]

@luminescent-cow (frantic) I love the way you worded this because it reminds me of 2 of my favorite art pieces that I think fits sukuita in a way (it's probably the brainrot but wtv)

"The anatomy of a hug" by Luna Lu

"this is what love feels like I think" by sardineslayer_ on twt

sharing one heart and one mind in addition to one soul... it makes me a bit insane and I want to grab these two and smash them together until they're indistinguishable from one another <3

[crystal-cliffs]

Mmm the arlechi battle cats

[akkivee]

i was watching the bonus video that comes with buying all the fan meetings and got to fp’s part and like!!!!! shiraimu’s nails were painted with his teammates’ colours the day of the live omg 🥺🥺🥺

[stuck-in-jelly]

Worst trope is child savior and the adults who wish it needn’t be them, the adults who try desperately to claw the burden onto their own backs, who have to watch a child lose their childhood to destiny or whatever cruel fate choose them to carry it instead

[phoenixblaze1412]

dadtore and teen!child that refuses to speak to anyone other than him. Like.. the other harbingers see them once in a while out of the lab and try to talk to them because its a rare sight to see, only to be met with blank starring eyes and a body as still as stone before suddenly running off far away and back to dottore.

its a cycle. dottore’s chill with it

The Fatui headquarters was a place of strategy, secrecy, and absolute chaos—especially when it came to one particular scientist and their peculiar offspring.

Dottore, ever the busy Harbinger, had a child. A teenager, to be exact. And to the absolute confusion of everyone in the Fatui, this child refused to speak to anyone other than him.

It wasn’t that you were shy. No, shyness implied an eventual willingness to engage. You? You simply did not care.

And that drove the other Harbingers insane with curiosity.

The first time Capitano saw you outside of the lab, he merely nodded in acknowledgment.

Seeing Dottore’s kid out in the open was a rare sight. Maybe you had an errand, or maybe you had finally decided to socialize.

That hope was shattered the moment he attempted a simple greeting.

“You must be Dottore’s child,” he said, his voice deep and even. “It’s good to see you outside the lab.”

You did not respond.

Instead, you stared at him. Completely motionless. Completely silent. A blank, unreadable look in your eyes. Not a single muscle twitched. Capitano had been on countless battlefields, but even he found this unnerving.

“…Hn.” Capitano merely nodded and walked past you, deciding that you were either incredibly focused or just an odd teenager. He wasn’t wrong on the second part.

The moment he was out of sight, you turned on your heel and bolted back to the lab.

The next encounter was with Sandrone, who, being a woman of mechanics, was intrigued by you simply due to genetics. Surely Dottore’s offspring was some kind of prodigy, yes? Maybe she could extract some scientific insight from you.

She found you idling in one of the grand halls, clearly hesitant about being outside the lab. Perfect.

“Child,” she called, stepping closer. “What are you doing out here?”

You did not answer.

“Surely you have some project outside your father’s work?” she pressed, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “I’d love to hear about it.”

Blank stare. Absolute stillness. Like a deer locked in place by a predator’s gaze.

“…Well?”

You blinked once.

Then, without warning, you turned and sprinted full speed down the hall, disappearing around the corner before Sandrone could even process what happened.

“…Did they just run away?” she muttered, baffled.

The pattern continued.

Tartaglia? Tried a casual conversation—met with blank stare, stillness, sudden escape.

Arlecchino? Attempted to ask about your combat skills—met with blank stare, stillness, sudden escape.

Even Pantalone, with all his charm, only received a blank stare, stillness, and a sprinting teenager fleeing at top speed.

Back in the lab, you slammed the door shut, panting slightly.

Dottore barely looked up from his work. “Harbingers again?”

You nodded, slipping into the seat beside him, safe in the familiar chaos of bubbling vials and mechanical whirring.

“Hm.” Dottore hummed in amusement. “I imagine Sandrone is still trying to process your complete shutdown.”

From across the room, Theta, one of his more mischievous segments, snickered. “It’s honestly incredible. They freeze up and run like they’ve seen a ghost.”

Omega, the most refined and eerily similar to Dottore himself, simply sighed. “It’s inefficient. You could simply ignore them and walk away.”

