Phoenix

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

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ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ!

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Zydrate Anatomy

1:35 ───ㅇ───── 3:24

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

volυмe : ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇▉

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Link for Genshin × HSR discord server (DM me if it doesn't work!)

You were Dottore’s only daughter, his one non-clone, non-experimental, actually-human child. Usually Iota, Beta, and even Dottore himself took care of you whenever they were free, but the Doctor had decided it would be a good idea to let the other segments learn how to care for you as well so you could grow accustomed to them.

It was a terrible idea.

Theta, Delta, and Omega had taken 'looking after the child' as their sacred secondary directive. They treated it like field research. They were very bad at field research when said field was how to parent a six-year-old girl without causing permanent psychological damage.

Iota mostly watched from the doorways, making sure the trio assigned to you hadn’t accidentally killed you in the process. Though he had originally been against the whole arrangement of having to take care of you, especially since he was the first to babysit you. Over time he had grown fond of you, so fond that he would poison anyone who dared make you cry. He always stayed in the background, quietly ensuring your safety.

Now it was time to see how well the three segments would perform today.

----------

The bedroom door banged open at precisely 7:00 a.m.

''Subject is stirring!'' Theta announced with a grin as he walked inside your room. He was already wearing mismatched socks and a lab coat he had stolen from Sigma.

Delta walked in behind him, scrolling through a tablet and looking over the list of chores. ''You’re going to give her nightmares before breakfast. Again.'' he muttered.

Omega simply stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he looked you over. ''Pulse and respiration appear normal. We may proceed.'' he stated calmly.

They surrounded the bed like it was a crime scene.

Theta yanked the blanket off you with the enthusiasm of someone unveiling a new invention. He leaned over your bed, red eyes staring into yours. ''Good morning, little variable. Did you achieve optimal REM cycles?'' he asked brightly.

You blinked sleepily up at the three identical yet very different blue-haired men and nodded at the question.

Delta could only sigh in exasperation. ''She’s not a variable, idiot. She’s a kid. Say ‘good morning’ like a normal person would.'' he grumbled.

''I am saying good morning like an exceptional person.'' Theta retorted with a grin, which made you giggle in response.

From the hallway came Dottore’s low, tired voice. ''If any of you make her cry before coffee, I will reformat your memory banks tonight.'' he warned.

The segments froze.

''He’s bluffing...'' Theta whispered to the other two.

''He reformatted me last month for eating the last croissant. He’s not bluffing.'' Delta muttered under his breath.

----------

They decided to make pancakes for breakfast since you had requested them.

Theta dumped glowing blue batter into the pan. ''I added extra electrolytes for brain development!'' he declared proudly.

It immediately started smoking and sparking.

Omega grabbed a fire extinguisher. ''I told you not to add anything else to the batter. I literally told you thirty seconds ago. I even said the recipe to you.'' he said flatly.

Delta calmly poured milk over the flaming pan like he was conducting an experiment. The milk also caught fire.

You watched wide-eyed from your booster seat as the three men moved around the kitchen.

Omega let out a sigh as he watched Theta and Delta bicker. He told the two to stand in the corner as he rolled his sleeves up his arms. ''Stand back. I shall prepare a nutritionally optimized meal.'' he announced.

He ended up making oatmeal. Plain oatmeal. With a single sad strawberry on top for visual stimulation.

You stared at it with furrowed brows. This is definitely not the pancakes you asked for.

Theta ate a spoonful of the oatmeal and fell to the floor, dramatically twitching and gagging. ''The horror… the blandness… eugh.'' he wailed theatrically.

You took a small spoonful of the oatmeal before pushing the bowl away from you, clearly not liking how bland and flavorless it was. Delta added a bit too much of honey and more fruits that had been chopped with surgical precision.

''There. Now it has… character,'' he said, satisfied.

Beta appeared in the doorway, already holding a clean mixing bowl. Without a word he took over, silently remixing pancake batter that wasn’t poisoned or bland. Two minutes later there were normal, golden pancakes on your plate.

The segments stared in betrayed silence as they watched you happily eat the food.

''Show off…'' Theta whispered as he gave Beta a small glare.

-----------

Hygiene protocol began.

Omega lifted you onto the step stool. Delta held the giant hourglass timer. Theta brandished the toothbrush like a sword.

''Open wide for maximum plaque annihilation!'' Theta exclaimed.

He went in hard. Really hard. The brush head practically jackhammered your molars. Foam exploded out the sides of your mouth like a rabid raccoon.

You gagged.

Delta immediately grabbed Theta’s wrist. ''You’re going to make her throw up..'' he warned.

''I’m being thorough!'' Theta protested, still brushing.

Omega tried to take over with clinical detachment. He brushed in perfect circles at approximately… 400 RPM. Your cheeks puffed out from the pressure.

You made a small, distressed “mmph!”

Iota appeared behind them like a ghost. He plucked the toothbrush from Omega’s hand mid-stroke.

''Enough." he ordered.

He knelt, tilted your chin gently, and brushed with the slow, careful strokes of someone who actually understood human mouths were not machinery.

When he finished he wiped your chin with his sleeve and murmured, ''There. No permanent trauma.''

Theta pouted. ''We were only at 87% plaque removal efficiency…''

''You were almost brushing her tongue off, idiot!'' Iota hissed in reply.

Omega handed you a cup of water to gurgle and spit out the rest of the toothpaste while he glanced at the others. ''We’re all going to get reported to the Tsaritsa for child endangerment via dental hygiene if we keep this up.'' he observed dryly.

----------

This routine was the part the segments were proudest of. It was also the part that made you quietly consider running away to Natlan.

You sat on a stool in front of the mirror. All three of them crowded around like it was a group surgery.

Theta started brushing your hair. He hit every single knot like he was tenderizing meat. You could only hiss in pain as he continued.

Delta tried next. ''Hold still. I watched someone do this while I was out in town.'' he said confidently. He yanked so hard your head snapped back.

Omega attempted symmetry. He pulled the left pigtail so tight your eye watered, then did the exact same thing to the right. Both sides were now painfully high and lopsided. One bow was upside down. The other was somehow knotted into itself.

You looked in the mirror and saw a girl who appeared to have lost a fight with a wind spirit.

The segments stepped back proudly.

''Iconic.'' Theta declared, hands on his hips.

''It’s… avant-garde.'' Delta stated.

''Statistically, only 14% of children enjoy symmetrical hairstyles anyway.'' Omega hummed thoughtfully.

Beta passed by the doorway, only to walk back and stare wide-eyed at the mess the trio had made. The segment could only shake his head as he walked over to lend his assistance.

He sat you on the vanity, undid the entire disaster in thirty seconds flat, then braided two perfect, soft, even pigtails. He added little blue ribbons that Dottore definitely didn’t buy he definitely did.

''Better.'' Beta said with a small smile.

The segments could only glare at Beta from behind.

----------

And now it was time to dress you up.

Theta wanted maximum frills.

Delta wanted something nice, which somehow meant putting you in the same outfit he has on that was way too big on you.

Omega insisted on practicality and thermal regulation, which meant layering you in so many shirts you looked like a marshmallow.

They compromised by force.

You ended up in a frilly dress with an oversized jacket over your shoulders. Your neck was wrapped with three scarves and your feet wore snow boots despite being indoors.

