#dark!dottore

———

You don’t notice it. Of course you don’t notice it at first. Nobody would.

Dottore is… a strange boss. You’re not here by your own free will, but you do get paid. Paid well. You’re surprised your old lab partner would go to such an extent, to drag you out of Sumeru and personally recruit you into the Fatui. He says he did for this two reasons. The first is that he could tolerate being in a lab with you, and the second is because he could. It was a… rocky start to say the least, but you settled into a routine.

You perform supplementary experiments. You analyse samples. You get him the parts. To be entirely honest, you do rather little for such a generous salary.

Dottore doesn’t seem to mind. He’s never brought it up.

In fact, he’s rather hospitable.

He brings you food if you’re working on something. He makes sure you’re drinking enough. You always get free time.

Sometimes you wonder if you function more as company than an actual employee. The arrangements, the workload, the environment and Dottore himself- all far too good to be true.

And if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.

The first red flag is when he leaves you alone for a week on Fatui business, and your mind won’t stop going to him. It’s ridiculous. It feels wrong. You’re not “in denial” about any feelings for your kidnapper. It’s like your brain is completely out of your control, the image of him flashing on the insides of your eyelids. You’re unable to divert your thoughts away from him for more than an hour, despite how much you’d looked forward to this Dottore-free vacation. The night before he returns, you end up masturbating on your bed and you can’t steer your train of thought. The sheets twist under your body and your pleasure is so hard to reach fully, keeping you on edge until you shamefully whimper out the word “Dottore”, imagining the man himself is above you.

You lie awake that night, hoping it resolves itself soon. You couldn’t masturbate to your boss, your literal kidnapper, and expect your brain to not program some kind of response into you.

Appealing to your own sense of logic, you end up rationalising everything. So what if you experience a bit of sexual attraction for the man? You don’t want him romantically- a relationship with him sounds like hell. It’s probably just because he’s the one of few people you see regularly, and so your subconscious has decided he’s the only viable partner. Maybe you just need to get out more.

The flaw in that plan is that Dottore doesn’t like when you go very far. He suggests that you stay with him, asking you rhetorical questions that make you freeze in place, appealing to your sense of logic. Scaring you with tales of Fatui soldiers, and arguing that being asocial is a blessing within the Fatui. And it always ends with you dutifully returning to your place by his side.

When things are like that, the way Dottore wants, it seems to calm you down as well.

It only gets worse.

He touches you and his cold hands are a soothing touch to your heated body, yet they only leave you hotter.

Heat, because you’re always a little feverish. Your cunt drips during the day and you find your legs rubbing together involuntarily during experiments. You have to stop- stop thinking with your pussy, stop masturbating to the thought of him, because clearly this is only happening due to your habits in that department. You take to masturbating before work to try and clear your head, and you moan his name when you do that, too. At least it manages to sate you for most of the workday, but it only leaves you feeling guilty. You know you’re digging yourself into a deeper hole.

“You’ve been rather unfocused lately,” He remarks, putting both of his hands on your shoulders. To your surprise he starts to massage them lightly. You have to hold back a needy whine, and thank the archons he’s behind you so he can’t see your heating face. “Is something wrong?”

Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.

You swallow dryly. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

“That’s no good,” He coos. Your legs rub. You try to still yourself. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Do tell me if it gets worse.”

“I will.”

He goes, fiddles around with something in the break room, and returns with a glass of water, placing it silently to your side.

“Oh- thanks, Dottore.”

And he’s away again, briskly walking to the other side of the lab to resume his analysis of some petri dishes.

Are you falling for his gestures of kindness? Kindness only specifically towards you? Kindness you only see when you’re alone with him?

No, you can’t be. You know what he’s capable of. He’s a despicable man.

But it doesn’t stop you from crying out his name again that night, face down into your pillow.

———

Your workwear is growing more risqué underneath your lab coat. Shorter skirts. You unbutton your blouses at the top. You start wearing those thigh-high stockings with a garter that peeks out, something you’d found at the bottom of your drawers. You buy more. The blouses become a little thinner. Your lacy bras are visible underneath. You usually wear flats in the lab just to be safe, but you find yourself picking out mary-janes with a small heel. Just something a little more adventurous, but not something that would clack obnoxiously on the ground. The last thing you would want to do is irritate Dottore.