Beta, ever the gentle one, placed a hand on your shoulder. “It’s fine, little one. You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

You leaned into Beta slightly, silently appreciating the support. The segments were more like secondary fathers than anything else. Even if they all had different opinions, they all agreed on one thing: you were theirs to protect.

Eventually, your antics became infamous.

The Harbingers no longer attempted to engage in conversation, but they would whisper among themselves whenever they caught a rare sight of you outside the lab.

“There they go.”

“Like a cryptid.”

“Do you think if I offered them candy, they’d stay?”

“Sandrone, they sprinted away from you last time.”

“Shut up.”

Then one day, Pierro himself, the Jester, caught sight of you.

You froze under his gaze. This was different. Pierro wasn’t like the others. He exuded a level of authority that even you hesitated to dismiss outright.

“You,” he said simply. “Come.”

You did not move.

You did not blink.

The other Harbingers, watching from a distance, held their breath. Would you dare run from him?

Slowly, Pierro raised a brow. “…Are you going to stand there all day?”

You turned.

And bolted.

“…I see,” Pierro muttered as you disappeared down the hall. He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dottore’s child, indeed.”

The Harbingers promptly lost their collective minds laughing.

Later that night, you sat beside Dottore in the lab, sipping a warm drink Beta had made you.

Dottore smirked from behind his mask. “Pierro, too?”

You huffed and nodded.

Theta cackled. “Oh, that’s legendary.”

Omega shook his head, muttering, “One day, they’re going to give an old man a heart attack.”

Beta merely chuckled, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Well, at least we know you’re still comfortable here.”

You gave him a small nod before resting your head against Dottore’s arm.

The scientist sighed dramatically. “You truly are hopeless without me, aren’t you?”

You grinned against his coat but said nothing.

That was the unspoken rule, after all.

You spoke only to him.

[fatuismooches]

Tfw you're finally writing a full fic again!! 🥰

It is called "Puer et Monstrum" or "The Boy and the Monster."

[rubberduckyrye]

Sometimes I see such wild takes about Kokichi being a villain/evil person it almost inspires me to make a younger half brother for the twins that has more of Kenzo's..... moral code, we'll call it.

[sweetnsour-stuff]

I am cringe but I am free

[k423s]

Ik you dont play zenless but also ^guy with terminal illness that leaves him vulnerable to literally turning into a monster ^afraid of being seen as a monster but jokes around as a front so he can appear normal ^character quest about autonomy and how disabled people should never be used as stepping stones for supposed medical and scientific progress ^has a master he considered family but that master experimented on him yet cared about him so much to the point where his dead unconscious monsterfied body protects a drug that alleviates the symptoms of the child he experimented on😂😂😂

WHAT THE FUCKKKKK…. THEYRE BAITING ME..

[phoenixblaze1412]

Heyyoooo! I want to request something that would probably destroyed you, me, and everyone. Mwahhaha! The request is the child loss, his own child, that Dottore lost. His mask is shattered by the loss of his child, his Segments struggles to cope with the reality of the situation, where they are stuck in a cycle of grief, each one reliving the pain.

Dottore's child was also a part of him, and with their passing, he feels a piece of himself has been torn away, consumed by guilt and self-doubt after failing to save them. As he searches for a way to redeem himself, his other Segments, despite their shared pain, must intervene to prevent him from succumbing to his darker impulses.

You're quite evil anon😭, just wanna let you know this took me days to think through and trying not to tear up at it

The lab was in ruins.

The air was thick with acrid smoke, curling from the shattered remains of glass tubes and smoldering machinery. The scent of burning chemicals stung Dottore’s nose, but it was nothing compared to the metallic tang of blood—fresh, seeping into the cold floor beneath him.

His coat, usually pristine despite the chaos of his experiments, was soaked in red. But it was not his blood. It was yours.

His child.

His hands trembled as they hovered over your still form, unwilling—unable—to touch you yet. You lay there, unmoving, your once brilliant eyes dull, your lips parted slightly, as if you were about to speak but never got the chance.

Something inside Dottore shattered.