Dottore walked in, took one look, and started peeling each layer of clothing off you like he was defusing a bomb.

Five minutes later you were in a simple dress, soft leggings, and one correctly-sized scarf.

He didn’t even comment. He just patted your head once and left.

''He’s showing off too…'' Theta whispered.

----------

They attempted to teach you lessons throughout the rest of the day. Theta demonstrated 'safe' chemical reactions that were definitely not safe. Delta taught you how to use a scalpel and how much pressure was needed to cut through skin. Omega tried to explain advanced calculus using finger puppets.

By evening, all four of you were exhausted.

Omega carried you to bed. Delta and Theta trailed behind like ducklings.

Tucking you in was an event. They pulled the blankets so tight you could barely move. For thermal efficiency and security, as they said.

Dottore appeared in the doorway, walked over, and gently pried their hands away to loosen the blankets and tuck them properly around you. He sat on the edge of your bed as he turned to glare at the three.

The segments hovered like scolded puppies, avoiding their creator’s gaze.

You glanced over at the segments and reached out for all of them. Dottore watched your actions and sighed as he gave a nod to the trio.

The segments piled in carefully. Theta curled up like a cat beside you, earning a glare from Dottore to which he ignored. Omega pretended to read on the chair beside your bed but was really watching over you. Delta took the spot at the foot of your bed, making himself comfortable.

Once you were all settled, Dottore read you a chapter from an old Fontaine fairy tale book. His voice was low, calm, almost gentle, lulling you to sleep. When your eyes started to droop, he leaned down and pressed the lightest kiss to your forehead.

''Sleep well, little one. May your dreams be kind tonight..'' he murmured as he stood up and gave the segments a long look that said ‘protect her or be scrapped’ before leaving the room.

You fell asleep to the sound of quiet bickering and hissing from the segments as they argued about the optimal number of goodnight kisses they should give you and where they should be placed. They eventually settled on:

Omega kissing your hand once.

Delta kissing your temple once.

Theta kissing your cheek, forehead, and nose three times each. He had to be pulled back by Delta and Omega because he might disturb your sleep.

You stood near the central table of the laboratory, surrounded by scattered blueprints and glass vials that glint under the light above you. Dottore moved behind you, his presence a slow pressure against your back before he even touched you.

He didn’t speak at first. Instead his gloved hand rose, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck, tracing the line of your spine with clinical precision that somehow felt obscene. You shivered. He felt it. The corner of his mouth curved beneath the mask.

"You’re trembling again." he commented, voice amused, as though your reaction was a particularly interesting data point. His palm flattened against the small of your back, sliding downward until his fingers moved possessively over your hip. He tugged you back against him in one smooth motion. "Still trying to understand me?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He already knew the truth after all. That every time you came here, every time you let him close the distance, you were choosing this. Choosing him.

His other hand lifted to your face, turning your chin just enough that you had to tilt your head to meet where his eyes would be behind his mask. He studied you like that for a long moment. Silently observing before he leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"I don’t need to see you to know exactly what you want." he murmured. "I could map every sensitive place on your body with my eyes shut. Memorize the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.. the rhythm that undoes you completely." His thumb traced the edge of your lower lip, slow and deliberate. "Blindfolded, even. It wouldn’t matter. I’d still know."

He turned you fully to face him, backing you against the edge of the steel table until the cold metal bit into the backs of your thighs. One hand slid to your wrist, pinning it gently behind your back. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who is in control. The position arched you towards him and he took full advantage of it. Pressing his body flush against yours until there was no space left for doubt or resistance.

"I could keep my hands behind my back.." he said, voice dropping to something dangerously intimate, "and still be able to make you fall apart. Still prove that I’m the only one who truly understands how you’re wired." His free hand moved down your side, following the curve of your waist as it went lower, teasing the sensitive skin just above where fabric met flesh. He savored the way your pulse jumped under his fingertips, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You exhaled shakily, head tipping back. His mouth found the exposed column of your throat. Not a kiss, just the barest graze of lips and the promise of teeth biting down on skin.

"You let me do this..." he whispered against your skin. "You let me take you apart, piece by piece, because deep down you know no one else ever will."

His fingers tightened on your hip, pulling you harder against him so you could feel exactly how much control he had and how much he was enjoying it. "And I’ll keep figuring you out. Every flinch. Every sigh. Every time you pretend you could walk away."

He finally kissed you, claiming what has always been his. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rougher, threaded with dark satisfaction.

"You’re already mine to unravel." he said, thumb brushing the swollen curve of your bottom lip. "And you love every second of it."

You did.

You always had.

When his hands began to move once more, exploring, tracing, marking every inch of you, you arched into him without hesitation, giving him everything he wanted, because the truth was already clear.

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reader is a teen and they never met the Tsaritsa but have heard many about her and They only saw like one portrait of her.

one time, they got a glance of her. Just walking in the hallway and suddenly saw her(up close or from afar doesn't matter, it was only for a second)

Since then they had a big 'secret' crush on her, like they even doodle her absentmindedly in their private notebooks. Or they ask the segments about her 'nonchalantly'.

(At the end it could be just admiring her and such but it was a crush for too long lol)

In the palace of the Fatui, secrets were as common as snow.

But yours was different.

You were Dottore’s apprentice, his child, his teenage protégé, tucked between research projects and the occasional explosion that left the lab smelling faintly of chemicals. You handled his notes, mixed reagents, and learned to translate his near-illegible handwriting. You were a good student. Focused. Efficient.

Except when you weren’t.

Because lately, your mind had been drifting toward… her.

The Tsaritsa.

You’d never met her. Not properly, anyway. You’d only seen her once. A brief, passing moment in one of the marble corridors of Zapolyarny Palace. You’d turned a corner, carrying a stack of Dottore’s reports, and there she was, pale as moonlight, a thousand diamonds of frost trailing behind her like falling stars.

She hadn’t even looked your way. But that second, that single second, had burned itself into your mind like a snowflake against warm skin.

Since then, it was hopeless.

You’d catch yourself staring at the portrait of her that hung in one of the council halls. You’d doodle the curve of her veil in the corners of your notebook. You’d even asked the segments about her once, as casually as you could manage.

"So… hypothetically speaking… what’s the Tsaritsa like?"

Omega raised an eyebrow. "Hypothetically?"

"Yeah," you said too quickly. "Just… wondering."

Theta, who was incapable of subtlety, smirked. "They’re smitten."

You had thrown a beaker at him.

Of course, Dottore noticed. He noticed everything.

One evening, as you sat at your desk pretending to study, he appeared behind you without a sound, a habit of his that you’d stopped trying to get used to.

He leaned over your shoulder, gloved hands clasped behind his back. "Care to explain," he drawled, "why my research notebook is filled with sketches of Her Majesty?"

Your heart nearly stopped.

He’d found that notebook.

"I—it’s—uh—"

Dottore’s tone was far too amused. "Are we conducting an anatomical analysis of the divine, or is this an artistic pursuit?"

You slammed the book shut, cheeks burning. "It’s private!"

He chuckled, that low, sharp sound that always made the air hum. "Relax. I’m not going to dissect your adolescent sentimentality."

You glared at him, which only seemed to entertain him further.

After a pause, he added thoughtfully, "Fascinating, though. The Tsaritsa’s image inspires reverence, fear, devotion… and now, apparently, infatuation."