After your morning masturbation session, you get dressed into these increasingly “scandalous” clothes, fix your hair, make sure everything looks presentable, and you smile going out the door, putting your lab coat on top.

You’ve never been so excited about going to work before. The behaviour should strike you as odd, but you’re being worn down by the mere thought of Dottore. So you’re having a little honeymoon phase with the crush on your boss. May as well enjoy it, right?

———

It’s getting disgraceful.

Your crush, that is. Can you even call it that, or is it just uncontrollable sexual desire?

You have to use some of your lunchbreak to go to the bathroom just so you can rub your pussy in peace. Legs spread on the toilet, moaning into the crook of your elbow, trying to cum as fast as possible as to not arouse suspicion. You use the small clock on the bathroom wall as a reference, stopping yourself when five minutes passes.

Unfortunately, this leaves you desperate to orgasm more times than not, walking out of the bathroom and back to lab with lust ignited in your body and that same stupid smile on your face.

You always wash your hands thoroughly and make sure not a hair is out of place, your makeup perfect.

You hadn’t worn makeup to work before this. Dottore was the only one you see frequently, and you didn’t want him to think you were wearing for it him.

Now, well… you have no other excuse. You are definitely wearing it for him. Maybe he’ll notice your effort, have a fling with you, and this whole thing can break your heart and be over with.

———

Dottore burns a pair of gloves whilst handling an experiment.

“You aren’t injured, are you?” You say, moving towards him.

“No, it only burnt the gloves. At least they did their job.”

“Let me clean that up for you, sir.”

He’s smiling underneath the mask. You’re so helpful, aren’t you?

“Ah, just dispose of the gloves, (Y/N). I can handle the rest.”

You bend down right in front of him, legs straight, and pick off the glove he’d hastily thrown to the floor.

One is completely fried. The other, barely singed. You pocket the more functional of the two, devious idea hatching in your head.

That night, you put your hand into the glove and finger yourself with it on, imagining with more realism how Dottore’s fingertips would feel against your gummy walls.

You cum so hard you see stars.

———

You can’t stop thinking about his dick.

You’re such a pervert. The stolen glove was already a stretch too far- this entire thing has gone too far, your little performance to try and attract his attention. But Celestia above, when you walk into the breakroom and see him relaxing, your thoughts immediately go to kneeling between his legs and sucking him off.

There has to be some way of staving these thoughts off.

Well… your daily masturbation sessions have needed some excitement. The only sex shop in the area lies in a dark alleyway, a small room with various sex toys lining the walls and a desk crammed into the corner.

You pick out a medium sized dildo with far less shame than anticipated, hoping it would be just what you needed. Mm… maybe something else? A small, metal plug catches your eye, a jewel embedded at one end. You only live once. To top off the purchase, a vial of lube, just in case.

The woman at the desk smiles up at you.

And when you open up your winter coat, reaching into the inside pockets for mora, you realise exactly how you look. Shirt slightly undone, bra visible underneath, skirt hiked up with your bare thighs revealed.

The woman doesn’t seem to care. She tells you to enjoy your purchase.

Snezhnaya is cold, but the heat in your loins burns bright at the excitement.

———

You start training yourself to deepthroat. You’re dedicated, the sessions taking place prior to your morning masturbation. Afterwards, you usually pop the plug into your ass before putting your panties over the top- it’s fun to squirm against it as you sit in the lab.

It’s like your energy is allocated to your sexual endeavours instead of your work.

And Dottore still doesn’t care. Perhaps his workload has also fallen off a little, because he’s assigning less to you. He also has you follow him around more, and do your own thing less. You don’t mind. You’re kept busy with more writing tasks that now take longer than you remember, filing the papers for his experiments. If you successfully manage to orgasm during your lunch break, you can regain some cognitive skills for the later part of the day. You still do some experiments, but if you don’t manage to orgasm it’s like your brain is completely fried. You try your hardest to stop staring at him, an act which is now accompanied by the instantaneous thought of a brutal pounding from his cock.

You giggle when he approaches you, you giggle when he touches you. You try to flirt a little, but you can’t tell if he’s being receptive or not. Your mind blanks out as you focus on his lips. You want to kiss him. Something, anything.

He ends up having to repeat himself more, yet doesn’t seem to mind. He’s never even gotten irritated with you before.