“No… No, no, no, no.” His voice was barely a whisper at first, then broke into something raw, something frantic. His hands shot forward, grasping your limp shoulders, shaking them. “You are not allowed to die on me. Do you hear me? You do not get to leave.”

No response.

His grip tightened, his nails digging through the fabric of your clothes, as though the force of his desperation alone could will life back into you. His mind, sharp and logical, the mind that had solved impossible problems, could not comprehend this outcome. It had to be a mistake. A miscalculation.

He had contingencies. There was always a way.

Shallow breaths turned into ragged gasps.

His hands moved to your wrist, fingers pressing against cooling skin, seeking—begging—for a pulse. A flicker of warmth. A sign. Anything.

Nothing.

His breath hitched. His mask—cracked from the explosion, slick with blood—felt suffocating. He tore it off with shaking hands and let it fall to the floor with a dull clink.

His chest heaved, agony clawing its way up his throat like a beast desperate to escape. He was choking on it, drowning in it. His child, his creation, his blood, lay dead in his arms, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Behind him, the Segments stood frozen.

Zeta had his mouth open, as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words. Theta’s hands twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with tension. Sigma’s fingers were curled into his palms, his nails digging into his own skin, expression caught between horror and disbelief.

None spoke. None moved.

For the first time, they were without direction. Without an answer.

A strangled noise clawed its way out of Dottore’s throat—something between a sob and a snarl, something that did not sound human. He crushed his child against his chest, pressing his forehead to their cooling skin, gripping them as though they would disappear if he let go.

And the lab, for all its destruction, was drowned in an all-consuming silence.

His mind, usually a place of precision and control, was now spiraling, thoughts colliding and breaking apart like brittle glass. I should have seen this coming. I should have prepared for this. I should have saved them. I should have—

The truth hit him like a death blow.

I cannot fix the dead.

A harsh, ragged breath escaped him, followed by another, and then another, until he was gasping, his entire body trembling violently. No, no, no, this isn’t right. This isn’t reality. I do not lose. I do not lose.

But he had.

And the world, for all its cruelty, did not care.

----------

The mask shattered first.

It cracked under the weight of grief, brittle against the force of his own hands as he tore it away. The remnants clattered to the cold floor, forgotten. The last remnant of the man they had always known lay in jagged shards at his feet.

Then, the man beneath it broke.

The Segments had seen many sides of their Prime—the genius, the tyrant, the scientist. They had seen him consumed by ambition, driven by an insatiable hunger for knowledge. They had witnessed his cruelty, his cold, calculating apathy, and his moments of triumphant arrogance.

But they had never seen this.

Never seen him silent. Never seen him empty.

Sigma was the first to step forward, hesitance clear in every movement. “Dottore—”

“Don’t.”

The word was hoarse, raw, barely more than a breath. He did not look at them, did not move from where he stood. His gaze remained locked on the ground where his child had fallen, the ghost of their absence carving itself into his mind like a scar that would never fade.

His hands hung uselessly at his sides, the blood on his gloves long dried, but he could still feel it. Clawing at his skin, staining everything he touched.

A phantom pain dug into his chest—suffocating, relentless.

You should be here.

You should be breathing.

You should not be gone.

Theta hesitated before speaking. "You need to eat. You need to rest."

A hollow laugh scraped from Dottore’s throat, sharp and brittle. "Rest? When there is work to be done?"

Beta, who had remained still until now, took a step forward, his patience fraying. “What work?” His voice was cold, tinged with something dangerously close to desperation. “They are gone, Prime. You cannot change that.”

Silence.

Dottore finally turned to look at them then, and it was worse than anything they had ever seen before.

No fury.

No arrogance.

No brilliance.

Only grief.

The kind that stripped a man to his bones, hollowing him from the inside out.

The kind that did not heal.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came. No sharp remark, no denial. Just silence.

The Segments had never feared silence before.

But this time, it felt like mourning.

--------

The lab was quiet now.

No longer filled with the soft, inquisitive voice that once questioned theories, no longer echoing with the rhythmic clicking of footsteps that always lingered too long, as if reluctant to leave.

It was a hollow kind of silence, the kind that settled in the bones, that turned time sluggish and unbearable.