You covered your face with your hands. "Please stop talking, Father."

"I won’t tell her, if that’s what you’re worried about," he teased, turning away. "Though I imagine she’d be flattered. Not every mortal dares to adore a god."

You thought that was the end of it until a few days later, when you found something waiting on your desk.

A single, pressed iceflower. Perfectly preserved.

There was no note, but you didn’t need one. Dottore didn’t do sentimental gestures, but this was his way of acknowledging it, a wordless reminder that your secret was safe.

And maybe, in some strange way, a quiet encouragement.

Because crushes faded. Admiration remained.

You never told anyone else, never drew her again in the open but sometimes, when the moonlight hit the frost just right, you’d think of her again. That one glimpse in the corridor. The way her presence made the world fall silent.

You smiled to yourself. It was silly, yes. But it was yours.

And when Dottore caught you staring off into space again during your studies, he only sighed softly, muttering, "Hopeless. Just hopeless."

But there was a tiny smile hidden under his mask.

----------

Secrets in the palace of the Fatui rarely lasted long.

And unfortunately for you, yours was no exception.

It started innocently enough.

You’d been reorganizing the lab one afternoon while Dottore was off terrorizing the medical wing with a new experiment. Omega and Theta were there too, arguing over some energy core calibration that had gone wrong.

And then it happened.

You’d left your personal notebook on the counter.

The notebook. The one with the sketches. The Tsaritsa’s veil, her hands, the faintest traces of a smile you’d imagined she might have if she ever laughed.

You realized it too late.

Theta picked it up first, humming curiously. "What’s this? ‘Do not open’?"

Omega looked over his shoulder. "Then don’t."

Theta grinned. "Which means I absolutely will."

You lunged for it but not fast enough.

Seconds later, the lab was echoing with laughter.

"Oh, this is adorable!" Theta wheezed, flipping through the pages. "They drew her so many times! Look at this one, it’s practically worshipful!"

Omega tilted his head as he looked over Theta's shoulder to peek. "Is that a poem?"

Your face went red enough to rival Pyro reagents.

"GIVE THAT BACK!"

By the time Dottore returned, you were sulking behind the centrifuge while the segments tried (and failed) to contain their amusement.

He took one look at your expression and sighed, removing his gloves.

"I don’t even need to ask," he said dryly. "Which of you fools decided to meddle with my assistant’s private materials?"

Theta raised his hand proudly. "Guilty."

Dottore pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you enjoy testing my patience?"

Before the situation could escalate, the lab doors opened with a low hiss of frost.

Every single person froze.

Because she was standing there.

The Tsaritsa herself, serene, cold, and impossibly radiant. Her presence filled the room like the silence before a blizzard. Even the air seemed to crystallize around her.

"I was told you had the quarterly alchemical report, Doctor," she said evenly. "May I retrieve it now?"

Dottore bowed slightly, gesturing for you to hand it over.

Your trembling hands grabbed the wrong folder, your notebook, and before you realized, it was already in her hands.

You. Stopped. Breathing.

'Maybe now is a good time to die..' you thought.

For a moment, the world was perfectly still.

The Tsaritsa opened the book, her expression unreadable.

A sketch stared back at her, her portrait, detailed and careful. Then another. And another. Some were half-finished, others shaded with almost reverent care.

And at the bottom of one page, in your tiny, embarrassed handwriting.

''If only I could meet her properly one day."

She turned another page. There was a small poem. Something about snow, divinity, and the unbearable beauty of distance.

Your soul left your body.

Finally, she closed the notebook, her gaze settling on you.

"You drew these?" she asked.

You nodded mutely, ready to melt through the floor.

"...Yes, Your Majesty."

There was a pause, long enough for your lungs to start protesting.

Then, softly, she smiled. Just a little.

"...They are beautiful."

Your heart nearly exploded.

She placed the notebook back in your shaking hands. "Admiration is a kind thing, little one. But be sure to direct that devotion inward someday. The world will need warmth such as yours."

Then she turned gracefully to Dottore. "You have a good eye for apprentices."

Dottore, for once, was silent, caught between pride and secondhand embarrassment.

When she finally left, the door closing behind her in a gust of frost, the lab stayed quiet for a full ten seconds.

Then Theta burst out laughing.

"Oh, you are never living that down."

Omega groaned, rubbing his temples. "Prime, control your offspring before they start writing love letters to the Archons."

Dottore sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Wonderful. My laboratory has become a romantic tragedy."

You buried your face in your hands. "Please kill me, Father."

Dottore smirked under his mask. "No, no. This is far too entertaining. Besides—" his tone softened, almost fond, "at least your taste is impeccable."

Later that night, you found a small note tucked into your new sketchbook (the old one had mysteriously vanished).

In Dottore’s unmistakable handwriting, it read:

Next time, try to keep your divine infatuations out of official reports. But if you insist on such foolishness… at least sign your artwork properly. It’s impressive work.

—Dottore.

You groaned. But you smiled too. Because somehow, beneath the teasing, there was warmth, the quiet kind that said he understood.

The laboratory was unusually quiet that morning... too quiet, in fact.

That’s how Arlecchino knew something was wrong.

She crossed her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing as she walked past one of Dottore’s workbenches. Glass vials lined the table like soldiers, half-filled with liquids of questionable legality. But it wasn’t the experiments that caught her attention, it was the small figure perched on the counter beside them.

You.

Dottore’s child. His offspring.

You were wearing a comically oversized lab coat that is definitely your father’s and holding a glass pipette with the focus of a trained surgeon.

“What..” Arlecchino asked flatly, “are you doing?”

Without even looking up, you replied, “Father said we’re testing the volatile properties of cryo-alchemical fusion under stress.”

Arlecchino blinked.

You were, what, seven? Maybe eight?

“...And what happens if you make a mistake?” she asked carefully.

You finally looked up at her, face expressionless.

“Explosion.”

“...Explosion?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, completely calm. “Father said if I’m going to learn alchemy, I have to learn the consequences of failure firsthand.”

The Knave walked out of the room immediately.

When she dragged Dottore into the room two minutes later, Pantalone was already there as well with arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild horror.

“Dottore,” Arlecchino began in that deceptively even tone of hers, “why is your child performing volatile alchemical experiments?”

Dottore didn’t even flinch. He looked between you, the bubbling beaker, and Arlecchino, then gestured vaguely.

“They’re supervised.”

“By who?”

He pointed to himself.

Arlecchino’s expression could’ve made even the hilichurls run for their lives.

“Supervised? You call this supervision?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding genuinely confused. “They’ve only caused three minor detonations this week. That’s a personal best.”

Pantalone sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Doctor, most parents consider it an achievement if their child learns to read, not if they avoid explosive injuries.”

Dottore waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. The child is brilliant. Look.” he turned toward you, “what’s the key stabilizing component for the test, my dear?”

You perked up immediately, smiling faintly. “Two parts polymeric base, one part cryo concentrate, stirred counterclockwise to avoid imbalance.”

“Excellent,” Dottore said proudly, patting your head. “See? Perfectly fine.”

Arlecchino stared at you for a long moment. “You do realize they sound exactly like you, right?”

Pantalone nodded gravely. “It’s uncanny. The same tone. The same words. The same… lack of social awareness.”