He’s very kind. All this time, and he still makes sure to get your meals alongside his.

There’s a voice in the back of your head that screams something.

The subconscious mind is really complicated stuff. You shake your head and get up to excuse yourself for a bathroom break. Your cunt desperately requires attention.

———

During one of your evening masturbations, you think: wouldn’t it be nice if you had a dildo on the seat you use in the lab? Recently you’ve been obsessed with feeling full. Another trip to the sex shop has you returning with a bigger plug, and two more sizes of dildo- one smaller, and one larger than your current one.

Occasionally, you end up keeping the smaller dildo inside of you as you walk into the lab, the only thing keeping it in place being your panties, which the base of the dildo is able to be strapped around. You love riding it when Dottore’s back is turned, bouncing slightly on your seat for some friction.

It feels so much better to masturbate in the same room as him. It’s so naughty. But if Dottore hears the chair creaking, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even need to cry out his name the first time you cum in the lab, a usual prerequisite for actually reaching an orgasm. You grit your teeth and try to moderate your breathing. Having him there is enough.

There’s no shame nor horror at your lewd act. Just your hole spasming around the dildo and some post-orgasm clarity as you dutifully file the rest of the report.

You head to the bathroom immediately after to clean yourself up, changing your soaked panties. You always have to bring a change these days.

———

You still keep the glove to rub yourself with. But nothing, nothing is comparing to orgasming with him actually inside the room. You need something more.

You’ve been having nasty, dirty thoughts. You want to steal some of his underwear so you can sniff it as you masturbate. Gross- it should be gross. But it isn’t. You’re really far gone, you think, from the person that Dottore hired. Why are you even still here? You hardly do your previous workload, you shamelessly play with yourself during work hours. You’ll have to offer yourself to him eventually. Plead and beg with the man to fuck you.

And what if he says no? The thought makes you feel violently ill. It would do more than break your heart. You’d be willing to do anything to feel his cock inside of you if just for a moment. You’d be willing to worship him, kiss the ground he walks on, if it just means a taste of your deepest desires follows the act.

How long will it take until he notices? You’ve did a good job so far, covering it all up from him… haven’t you?

Any rational thought would guide you to the solution that he definitely knows, but you don’t really have rational thoughts anymore.

You don’t wear your labcoat, now. It effectively removes you from the rather foolish notion that you’re a scientist, with the slutty outfits you kept underneath it, with all the rubbing you do underneath your desk, the edging, the orgasms you save for when he’s close enough. You resign yourself to the paperwork, filing his reports. In the morning, he sometimes unbuttons your shirt by one button, revealing more of your breasts. He pretends to be wiping something off your shirt, and you just let him.

You’re just grateful for any attention that you can get, which is why you don’t really care that he’s started groping you. One day, you bend over to pick up a paper, and his hands run over the globes of your ass from behind. “Well? Aren’t you going to give it a little shake for me, darling?

You giggle and obey. You do a lot of that. Your pert ass shimmies in the air as you’re still bent over. Dottore gropes it hard before he walks off again.

One day, he tells you to go up to his residence and do laundry for him. He doesn’t keep any housekeepers despite his status, and you’re all too happy to assist without question. It’s a slow day in the lab, you suppose. Being in his home triggers a a strong state of arousal as soon as you walk through the door, one that’s hardly resolved when you finally, finally dig out his underwear from the pile. In the end, you masturbate with your face down in the pile of laundry, sobbing out “sir”s and “Dottore”s along the way. Only then do you actually start doing it, hanging it up and returning to the lab for dinner.

You can do more than just masturbate, though, and this proves it. You can do whatever pleases him. You take up whatever menial tasks he offers, anything to feel his hand condescendingly pat the top of your head and call you a good girl. Your whole world revolves around Dottore and making him happy.

Your wearing of panties also decreases. Sure, you can’t have the dildo in, but you can still have your plug in and pray that Dottore notices your desperation. If you spoil yourself too much with orgasms, you might end up less willing for Dottore, and you don’t want that. But that does come with its own host of problems, namely that there’s nothing to stop your juices from leaking all over the place.

“Oh, (Y/N),” He sighs in disapproval. Your body freezes. “Surely not you’re not headed to the restroom already? You’ve made another mess on your seat. Lick it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

And before you can stop yourself, you’re bent over, face buried into your slick, tongue cleaning every last drop. Dottore approaches you from behind. You flinch at how his cold hands caress your ass. Your skirt is hiked up further, and-

“Oh? How interesting.”