The Segments had cleaned the blood, scrubbed every last trace of crimson from the floor, repaired what they could of the damage. Yet no matter how much they worked, the place still felt colder. Emptier.

They had not simply lost someone. They had lost you.

And yet Dottore still worked.

Night after night, he ran through formulas, spliced genes, combed through every record, every theory, every ounce of knowledge he had acquired over decades.

Searching. Desperate.

A cycle with no end, no destination, only the endless repetition of a man who could not accept the past.

He did not sleep. He barely spoke. His hands were trembling now, his movements slower, less precise. Yet he never stopped.

The Segments watched as he wasted away, swallowed by his own obsession.

Delta set down a tray of untouched food beside the cluttered desk. “You cannot keep doing this.”

Dottore did not respond. He did not even look up.

“They wouldn’t have wanted this,” Gamma added quietly, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “You know that.”

Dottore's fingers stilled over the notes. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “What they would have wanted does not matter anymore.”

Sigma crossed his arms. “And if you collapse? What then? If you die, who will remember them?”

A sharp crack echoed through the room. The pen snapped in Dottore’s grip.

The ink bled into his gloves, but he did not move to wipe it away. His shoulders were tense, his face unreadable beneath the dim glow of the monitors.

The Segments said nothing, exchanging glances filled with quiet concern.

For the first time, they truly feared that they might lose him too.

------

Theta swore he heard footsteps.

Soft, careful, just like theirs.

He turned sharply, expecting to see them standing there—shoulders squared, lips curved into that ever-familiar teasing smirk as they asked why he always looked so serious.

But there was nothing.

Just an empty hallway.

The air was too still, the silence pressing against him like a vice. He lingered for a moment longer, waiting, hoping, before he forced himself to move on.

The cold pit in his stomach did not fade.

They were all feeling it.

The lab was too quiet now. Their routines had been thrown into disarray, not by chaos or disaster, but by something far worse—an absence that should not exist.

An absence they could not accept.

Theta had walked past an unfinished project of yours just yesterday, the notes still sprawled across the desk in your distinct handwriting—meticulous, yet just messy enough to reveal your excitement. No one had touched it.

No one could touch it.

The beakers remained where you had last placed them, your lab coat still hanging on the back of a chair as if you would return at any moment. The project had been incomplete, a mere blueprint of an idea, yet to Theta, it was as if the moment they moved it, you would truly be gone.

Delta had been the first to break. He still set aside an extra portion of food, his movements mechanical, mind caught in the routine of it. Every time he placed the plate down, he would hesitate, staring at it for far too long, waiting for someone who would never sit at that table again. And every time, he would leave it untouched.

Sigma, usually the most composed of them, had snapped at Gamma just the other day. A rare occurrence. The younger Segment had made an offhand joke—something light, something meaningless—but the air had turned suffocating the moment Sigma’s voice cut through it.

"Don't pretend everything is fine when it isn't."

Gamma hadn't argued. He had only lowered his gaze, guilt shadowing his features.

And then there was Dottore.

Dottore, who had not been seen outside his personal lab in days.

Dottore, who had not spoken unless it was to demand more data, more reports, more answers to a question that had no solution.

Dottore, who had always been a force of nature—untouchable, unstoppable—now reduced to a man drowning in the weight of his own grief.

The door to his lab had remained shut, locked from the inside. The Segments had tried to reach him, to speak to him, but he refused to listen.

They could hear him in there, pacing, muttering under his breath, papers being torn apart, glass shattering against the walls.

Sigma had tried once to override the lock, but Beta had stopped him.

"If he wants to be alone, let him," Beta had said, his voice quiet but firm.

"And if he doesn't come out?" Sigma had challenged.

Beta hadn't answered.

Because none of them knew the answer.

None of them wanted to consider the possibility that Dottore might disappear into that lab and never return.

And yet, as Theta stood there in the empty hallway, the weight of it all pressing down on him, he swore he heard it again—soft footsteps, just around the corner.

This time, he did not turn around.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what was waiting for him.

----------

It had been Beta who caught Dottore at the docks.

The sea was restless that night, waves crashing against the icy shore, the moonlight cutting silver lines across the water. Dottore stood at the edge of the pier, his coat billowing slightly in the wind, his mask discarded somewhere in the dark.