Dottore blinked behind his mask and huffed in exasperation. “Lack of? They’re charming.”

You looked up at Arlecchino, expression brightening. “Father says empathy is inefficient unless it furthers experimentation.”

Pantalone groaned audibly. “Oh, dear heavens.”

Later that evening, after Dottore had retreated back into his research, Arlecchino and Pantalone sat together on the balcony overlooking the snow. You were napping nearby, curled up in one of Dottore’s coats like a small, content cat.

“...They’re doomed, aren’t they?” Arlecchino muttered.

Pantalone chuckled softly. “Undoubtedly. But they’re happy, at least.”

Arlecchino glanced toward you, then toward the faint glow of Dottore’s lab. “Do you think they’ll end up like him?”

Pantalone’s smile softened. “Probably. But perhaps with a little more heart. That child… they look at him differently. Like they actually love him.”

“Hmm.” Arlecchino crossed her arms. “Let’s just make sure they don’t start cloning people before they turn ten.”

“Agreed,” Pantalone said with a smirk. “Small steps.”

Inside the lab, Dottore checked on you one last time before returning to work. You were still asleep, breathing slow and steady. He adjusted the coat around you and muttered under his breath,

“Let them talk,” he said softly. “You’ll be magnificent.”

You stirred, smiling in your sleep, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “Volatile reaction.. stable.”

Dottore chuckled.

Yes. You were his child, alright.

It was another long day in the lab.

You were elbow-deep in paperwork, trying to decipher Dottore’s impossible handwriting, when the door swung open dramatically.

"Dearest assistant," Pantalone greeted, stepping in with a smile that could probably pay your rent. "You look as radiant as ever amidst all this… scientific gloom."

Without looking up, you replied flatly, "I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, Lord Pantalone."

"Ah," he said, undeterred. "So that’s the secret to your glow."

Before you could roll your eyes, Dottore appeared from the other side of the room, glaring. "You again? Don’t you have an economy to manipulate somewhere else?"

Pantalone waved a gloved hand. "My business can wait. What can’t wait is my appreciation for your assistant’s tireless work ethic."

"Flattery," Dottore said coolly, "will not get you any experimental data."

"Who said I wanted data?" Pantalone’s smile widened. "I prefer something more human."

You sighed. "Gentlemen, please. I’m trying to process the autopsy results, not listen to a courting duel."

Both men went silent. Then, at the same time.

"It’s not courting!"

"It’s absolutely courting."

You dropped your pen and rubbed your temples. "Archons give me strength."

That became your new normal. Pantalone showing up with flowers, Dottore 'accidentally' assigning you to stay late in the lab with him, both of them trying (and failing) to outwit the other.

Pantalone would bring you tea and make smooth remarks, "You should rest those brilliant hands of yours, my dear. You’re too precious for ink stains."

And Dottore would cut in sharply, "They’re too valuable for brainless flattery. Go haunt someone else’s finances."

Meanwhile, you just wanted to get your reports signed.

Once, when you dropped a stack of papers, both of them lunged to help you at the same time and ended up knocking heads together.

You stared at them with a deadpan.

"Should I get you two an ice pack or a couples therapist?"

Neither replied. Pantalone just smiled through the pain. Dottore grumbled something about 'idiotic competition' while grabbing the ice himself.

The breaking point came during a diplomatic dinner.

You were there as Dottore’s assistant, taking notes, quietly handling logistics when Pantalone seated himself beside you.

"You know," he murmured, "I can’t decide what’s more impressive, your composure, or your ability to ignore the two most insufferable men in Snezhnaya."

You gave him a side-eye. "You’re both tied for the title."

He chuckled, low and warm. "Touché."

Then Dottore arrived, sitting on your other side with a flourish of his coat.

"I see the merchant leech has already attached himself to you. How charming."

You groaned. "Do you two ever not compete?"

Pantalone smirked. "Oh, we agree on one thing."

"And that is?" you asked.

Both men looked at you at once.

"You," Dottore said simply.

Pantalone nodded. "Quite right."

You froze, blinking between them. "Are you both..? No. No, you’re not serious."

Dottore tilted his head. "Why wouldn’t I be? You are competent, composed, and far less foolish than anyone else I work with. That’s… rare."

Pantalone’s voice softened. "And beautiful when you frown, which happens far too often around us."

You stared at them. "You two are unbelievable."

"Unbelievably devoted," Pantalone said with a grin.

"Unbelievably patient," Dottore corrected, glancing your way. "You test both our limits, you know."

You sighed again, the kind of sigh that meant you actually cared, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

"...You’re both ridiculous," you said. "But somehow, I’d miss it if you stopped."

That earned a rare silence.

Then Pantalone chuckled softly. "Is that a confession, dear assistant?"

Dottore raised a brow. "Or are you just tolerating us out of habit?"

You smirked faintly. "Maybe a little of both."

They both smiled and, for the first time, didn’t argue.

Later that night, after the banquet ended, you found a small note slipped into your pocket.

In a barely understandable, mechanical handwriting.

You are the only constant in my experiments. — 🧪.

And beneath it, in elegant cursive.

And the most priceless investment I’ve ever made.

— P.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small, warm smile that crept onto your face.

---

The next morning, you entered the lab, coffee in hand. Both men looked up expectantly.

You sighed. "Alright. I’ll admit it. You two are kind of charming."

Dottore blinked. Pantalone nearly dropped his pen.

Then, grinning, they both spoke at once. "Finally."

You took a long sip of your coffee.

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was when you realized that your father wasn’t like other people. Or maybe it was when you weren’t either.

What you do know is when you were five years old, you took apart one of your toy automatons. Not out of boredom but because its internal mechanisms were inefficient.

You remember setting the pieces neatly on the table, sketching little diagrams with your clumsy handwriting, and muttering, “This core regulator is laughable.”

Dottore had been watching from the doorway, mask tilted, arms crossed. When you looked up, he didn’t scold you. He just tilted his head and said, “Fascinating. A natural-born improvement upon the average idiot.”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the closest thing to a compliment you’d ever get from him.

As you grew older, the similarities became undeniable.

Same blue hair. Same smirk that made people nervous. Same arrogant tilt of the head that screamed I’m smarter than you and I know it.

The Fatui agents whispered about you behind your back, calling you “The Little Doctor.” You didn’t mind. You liked the title. You liked the way it made your Father’s lips twitch in that not-quite-smile whenever he overheard it.

Sometimes, you’d follow him around the lab in your own coat, tailored down to your size, but still too big, brushing the floor as you walked. You’d carry a clipboard and mutter under your breath as you took notes, just like him.

He didn’t say it, but you knew he was proud. You could feel it in the way he’d occasionally rest a hand on your head when you made a clever remark.

One morning, you walked into his workspace with a stack of papers almost taller than you and said, “Father, your notes on emotional suppression are inefficient. Have you considered that you’re just lonely?”

The scalpel froze in his hand.

Then he looked at you for a long, silent moment.

And laughed.

Not the sharp, unhinged laugh he used on others, this one was startled. Genuine. Warm in a way that almost made your chest ache.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he said finally, “you’re either very brave or very foolish.”

You smiled. “I’m your son. Statistically, both.”

He stared at you like you were some strange new experiment. “You’re not a segment. I didn’t make you in my image. Yet somehow, you think, speak, and mock exactly like me.”

