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mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.
it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!
it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?
and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—
something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.
one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.
this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.
“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”
this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.
a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”
“i’m a wha…?”
he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.
you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!
but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…
you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.
well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…
“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”
in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—
“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”
“…what?”
tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)
given the way he looks at 85, there is a good chance that dick is still functioning. it could be the most unimpressive shriveled rod, or some mutated twitching monster. you decide.
although he definitely can't fuck you the way he used to, nothing is stopping you from riding the old man silly. his armchair was the perfect place for it, comfy and with good support.
you could stare at him for hours, the way he panted and groaned under you, his weak hands clawing at your thighs as he tried to stop himself from passing out while he was balls deep inside you.
when you got too disobedient, he would smack your ass with his cane and call you a pest. if you acted too needy while he was trying to work, he might even let you grind yourself against it.
the older segments definitely snoop around and listen in while you two are having sex. they don't bother being quiet about it either, openly rating the original's performance, or jacking off if the view was satisfactory.
because of his age, he needed more sleep, causing you to be the one who usually woke up first. he'd always seem so peaceful and at ease, you couldn't help but want to sit on that wrinkly face of the his. what better way to wake him up than that? zandik never complained, although you did have to make sure he didn't have an asthma attack mid oral.
zandik knew you always got hot and bothered when he talks down to you, in that condescending tone of his. you really were pathetic, drooling over an old man's cock this much. he'd wipe the spit off your chin, then stick his long, worn out fingers in your mouth when you get too loud, the feel of your throat closing around them as you gagged always made him laugh.
but there was nothing that made him more aroused than being perverted. maybe it comes with age, now finally becoming the stereotypical degenerate geezer, but sneaking a hand down your underwear in public, or whispering filthy things while the others were present, got him going like nothing else.
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Just imagine accidentally walking into the room at the wrong time, knowing Dottore will be in his rare leisure hour for the day that he already rarely gives himself. You can smell the tea he likes to brew to unwind after a long day through the door.
And when you open it, there they are. Zandik has Feofan’s legs braced in either hand as he pummels straight into him, over and over. The Regrator’s leaking, neglected dick bobs in the air with every thrust as his head falls back onto the table that’s contents have been scattered about the floor in a rush.
Their moans are so pretty together. Feofan whimpers and breathes hard as his ass gets filled by Zandik’s cock, while the latter grunts and groans and says all of the filthiest things to his colleague.
“You love being treated like a slut, don’t you, Feofan? Taking my cock like this after reinstating our contract. Is this my true payment to you?”
And Pantalone is just losing his mind, drying cum coating his lower stomach as his next load prepares to splatter in the same place. And he’s right there, his moans picking up in volume and his toes curling and the feeling settling deep in his stomach and-
Zandik stops.
Feofan whines in protest.
“When did you arrive?”
Uh oh.
The two men stare at you, look back at each other, look back at you again, and their dicks throb even harder.
And poor you, Dottore’s little infatuation, accidentally walked in on their noisy, improper fucking. Neither man scowled nor chastised, nor did they rush to cover themselves up. Instead, they regarded you almost quizzically, as if formulating plans in their heads left unspoken to your ears.
“Come” demanded Dottore in a soft but stern tone.
You walked to his side immediately, unsure of, really, what else to do. His hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His mask wasn’t on at this time.
As he looked down at you, you noticed that Pantalone’s moans begun to come back in soft, short bursts. Zandik was moving his hips again, slowly, tantalizingly.
“Now, what I’ll do with you,” The Doctor began,
Dottore grabbed the base of the other man’s cock, lowering you down to take him all in one go. Pantalone almost screamed.
He made short work of your clothes, planting his hands firmly at your waist as he continued to fuck into Feofan still, your feet lifting off the ground as you were placed atop him, hovering just above his needy, weeping cock.
“…is make you useful.”
“Do a good job and I’ll forget this little disturbance ever happened.”
The bastard was having far too much.
The feeling of Feofan’s cock having filled you completely almost felt too much, and you begun to ride him in hopes of relieving the pressure. The two of you cried and whined and whimpered all to the pleasure of Zandik’s ears as he plowed his ass, keeping one hand on your hip to guide you up and down on his cock at the same time.