Beta approached cautiously, knowing better than to speak too soon.

“I wondered how it would feel,” Dottore said, his voice eerily calm. “To just let go.”

Beta swallowed hard. “You don’t want this.”

Dottore’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t I?”

He took a step closer to the edge.

Beta lunged, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back, hard enough that they both staggered. Dottore let out a sharp breath, eyes widening for the briefest second as he stumbled, as if realizing—truly realizing—what he had been about to do.

Beta didn’t let go.

His grip tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered with something dangerously close to fear. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave us too.”

----------

The first time he stopped eating, the Segments noticed.

The first time he refused to rest, they grew concerned.

The first time they found him collapsed on the floor of his lab, barely breathing, they panicked. Sigma was the first to reach him, shaking him roughly. “Wake up.”

There was no response.

Theta knelt beside him, fingers pressing against his neck, searching—praying—for a pulse. “He’s still alive,” he muttered, relief bleeding into his voice. But it was faint. Weak.

Beta turned to the scattered vials on the desk, his mind racing. “He overdosed.” His hands curled into fists. “The bastard did it on purpose.”

Silence.

Then Omega cursed under his breath. “We’re idiots.”

They should have seen it coming.

The way he avoided them. The way he retreated further and further into himself. The way his hands shook more and more with each passing day.

They had thought his obsession with fixing things would keep him going.

They hadn’t realized he was trying to break himself beyond repair.

-------

Dottore barely recognized the man staring back at him.

The reflection in the shattered mirror was gaunt, skin pallid and stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Shadows clung beneath his red-rimmed eyes, his pupils blown wide—not with curiosity, not with arrogance, but with something raw, something hollow. His mask had long since been discarded, its broken remnants forgotten on the floor.

The man who had once commanded respect, who had built an empire of intellect and ambition, was gone.

In his place stood something fragile.

It had been weeks. Months. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Time had become meaningless, a cruel trick played on a man who once valued precision above all else.

He knew the others were watching him. Knew they whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear.

"He hasn’t eaten again."

"He just sits there, reading the same notes over and over."

"What if he never stops?"

They spoke as if he was something delicate, something that might fracture under the wrong touch. And perhaps they were right.

Dottore had always known pain. Had been intimate with suffering in ways others could not comprehend. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t a wound he could study. Wasn’t a problem he could solve.

This was absence.

A gaping void where something vital had been ripped away.

And he could feel it, pressing against his ribs, sinking its claws into his lungs, suffocating.

His fingers twitched at his sides. The gloves felt too tight, suffocating. He tore them off, letting them fall to the ground. His hands trembled. He hated that. Hated the weakness. Hated that he could not fix this.

A part of him wanted to stop.

To let go of this endless cycle of grief and failure, to step into the abyss and disappear into the silence.

Another part wanted to vanish completely.

To erase his existence in the same way he had been unable to save yours.

But then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

"Father."

His breath hitched.

He turned sharply, heart slamming against his ribs, but there was no one there.

Just his ruined lab. Just the shattered mirror. Just his own reflection, staring back at him.

Dottore squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenching at his sides.

He was losing himself.

And he didn’t know if he wanted to be found.

-------

They found him in the lower levels.

It was a part of the lab rarely visited, an abandoned sector filled with outdated projects, half-finished research, and things better left untouched. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and chemicals long forgotten.

And in the center of it all stood Dottore.

He faced the containment chamber, its glass surface illuminated by the soft, pulsing glow of the lethal experimental compounds within. The kind that could end everything in seconds. No pain. No hesitation. Just… nothing.

Omega reacted first.

His footsteps were quick, sharp against the cold floor as he closed the distance. His hand clamped down on Dottore’s wrist before he could activate the release mechanism. “Enough.”

Dottore did not resist.

He simply stared at the chamber, his reflection cast in the glass, a ghost of a man he no longer recognized. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “It is my fault.”

Theta was next, gripping his other arm, physically turning him away from the chamber. “No, it isn’t.”

Dottore let out a breath that was too unsteady, too broken. “I failed them.”

“You loved them,” Beta corrected, stepping forward, his own hands clenched into fists. “That is not failure.”