Two fingers grasp your plug, pushing and pulling it out of your asshole. You let out an unrestrained moan- finally, finally something more- and he puts it back into place.

“When did you get it?”

“A little while ago,” You reply. “Maybe five weeks, sir?”

“And when did you start wearing it to the lab?” He asks, idly playing with it again.

“As soon as I got it.”

He hums.

“You don’t know this (Y/N), and I’m going to be surprised if it registers fully through your thick skull, but you’re a very successful experiment.”

“Did… Did I make you proud?” You gasp out, feeling a thumb running over at your labia.

“Proud..? I’m not sure if that’s the right word, dear. Proud of myself, yes. I’m not exactly sure if I would consider myself proud of the little slut that rubs her cunt during work hours. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I’m pleased with you.”

“What-“

He puts two fingers into your pussy without bother and you squeal. “Nuance, (Y/N). I’m not entirely convinced your brain can cope with that anymore. I suppose I could fuck you, and you’d regain some of your intelligence temporarily, but I don’t think this-“

He emphasises by thrusting his fingers in and out, and even with no particular aim it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. Better than the dildos, and far better than just playing with your clit. You cum dangerously fast, moaning his name through your orgasm and continuing to gasp it afterwards. Your body is alight with pure ecstasy.

“- is going away anytime soon.”

He plays with the plug again. You buck your hips towards him, presenting eagerly.

“Maybe if you had been any more invested in your job, you would’ve bought a chastity belt to restrain your whorish tendencies as you worked up a resistance to the drug.”

Dottore’s hand leaves you. You finish licking up your mess, acutely aware of a new one between your legs.

“I suppose it’s a bit late for that. But I may end up having to get you one if you fail to control yourself. Hmm…”

You finally stand up again, running a finger up the inside of your thigh and cleaning it with your mouth as you stare into his eyes, free from the mask. Your thoughts are blank. He’s right. You’re failing to process everything he says.

And his lips finally meet yours, tasting some of your slick in the process. You gasp, eager, kissing him back for the short duration that he’s there. When he draws back, your glassy eyes can only focus on him.

Dottore exhales. “Yet, there’s some merit in keeping you as a drooling, mindless nymphomaniac. Come, I’ve been waiting patiently for an eternity- unlike a certain someone. Let’s run some… preliminary tests.”

Within five minutes, you’re in the break room, kissing the tip of his erect cock. It’s the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen outside of Dottore himself. He even said you can get yourself off on his shoe after, but you don’t need that, as alluring as it sounds. It’s enough to finally be pleasuring him, listening keenly for his groans and learning exactly what he likes. He’s impressed when you take him all the way in as well, nose meeting his midriff. Dottore’s shaft fills your throat nicely, and your hips rock with need.

“Good girl,” He breathes. “Someone’s been practising, I take it?”

In response, you move back and forth. His hand finds itself caught in your hair and you gladly let him set the pace, fucking your mouth however he likes. It doesn’t take long until he pulls out of you, using his hand to finish off into your open mouth and waiting tongue. You take care to taste his load. Warm, heavy, salty. And you gratefully swallow, smiling as it goes down your throat. Your legs squeeze together tightly, and you somehow manage to orgasm with no sensation. It’s weak, but you still whine lightly, no sensation to allow you to really ride it out. You’re trembling, unaware of if Dottore realises this or not.

“My offer still stands.” Dottore tells you, shuffling his shoe against the ground.

“Mm… I think my…” You start to stand up, Dottore also beginning to readjust himself.

“Makeup… got ruined…”

Dottore looks rather indifferent. “Well, you should go fix it then, shouldn’t you?”

You nod, trotting off to the bathroom with your purse and stopping yourself at the mirror before entering one of the cubicles.

For a moment as you look into your reflection, there’s everything. Rage, disgust, disappointment, a moment of clarity in the world around you where everything makes sense- the betrayal, hopelessness, shame.

And it goes away. You start using wet paper towels to wipe away your mascara and lipstick, carefully reapplying them after with a skilled hand.

You pop your lips, adjust your blouse, making sure your bra barely peeks out of it. You adjust your hair and admire yourself from a few different angles to make sure everything’s perfect.