“Maybe that’s what happens when you actually raise someone instead of cloning them,” you replied.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Touché.”

The two of you became infamous in the lab. “The Doctors.” is what others would say.

You’d bicker in perfect synchronization, finishing each other’s insults and equations alike. You once told an assistant to stay out of your way at the exact same time he did, and both of you glared at each other for stealing the line.

You found it funny. He pretended not to.

That night, he stayed late at his desk, scribbling in his journal. You were asleep on the couch, half-buried in one of his coats, hair messy and face relaxed.

He looked over at you, mask pushed up just enough for you to see the faintest smile ghosting over his lips.

“Perhaps,” he murmured to himself, “the universe decided I needed a mirror.”

You didn’t hear him, but somehow you felt it. The quiet affection hidden beneath his words.

The next morning, you woke up first. He was still slumped in his chair, fast asleep, pen in hand.

You yawned, stretching. “Old man forgot to sleep again,” you muttered.

Without opening his eyes, he smirked. “Watch your mouth, little replica.”

It started with a sneeze.

And then another.

And then, somehow, Dottore’s entire laboratory was on lockdown because you had caught yet another cold.

“Unbelievable,” Dottore muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he watched you from across the room. You were bundled in three blankets, sipping soup out of a beaker, and surrounded by four of his segments who were trying (and failing) to stop you from touching things.

You sniffled, blinking at him through watery eyes.

“I didn’t even touch anything this time.”

“You licked a thermometer.”

“It was shiny.”

The silence that followed was filled with the sound of Dottore’s patience collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Omega, one of the calmer segments, gently tugged another thermometer out of your hands before you could attempt to taste it. “Perhaps you should rest, little one. Doctor’s orders.”

You pouted. “But I’m bored! You said you were making medicine—can’t I help?”

Dottore’s eyes twitched. “Help?” He gestured dramatically to the lab bench. “The last time you ‘helped,’ you tried to taste test a volatile chemical compound.”

“Yeah, but it smelled like strawberries.”

“That’s because it was a corrosive acid,” he deadpanned.

You grinned sheepishly, pulling your blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Okay, fine, no more licking.”

Dottore sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re like a walking experiment in survival. Your immune system is practically nonexistent, and yet you keep finding ways to make it worse.”

“Maybe I’m just built different.”

“You’re built like a medical mystery.”

Later that day, you found him hunched over a microscope, muttering calculations under his breath. He didn’t notice you creeping up behind him... until you sneezed directly onto his notes.

He froze.

You froze.

The air turned tense.

“…I’m going to pretend that didn’t just happen,” he said flatly, grabbing a sanitizing cloth.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, pulling your blanket over your head like a guilt-ridden burrito.

When you peeked out, you were surprised to see Dottore holding out a mug of hot tea. “Drink. It’ll help your throat.”

You blinked. “Wait.. you made this?”

“I am capable of basic care, you little germ factory.”

You took a sip, smiling shyly. “It’s good.”

“Of course it is. I measured the temperature, balanced the honey content, and—”

You sneezed again, this time right into your tea.

“…Forget it,” Dottore muttered, turning away to sanitize everything.

-----

By the end of the week, you were still coughing but very much alive. Dottore made you a special scarf, lined with temperature-regulating fabric and a small scent charm that smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender.

When you put it on, you beamed. “You made this?”

He shrugged, pretending it was no big deal. “If you get sick again, it won’t be because of my negligence.”

“Thanks, Dad!” You hugged him before he could move away, blanket trailing like a cape.

Dottore froze, his face heating just slightly. “You’re contagious,” he said weakly.

“Yup,” you said cheerfully.

“…I regret my life choices.”

But when you toddled off toward the door, humming happily, Dottore found himself smiling faintly behind his mask.

After all, you were his favorite experiment...

the only one who could defy logic, medical science, and death itself…

It started with a slammed door.

Then came the crash, glass shattering against the tiled floor, papers flying, your voice breaking somewhere between a scream and a sob.

Dottore stood silently in the doorway of his lab, coat still half-unbuttoned as he watched you hurl another stack of notes to the floor. He didn’t flinch when a vial rolled to his feet. He just let out a slow, measured sigh.

“Another one of those days,” he murmured.

You turned on him immediately. “You don’t care! You never care! You just sit in your stupid lab all day like I don’t even exist!”

His expression didn’t change, though his tone softened. “That’s an interesting observation. I thought I just spent the last hour repairing the damage from your last ‘you don’t care’ incident in the halls.”

“Stop being sarcastic!” you shouted, fists trembling. “I hate you!”

He tilted his head, voice still calm, not mocking, not cold. “No, you don’t.”

“I do!” you snapped. You were shaking so hard it hurt. Your throat burned from crying. “I wish I was never here! I wish I was.. I wish—”

Your breath hitched. The words got tangled, turning into ugly little gasps. You pressed your hands against your face and screamed, the sound cracking through the lab like lightning.

Dottore crossed the room quietly, not too fast, not too close. He’d learned the rhythm of these storms. He waited until your body started to tremble more than it tensed, until your words ran out and your chest heaved with tired sobs.

Then, and only then, he knelt down beside you.

“Are you done breaking my glassware for today?” he asked gently.

You hiccuped through your tears, confused by the mild tone. “...maybe.”

“Good,” he said, reaching out to brush a piece of trash from your hair. “Because I just ran out of spares.”

You blinked up at him. The anger was gone now, like a switch had flipped. Your chest hurt. Your head felt fuzzy. And suddenly, the shame started creeping in.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, I.. I don’t even know why I said those things—”

Your voice broke. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Dottore sighed, not unkindly. He reached out and pulled you into his arms before you could spiral further. You froze for a second and then clung to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, stroking the back of your head. “I know.”

“I’m such a freak,” you mumbled against his chest. “I hurt people, and I don’t even remember half of it—”

“You’re not a freak,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re a child. A very emotional one, with a brain that plays cruel tricks sometimes. But you are my child and that means you are safe.”

You hiccuped, curling smaller against him. “I don’t deserve you.”

Dottore chuckled softly, a rare, quiet sound that rumbled through his chest. “Nonsense. You think I’d spend years studying emotional regulation only to abandon my favorite case study?”

That got a tiny laugh out of you, watery and broken, but real. He smiled faintly.

“See? Progress,” he said. “Now, how about we clean up the glass before either of us steps on it and I have to amputate a foot?”

You sniffled. “You wouldn’t actually—”

“Try me,” he teased, standing up and offering his hand.

You hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm but warm, guiding you up and steadying you when your knees wobbled.

As the two of you swept up the mess together, you found yourself whispering again. “...I really am sorry.”

Dottore glanced down at you, eyes soft behind his mask. “And I really do forgive you. Every single time.”

You blinked up at him, unsure. “Every time?”

“Every time,” he confirmed. “Because I know it isn’t you who’s angry at me. It’s the storm in your head. And storms don’t last forever.”

You leaned into his side, and for once, you believed him.

That night, he tucked you into bed, though he’d insist later that you were too old for such things. He left a cup of water on your nightstand, adjusted your blanket, and brushed your hair back gently.

When he turned to leave, you reached out and caught his sleeve. “Hey… um. Thank you.”

He glanced back, eyes softening. “For what?”