The words hit something deep, something raw.

Dottore’s lips parted, but no words came. His breath hitched in his throat, his entire body trembling—not from rage, not from exhaustion, but something more fragile.

Despair.

And for the first time since it all began, when Omega pulled him back, when Theta’s grip did not waver, when Beta’s words settled like a weight in his chest—

He allowed himself to be held.

--------

It was Beta who finally had enough.

“You are going to get up.” His voice was firm, unyielding, a command that brooked no argument. “You are going to eat, and you are going to live, because if you do not, then everything they were will be lost.”

Dottore did not respond.

He barely registered the words, barely acknowledged the weight behind them. He had become numb to everything except the ache, the unbearable emptiness that clung to his every breath.

Beta slammed his hands down on the desk, shaking the scattered notes and vials, forcing Dottore to look up.

“Look at me, Prime.”

Dottore’s red eyes flickered upward, unfocused and weary.

Beta’s patience was gone, grief replaced with fury. This was not the Prime they knew. This was a shell, a hollow remnant of the man who had once held the universe in his hands.

“They were ours too.” Beta’s voice wavered, but his resolve did not. “And you are not the only one suffering.”

A breath of silence. Then Sigma stepped forward, softer but just as firm. “We do not know how to fix this. But we will not let you destroy yourself.”

Gamma, usually the most indifferent of them, clenched his fists. “You think you’re the only one who wakes up expecting to see them? The only one who still hears their voice in the halls?”

Delta swallowed hard. “They would not want this.”

Theta’s voice was quieter, but no less determined. “You do not get to leave us, too.”

One by one, they stood before him, a silent, unspoken agreement forming between them.

Dottore exhaled shakily, a long, slow breath that rattled in his chest. His fingers curled over the edge of the desk, gripping it like an anchor. His throat burned. His vision blurred.

For the first time since that day, something inside of him cracked.

Not the sharp break of his mask.

Not the endless cycle of grief.

But something fragile. Something aching.

And when he finally closed his eyes, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to grieve.

---------

They stopped leaving him alone after that.

If he locked himself in the lab, someone would break in.

If he went too long without speaking, they would force a conversation.

If he disappeared for even a moment, at least three Segments would track him down before he had the chance to think.

Dottore pretended to be annoyed.

He pretended it didn’t matter.

But deep down, in the spaces between grief and regret, he realized—

They weren’t just watching him.

They were saving him.

--------

The lab was quiet again, but not empty.

It had been months now. The wound of their absence had not healed—Dottore doubted it ever would—but the pain had changed. It was no longer a gaping void consuming his every thought, demanding retribution, demanding a way to fix the unfixable. Instead, it had settled into something heavier, quieter. A shadow that never left his side.

Slowly, carefully, the Segments had pulled him back.

At first, he resisted. Resented them for it. Their hands, their voices, their persistence—keeping him from following his child into the abyss. But even in his grief, in his bitterness, he knew they suffered too. They had lost just as much as he had. And so, little by little, they found ways to move forward, together.

Dottore still worked. Still searched. But no longer to undo the past.

Instead, he preserved what remained.

Your research, your ideas, the little notes scribbled in the margins of blueprints—“This formula is flawed. If I fix it, do I get a reward?”—the echoes of their laughter lingering in old recordings.

Sigma set down a datapad beside him, breaking the silence. “The new lab assistants asked about them today.”

Dottore didn’t look up. His fingers traced the familiar set of blueprints, the outlines drawn by a hand that no longer existed in this world. “And?”

“I told them the truth.” Sigma hesitated, his grip tightening around the datapad before adding, “That they were the brightest among us.”

Dottore’s hand stilled.

A pause—long and heavy—before he exhaled, slow and steady.

“Good.”

It was a simple response, but the weight behind it was anything but.

The Segments exchanged glances, the silence stretching between them before Theta finally spoke. “…They would have liked that.”

Dottore didn’t answer immediately. He simply sat there, his eyes scanning the notes in front of him—not to correct, not to erase, but to remember.

Then, in the dim glow of the lab’s monitors, something shifted.

A flicker—just on the edge of his vision.

Dottore froze. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he wondered if exhaustion had finally driven him to madness. But then he turned.