Feofan came hard inside of you at the same time that Dottore came into him, sending you over the edge in a blissful crescendo.
Dottore pulled back, admiring the two of you still on one another.
“Right, then. Both of you, collect yourselves and see yourselves out.”
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
CONTENT WARNING: pure fluff, implied established relationship, reader has the flu, very self indulgent, dottore trying to be nonchalant, no pronouns used.
WORD COUNT: 774
NOTES: hi!! i wrote this lil drabble on a whim because i am sick and i am thinking about dottore >< enjoy!
You heard Dottore before you could see him, a click of his tongue and something muttered under his breath as footsteps drew closer and closer to the shared bed you lay on, buried beneath a thick crimson blanket. Inside was your trembling body—feverish and weak.
“You over exerted your body.” Another click of his tongue, then, the side of your bed dipped beneath his weight as he carefully sat down. A few metallic clinks here and there, and his bare palm was flat on your forehead—gloves taken off—you groaned at his icy touch, brows knitted together.
“Dottore? I thought you’d left for the laboratory already . .” You croaked, throat dry and scratchy from the lack of hydration. You looked up at him from past the blanket, he had his pointed mask on yet you could see disdain on his face from the way his lips formed a thin line.
“And leave you behind? That would be ridiculous.” At his words, you let out a humourless laugh, appreciating that he had decided to stay in with you today. You could only imagine the dilemma he was in, deciding whether to be in the laboratory or keep you company.
“And why are you laughing? You’re sick. That is no laughing matter.” “It’s only the flu.”
Dottore didn’t reply, instead, he picked up a steaming bowl from the wooden night stand, “Come, sit up and let me feed you.”
“I can do it myself, you know.” “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, you haven’t moved an inch since I left early this morning.” Once more, he clicked his tongue and this time, you obliged without further tease. With Dottore’s help, you managed to sit up and lean against the plush headboard, albeit your head felt a little heavy.
Dottore gathered an appropriate amount of soup on the spoon, he blew on it a couple of times and you watched with slight haze as steam wafted away. “Here.” He muttered, bringing the cutlery close to your lips. You opened your lips and he gently fed you, warmth slowly embraced your mouth and flavour sat on your tongue. And that’s when you realised how hungry you actually were.
Dottore observed your tired face, how it lit up even just a tiny bit at the taste of food, “Hm. You shouldn’t neglect your appetite.” He lightly scolded but you knew he meant well, he always did especially when it came to you.
“You know, Doctor,” You started, a rather mischievous smile spreading upon your lips. “You can just admit you’re worried about me instead of insulting me.” Tease laced your tone and to rile him up even further, you feigned hurt by putting a hand over your chest, lips locked in a small pout.
“I am not insulting you. I was just . .” He trailed off, catching on to your playful banter. Dottore shook his head in disbelief but you saw the way the corner of his lips curled upwards ever so slightly.
“This soup won’t eat itself on its own.” The next few minutes consisted of silence and the repeated act of Dottore spoon feeding you. His eyes never left your face—he made sure you didn’t choke and that the broth was the perfect temperature before you happily ate it. With each spoonful, Dottore’s worries slowly faded away bit by bit, at least your appetite wasn’t gone or else it’d be a real worry to him.
Soon enough, the bowl was empty and put away; while Dottore cleaned up in the kitchen, you obliged his instructions before he left the room: ‘Drink your medicine.’
A few minutes later, he walked inside your shared bedroom, straight to your side of the bed, “How are you feeling?”
“All better now that my oh-so-capable Doctor is here to take care of me.” You smiled, Dottore met your tease with a humourless laugh. He may not have found it funny but the way his lips stretched into a subtle smile told you all you needed to know—that he liked what he heard.
“Is this Doctor also willing to keep me company and cuddle with me beneath the blanket?” You extended a hand. Silence remained for a second or two before he let out a defeated sigh,
“ . . . Yes, of course.” He planned to finish laboratory reports in his study after feeding you but he guessed spending a little more time with you wouldn’t be a hindrance. No, you’d never be a hindrance.
Dottore was a man capable of unspeakable atrocities but when it came to you, he was as gentle as the morning breeze.
And definitely succumbed to your words like the lovesick fool he was.
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