“For staying,” you whispered.

Dottore smiled, the kind of small, genuine smile no one else ever saw.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said simply.

Could you please write a GN child!Reader who’s pretty quiet and clingy, definitely like always watching what Dottore and the segments are doing and clinging to them (except for when Dottore has to kick them out of the lab to do his more important work) but still being a little bit of a menace?

I imagine that it’s a lot of them either silently trying to touch something they’re not supposed to because they’re just that interested in imitating their father, or they get distracted and wander off without a word and show back up (or are found?) with no real sense of urgency.

Also! Your fics inspired me to make a genshin, and specifically Dottore related oc so I really appreciate your fics and how you characterize Dottore

The lab is never truly quiet, but you’ve learned how to move through it like a shadow.

The soft hum of machinery, the slow tick of timers, the faint scratching of pens on paper, it’s a rhythm you’ve memorized. You curl up on one of the lower cabinets near Dottore’s workstation, legs pulled to your chest, head tilted just enough to watch his gloved hands work with that quiet, terrifying precision.

He doesn’t talk much when he’s focused. You don’t either.

“...You’re staring again,” Dottore mutters without looking at you, sharp eyes glinting beneath his mask. His voice isn’t scolding, just stating a fact.

You nod solemnly, not moving.

His pen stills. “Hn. At least you’re quiet about it.”

-----

Beta is the first to find you when you inevitably drift closer to him in his work area. He’s always the softest with you, crouching to your level, his hair falling into his face as he whispers conspiratorially,

“Hey. You’re not supposed to be over here.”

You press your finger to your lips, mimicking the way Dottore sometimes does when he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Beta sighs.

“You can’t just—” He stops when you reach for his hand, small fingers curling around his glove. His expression melts. “…Alright. Just for a little.”

He lets you stand beside him while he adjusts the settings on a machine you’re absolutely not supposed to touch. You don’t touch it but your eyes follow every single movement like it’s the most important thing in the world.

-----

Iota is the one who catches you when you vanish.

One moment you’re perched on the stool near Dottore’s bench. The next, gone. No footsteps. No sound. Just… gone.

By the time Iota finds you, you’re standing in the storage room, staring intently at a locked cabinet. When he clears his throat, you look up with a blank, mild expression, as though you haven’t wandered off at all.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you cause when you vanish?” Iota huffs, but he’s already picking you up with ease that betrays how used to this he’s become. “Come on, little mutt. Back you go.”

You lean your head against his shoulder like a sleepy kitten. Iota grumbles but adjusts his hold so your legs don’t dangle too much.

-----

Omega tries to teach you how to use tools. Not the dangerous ones, just the small, blunt things. You mimic everything with exaggerated seriousness, brow furrowed, lips pressed together. He has to bite back laughter when your hands wobble under the weight of a wrench.

“Careful,” Omega says. “You’ll dent the floor before you fix anything.”

You don’t answer, of course. You never really do. But you give him this quiet, stubborn little look before trying again. It makes him weirdly proud.

-----

Upsilon is the one who catches you red-handed.

Or rather… red-fingered, because you’ve somehow gotten into a beaker of fluorescent dye when no one was watching. You’re standing in the corner like a guilty cat, fingers stained bright green.

Upsilon stops mid-stride, stares, and then bursts into sharp laughter.

“Oh, you’re so dead when your Father sees this.”

You blink up at him, entirely unbothered, holding up your hands as if to show off your new 'accessory.' Upsilon sighs, crouches, and gently wipes them off with a towel, muttering all the while.

Eventually, Dottore has to kick you out of the main lab.

“Not today,” he says, pointing at the door. “Go. Out.”

You puff your cheeks out but head towards the hallway, only to immediately latch onto Omega’s coat when you see him pass by. Omega chuckles, scooping you up effortlessly.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he whispers. “He’ll let you back in when he’s done blowing something up.”

“Refining samples,” Dottore corrects sharply from the lab.

Omega doesn’t bother hiding his grin.

By evening, when the machines quiet and the lighting dims, you find your way back into the lab without a sound. Dottore sighs when you cling to his coat sleeve, but he doesn’t push you away this time.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But sit there. And don’t touch anything.”

You nod solemnly and curl up beside his chair, your head against his leg. He continues writing, pretending not to notice how you slowly drift to sleep at his feet.

The segments glance in now and then, watching the scene with quiet fondness.

Dottore, for all his sharp edges, doesn’t shake you off.

The lab was a battlefield.

Not because of enemies, but because you had gotten your hands on volatile chemicals and the wrong tools. Test tubes lay scattered like fallen soldiers, half-assembled contraptions sparked and hissed on the worktables, and an acrid smoke cloud still hung in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of it all, wide eyed, soot smudged across your face, grinning like it was the best day of your life.

“Boom!” you shouted, throwing your arms up as one of your inventions sputtered and spat out a plume of fire.

The door hissed open.

“…What happened here..” came that cold, unimpressed voice.

You whipped around. “Doctor! Doctor, look! It didn’t explode this time! Well, not much! Just a little—”

Dottore stepped into the chaos with his usual calm, mask gleaming, robes dragging over broken glass as though it wasn’t there. He looked around, surveying the wreckage. His silence weighed heavier than any scolding.

You fidgeted under it, your manic energy faltering. “Uh… success?” you squeaked.

“Rule number one,” Dottore said coolly, kneeling to pick up a half-melted device. “If you intend to destroy my lab, you had better do it in a way that impresses me.”

Your eyes went round. “So… not a failure?”

He tilted his mask toward you. “Not entirely. But you will rebuild this, and properly. I will not tolerate mediocrity.”

For some reason, the words felt less like punishment and more like a challenge. Your grin returned, sharp and bright. “Oh, I’ll make it bigger! Better! The biggest boom you’ve ever seen!”

His gloved hand landed lightly on your hair, not affectionate exactly, but grounding. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s my little chaos.”

Your heart flipped at the praise, pathetic and hungry for it.

----------

Life with Dottore became a game of experiments and explosions. He indulged your manic energy but in his own twisted way. He never stopped you but he demanded results.

When you stayed up three nights in a row scribbling designs, muttering to yourself, he didn’t scold you. He simply left nutrient solutions on your desk and ordered Iota to drag you to bed when your hands shook too much to write.

When one of your gadgets nearly took off Upsilon’s arm, Dottore didn’t yell. He simply fixed the damage with a sigh, then leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Next time, calculate better. I expect brilliance, not sloppiness.”

When you broke down, laughing and crying at the same time because nothing worked, Dottore didn’t comfort you like others might. He simply said, “Failure is irrelevant. Only the data matters. You are allowed to fall apart so long as you get back up.”

And somehow, that worked better than kindness ever could.

You lived for his approval.

Every invention, every scheme, every spark of chaos, you wanted his eyes on it. You wanted him to say you weren’t just a mistake, weren’t just a speck of dirt.

“Doctor, doctor! Watch this one!” you chirped, holding up a grenade-like gadget.

He raised a brow under his mask. “If it destroys my laboratory, I will have your head mounted on the wall.”

You giggled, manic and sweet. “Then you’ll have to look at me forever.”

He stared at you, then, shockingly, laughed. A sharp, humorless sound, but it was real. “You really are insane.”

“Your insane!” you shot back, grinning. “You made me this way!”