And there you stood.

Not in flesh, not in blood, but in something softer. Something ethereal. A translucent figure, standing just a few feet away, bathed in a soft, warm glow.

You smiled.

Dottore’s heart clenched. He could not speak, could not move.

You looked happy. Not in pain, not lost or suffering, but at peace.

How could you be at peace when he was still drowning?

As if reading his thoughts, you tilted your head, giving him the same playful, knowing look you had always given him when he overworked himself.

Dottore swallowed hard. His vision blurred.

“You’re not real,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You stepped closer. Not touching him, but close enough that he felt your presence. Felt the warmth he had lost.

A ghost of a laugh echoed in the air, soft and teasing. “You never believed in limits, Father. Why start now?”

His breath shuddered. The dam broke.

His body trembled as silent sobs wracked through him. For the first time since that horrible, shattering day, he cried.

Raw, unrestrained grief spilled from him, soaking into his gloves as he buried his face in his hands.

You didn’t scold him. Didn’t try to tell him to stop.

You simply smiled, as if telling him it was okay.

That it was finally okay to let go.

The Segments watched in silence. None dared to speak. They only stood by, mourning alongside him, as the weight he had carried for so long finally, finally came crashing down.

And when he looked up again, wiping his tears with a trembling hand, the ghost of his child was still there.

Still smiling.

Still his.

And this time, when you slowly faded into the air, leaving only warmth in your wake—

Dottore let you go.

[fatuismooches]

Hello Smooches!!

Before I tell you my ask. Yes, it is me. The same anon (simp) that made the Dottore speaking Latin hc (believe it or not, I don't really care)

And OH MY GOD.

THE AMOUNT OF ATTENTION I GOT IS INSANE, STOP IT YOU GUYS ARE MAKING ME FLUSTERED💘

THE SEGMENTS ALSO KNOWING LATIN, READER LEARNING A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE JUST TO MAKE DOTTORE MAD. THE POEMS????!!??.... IT'S TOO MUCH❤️❤️❤️

Going off of that one post where it talked about the reader teaching Dottore's child clone about the language he doesn't know.

I can just imagine Dottore watching the reader in the corner of his eye as they hold the child segment in their arms. And he doesn't know what they're saying, but he does know damn well that it's something highly affectionate with how the child segments face is brightening up by the minute. BUT HOW CAN YOU NOT BE SWEET TO HIMMMM, SUCH A CUTIE🥺❤️❤️❤️

With all love (and thank you again for the attention on my post! I didn't expect all the inspiration and positivity I would get😭<3)

Yin anon-

YIN ANON THE ONE WHO CHANGED ME AND MY DOTTORE LOVERS FOR LIFE.... ILY!! WE ALL LOVE UR HC SO MUCH OMG ❤️

EHEHE YES I ALWAYS HAVE TO INCLUDE BABY ZANDY IN MY POSTS 🫶🫶 Literally he is such a cutie patootie I can't fathom being mean to the bb if he cries i cry😭 UGH YES the little boy would be sitting on your lap while you converse with him in that annoying strange language of yours (Dottore would actually probably admire your intelligence but rn he's too caught up with how you didn't share it with him 😒) And then you and Zandy would be giggling and smiling at Archon knows what while completely ignoring Dottore's razor-sharp glare 😅 he just wants in on the secrets too! Zandy probably makes fun of him and the other clones in the secret language too, it's his payback for them treating him too much like a kid 😌

Thank YOU for sharing your thoughts, i love to hear them 🥰

[untoastted]

You’ll never guess who made two new genshin ocs (surprise surprise they both have something to do with the Fatui)

I’ve only drawn one so far so you only get the yap about him for now

Théo! Junipers self centred humble assistant

Théo grew up on the outskirts of Fontaine, gaining a reputation as an Assassin before leaving that life to become Junipers assistant. Why he became an assistant? Nobody knows but hey he gets Juniper to finish his paperwork so nobody’s complaining

This Pyro polearm can often be found either standing in front of Junipers office door, having locked them in or out shopping, either for himself or his lazy ass boss

He’s also 6’10 and quite flirtatious

I love him so much oh my goodness <33