“…Perhaps I did,” he said softly.

----------

It wasn’t always mania. Some nights, the laughter ran out. Some nights, the voices in your head screamed louder than your inventions.

You curled up under your workbench, nails digging into your arms, whispering frantic apologies to no one.

"I’m useless, I’m broken, I’m not enough—"

The shadows shifted. Then his cloak brushed the floor.

“Come out,” he said. Not unkind. Not kind either. Just absolute.

You shook your head violently. “Don’t look at me! I’m wrong, I’m wrong, I ruin everything—”

A gloved hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you out, dragging you into the cold light. His mask loomed close.

“You think madness makes you weak?” His voice was steel. “No. It makes you mine. Every fracture in you is potential. Every flaw is invention waiting to be sharpened. Do not insult me by calling yourself worthless.”

Tears burned your eyes. “…But I’ll break things. I’ll break you—”

His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze behind the mask. “Then break the world instead. For me.”

And you believed him.

"Okay.. I will. For you."

----------

The lab was a battlefield.

But this time, it was a masterpiece.

Your new weapon roared to life, mechanisms whirring, sparks flying in a controlled, perfect pattern. For the first time, the boom didn’t leave scorch marks, it left precision.

You whirled to face him, manic smile wide. “See, Doctor? Perfect!”

Dottore stood in the smoke, unreadable behind his mask. Then, finally, his hand clapped once.

“Brilliant,” he said.

The curse never slept.

It gnawed at your bones, whispered in your blood, burned through your skin until you could hardly tell if you were still human or just a walking storm of agony. The mara left you alive, dragged between lucidity and madness, your body breaking and healing in a cycle that never ended.

Some nights you lay on the floor, nails digging into your skin to stop yourself from screaming. Other nights you couldn’t stop yourself, your voice ripped through the lab like a feral beast.

And yet, always, there was one constant.

Him.

Dottore.

-----

He found you mid-breakdown. Your body writhed, hands clawing at your own chest as the curse tore through your nerves like fire. You barely registered the sound of boots crossing the stone floor until cold fingers caught your jaw.

“Pathetic,” he murmured, tilting your head toward his mask. His voice was calm, clinical, but laced with something else. “Do you intend to shred yourself apart every time this mara stirs?”

You tried to snarl, but it broke into a choked sob. “I can’t—stop—it—”

“Then you won’t.” His hand slipped to the side of your neck, pressing until your wild spasms slowed under his touch. “You’ll let me.”

That night, he stayed with you until the storm ebbed. His voice, low and steady, was the only anchor against the voices howling in your head.

And after that, you couldn’t bear the curse alone anymore. You needed him.

It became ritual.

When the mara struck, you sought him. When your vision bled red and your chest heaved with phantom claws, it was his hands that held you down, his sharp voice that tethered you to yourself.

When you tried to drive your blade into your own chest to silence the pain, his gloved fingers wrenched it from your grip. “Do not waste my work by dying pointlessly.”

When you staggered through the lab in a haze, knocking instruments to the floor, he caught you from behind, arms locking around you. “Breathe. Obey. Anchor yourself in me.”

When the curse dragged you into madness so deep you forgot who you were, his mask was the first thing you recognized again. The way he said your name was like iron chains pulling you back from the edge.

You hated it. You hated being weak. But when he wasn’t there, the mara drowned you whole.

And when he was, the storm bent around him like he was its master.

One night, after a particularly brutal fit that left you gasping and trembling against his chest, you glanced at him, voice raspy.

“…Why do you help me?”

Dottore was silent for a long moment. Then his hand brushed your temple, almost gentle.

“Because you are fascinating,” he said at last. “You survive what should destroy you. You break and mend then break and mend again, like a puzzle that refuses to finish.”

His mask tilted, voice lowering. “And because, my dear, I’ve decided you are mine. The mara may gnaw at you, but it will not take you from me.”

A shiver ran through you, not fear, not entirely. Something darker.

-----

It happened during one of the worst nights yet.

The mara roared in your veins, every heartbeat agony, every nerve screaming to rend, to destroy, to tear your body apart just to quiet the hunger inside. You collapsed, convulsing, vision fracturing into shards of crimson.

You didn’t recognize yourself anymore. Only blood. Only ruin.

And then, came his hands. Pinning you down, gloved fingers at your throat, not cruel, not killing, just holding. His voice cut through the storm like steel.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes, wild and glowing, snapped to the pale gleam of his mask.

“Good. Stay. Here.” His voice was harsh, commanding, but steady as stone. “The mara is not your master. I am.”

You shook, gasped, screamed even, but the sound broke into sobs as his grip stayed firm.

“Anchor,” he said again, softer now. “You belong to me. Not to the curse.”

And somehow, impossibly, the storm receded.

You woke later, lying on a cot, his coat draped over you. Your body ached, but the haze had lifted, if only for now.

Dottore sat nearby, mask reflecting the lamplight, his hands stained from holding you through it.

“…You really believe you own me,” you murmured weakly.

He didn’t deny it.

“You’re mine because you need me,” he said simply. “And I… enjoy being needed.”

You pursed your lips, staring at him. “Sounds twisted.”

“Good.” His voice was smooth, amused. “I would hate to be ordinary.”

You closed your eyes, exhausted, but his words clung to you like a brand.

And deep down, beneath the pain and fear, you knew it was true. Without him, the mara would devour you. But with him..

You were tethered.

Not free.

Never free.

The world outside was quiet. Not the comforting kind of quiet but that heavy silence that pressed down on your chest like a weight. The kind that reminded you everything out there was dead… or worse, not dead enough.

Dottore watched you sleep. His head tilted, inhuman eyes catching the moonlight through the cracked window. His breathing was slow, but not quite human. You’d gotten used to the way he lingered too close, how his hands sometimes hovered over you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you didn’t know what he had done that night.

Your breathing was steady, your body curled in a makeshift nest of blankets near a table in the laboratory that Dottore brought you in and deemed it safe enough to stay. Your pulse, fragile, warm, and alive, throbbed softly in your neck. It was intoxicating to him. He crouched closer, a low, rumbling sound escaping his throat. A sound that wasn’t entirely human anymore.

Dottore’s lips parted, revealing sharpened teeth. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the instinct, the need to make you his, to keep you tethered to him, was too loud.

Slowly, like a predator, he leaned in. His cold breath ghosted over your skin.

Then..

He bit down.

Sharp pain bloomed at the base of your shoulder. You jerked in your sleep with a soft noise, but he covered your mouth gently, holding you still with surprising care for something so monstrous. His teeth sank deep, not enough to kill, but enough to mark. Enough to plant the infection.

When he pulled away, your blood smeared his mouth. He licked it clean with slow, obsessive precision. His eyes softened, not with guilt, but with twisted satisfaction.

“Now,” he whispered, voice low and raspy, “you’ll never leave me.”

You woke up hours later, groggy and shivering. You touched your shoulder and winced. A strange ache pulsed there. But you convinced yourself it was just from sleeping weirdly. Just a scratch. You didn’t notice the faint teeth marks hidden under your shirt.

Days passed.

Then came the fever.

At first it was subtle, your hands shaking, your head pounding. You brushed it off. But then your heart wouldn’t stop racing, your vision blurred in waves, and your veins burned like fire under your skin.

“Dottore,” you panted one night, clutching the table as your knees buckled. “Something’s wrong.”

He was there instantly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. His cold hands gripped your chin, tilting your head so he could look at your pupils that were blown wide, feverish. His smile was too calm.

“Of course there is,” he murmured. “Your body’s… changing.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. “Changing?” You gritted your teeth as another wave of heat crashed through your chest. “What the hell did you do to me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brushed his thumb over your lower lip, like he was memorizing the shape of you. His gaze softened in a way that made your skin crawl.

“You’ll understand soon,” he whispered. “You’re becoming mine.”

The realization hit you like a punch. You stumbled back, clutching your burning shoulder.

“You bit me,” you breathed, voice trembling. “You.. you infected me.”

A sharp laugh escaped him. It wasn’t cruel. It was thrilled.

“Of course I did. I couldn’t risk losing you to this world.”

Your breathing turned shallow, panic mixing with the infection’s heat. Your nails dug into your own arms. “You.. you should’ve asked! I didn’t want this!”

He stalked forward, cornering you against the wall. His movements were smooth, predatory, but he wasn’t lunging. He was claiming space.

“Asked?” He tilted his head. “You wouldn’t have said yes.”

“And that’s exactly why—” you tried to shove him away, but your body trembled too hard, “you don’t just take someone’s life from them!”

But Dottore’s voice softened in a way that was almost crueler than his smile.

“No, little one… I didn’t take your life. I’m giving you something better.”

“A world where you’ll never die without me.”

You flinched when his fingers touched the bite mark again. It burned under his touch, not just from infection, but something deeper, crawling into your veins, your thoughts. You tried to fight it. You had to fight it.

Your vision blurred. The infection was winning.

“Stop… stop it—” you gasped.

He cupped your face, thumbs pressing just under your jaw, forcing your fevered gaze to meet his. “Shh,” he hummed. “Breathe. Let it happen. It’ll hurt less.”

The world tilted. You fell forward, but he caught you before you hit the floor. His arms were cold, steady. The warmth of your blood against his chilled skin made him shudder with something dangerously close to pleasure.

You clutched his shirt weakly, your breathing uneven. “I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“No,” he breathed against your hair. “You will love me.”

As your body convulsed, your heartbeat slowing and sharpening into something unnatural, he held you tighter. Outside, the night groaned with the distant cries of the undead. Inside, Dottore smiled, because the one thing he wanted most was finally turning into what he was.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered into your feverish skin.

“And I’ll never let anyone take you away.”

-----

The fever broke at dawn.

Or rather… it burned itself out.

You gasped awake, the world around you strangely sharp, too sharp. The sound of wind through the broken windows rang like a blade against your skull. Every scent, every shift of movement, every creak in the ruined lab was loud. Your heart didn’t thud in your chest anymore. It hummed.

Dottore was sitting in the chair by your makeshift bed, his chin resting on the back of his hand, watching you like he’d been there all night.

His expression was serene. Patient.

Predatory.

“There you are,” he murmured, rising with a fluid, inhuman grace. “My beautiful monster.”

Your hands shook as you pushed yourself up, the world spinning but clearer than it had ever been. Your skin felt wrong. Alive, but far from alive.

Your reflection in the cracked window showed pupils too dilated, veins faintly dark under your skin, your breathing shallow and unnecessary.

“...What did you do to me?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. His touch lingered at the bite mark, now scarred but glowing faintly under the morning light.

“I saved you,” he said softly. “I made sure this world can’t take you away from me.”

You flinched. “Saved? You bit me while I was asleep. You didn’t give me a choice.”

He tilted his head, smile growing wider, too calm, too dangerous.

“I know.”

Before you could move, he pulled you against his chest. You didn’t feel the heat of him anymore because there wasn’t any. He was cold. So were you. The two of you fit together like pieces of something broken and remade.

His fingers dug into your jaw as he forced you to look at him.

“I’ve lost too much already,” he whispered. “But you… you’re mine now. I’ll never let this world take you. Not the monsters outside. Not death. Not anyone.”

You could’ve screamed. You could’ve fought.

But the infection in your veins made it hard to remember what you were fighting for.

Dottore guided you through the ruined streets. Every movement felt instinctual now, you knew where prey was hiding. You could smell the blood of the living miles away. When he moved, you followed. When he stopped, your body went still like a trained creature.

He was teaching you.

“Don’t stumble. You’re stronger than them. Faster. You belong above them now.”

His hand stayed locked with yours the entire time, cold fingers intertwined like chains. You tried to pull away once and his grip tightened, sharp enough to bruise what flesh was left.

“No,” he said firmly. “Don’t wander.”

“I can walk on my own,” you hissed, a ghost of your old voice.

He leaned in close, his cold breath brushing your ear. “I don’t want you to.”

The words weren’t soft. They were absolute.

He brought you back to the lab at night, pressing your forehead against his chest as if he was trying to sync your body with his. “You’ll stay with me,” he whispered again and again, like a lullaby that sounded more like a command.

Every time you twitched toward the door, his hands would find your waist, your throat, your wrists. Gentle, but firm. His smile never faltered.

“You don’t need the world anymore,” he whispered. “You only need me.”

And the terrifying part was… a part of you was beginning to believe him.

-----

The old part of you, the human part, wasn’t gone. It screamed inside your chest, clawing against the infection that wrapped around your thoughts like vines.

You hated the way your body obeyed him. You hated how his voice could calm the violent hunger when no one else could.

One night, you ran.

...tried to.

The hunger dragged at your mind, but your legs moved, stumbling through the ruins. The air burned cold in your useless lungs.

You didn’t make it far.

He found you easily. Of course he did. You were his creation now. He’d memorized every sound you made, every step, every breath. The moment his shadow fell over you, your instincts froze.

“Why run?” His voice echoed behind you, calm, almost amused. “You know you can’t escape me.”

You spun around, chest heaving with a breath you didn’t need. “I’m not yours,” you snarled.

He walked forward slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “But you are. I made sure of it.”

Your nails dug into your own palms. “I’ll fight it.”

He slowly tilted his head, gaze softening in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Fight it all you want, little one. I’ll just hold you until you stop.”

He reached out, and this time, you struck. Claws, your claws, raked across his arm. Flesh tore, blood welled black and thick, but his smile didn’t even flicker.

Instead of anger, he looked delighted.

“Good,” he whispered, catching your wrist mid-swing. “Struggle. It makes it more real.”

He slammed you gently but firmly against the cold wall, his hand closing around your throat, not to crush, but to claim. His forehead rested against yours, eyes gleaming with unnatural light.

“I turned you so I’d never lose you,” he murmured, voice dark and tender. “You can hate me. You can claw at me. But you’re mine.”

Your body trembled between the infection’s pull and your will to resist. You wanted to scream, to tear him apart. But part of you, a deep, terrifying part, felt safe in his grip.

That’s what terrified you the most.

“I will keep you,” Dottore whispered, pressing his lips to your temple like a promise. “Even if I have to fight you every night.”

That night, he dragged you back into the lab, not violently, but like a storm dragging a tree it refuses to uproot. He cleaned your hands, held you through the tremors, whispered soft, cold things that tangled around your thoughts.

And as you sat there, head against his chest, heartbeat silent and shared, you realized something.

Even if you fought him, he’d always find you.