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The Doctor has been gone for a month now.
In your time serving as his assistant, this is the longest he's been away.
And you're worried.
In all the times he's been summoned by the “others”, he is usually back within the week—not preferring to be away from his lab and his work longer than necessary.
He never did tell you who the “others” are—always secretive about certain areas of his life despite how close the two of you have grown—but you never press him on it, always too afraid that you'll scare him away by prying.
It'd taken months upon months for him to open up to you—your kind gestures, brilliant brain, and charming wit finally wearing him down after 8 hours a day spent beside each other in his lab.
When he'd first “hired” you—spotting you sitting on a cliff near the Port Ormos–your Amurta robes messily piled beside you on the grass, he'd figured it out right away.
“Did you quit, or were you kicked out?”
His voice startles you out of the haze of endless questions bouncing around your head, and when you turn to see him standing there—a pristine white labcoat fitted perfectly to him, and a mask and glasses covering his face—you scoff.
Another person in a power of authority, here to ridicule you.
“I quit,” you say nonetheless, your voice bitter. He cocks an eyebrow, and you understand what it implies.
Why?
“The sages and teachers of the Akademiya are stuck in their ways. Science is meant to change and progress—limits are meant to be tested. Progress will always be slow to come when a wall of bureaucracy stands in the way of every idea.”
He hums amusedly.
“Let me guess—you pursued research without first getting permission.”
“When an idea strikes, waiting weeks for everyone in the chain of command to sign a piece of paper in order to proceed is torture. I went ahead with my research and experimentation first, and my teacher praised me when he read my paper about it. Then, he noticed I hadn't gotten permission first, and proceeded to do a complete 180. Told me that work which is not authorized cannot be published or used for further study. Bullshit.”
Beneath his mask, the stranger's lips tug at the corners.
“What was your research?”
Without saying anything, you dig beneath the pile of robes beside you and pull out a bound stack of papers. He takes it when you hold it out to him, and begins skimming through the pages.
There is reason to believe based on ancient desert texts that there is a remedy to physical ailment which can be derived from a specific mixture of certain plants and herbs. There are records of individuals who had been sick miraculously recovering, and even appearing younger after taking the medicine…
Oh?
“Were you able to test this theory?”
“I wasn't able to figure out the correct ratio of ingredients. Some ingredients are also extremely difficult to find in the current day. My experiment on a sickly mouse yielded positive results, but the recovery was not miraculous. The wounds healed, but evidence of them remained. The journals I translated specifically noted it was like the person had never been ill at all, so I can't call that a success.”
You sigh, and drop your head into your hands.
“Too bad I'll never be able to retry it since I stormed out…and it's not like anyone will hire an academic without a degree to do legitimate research.”
“You could come and work for me.”
…huh?
Shocked, you look back up at him.
He adjusts his glasses.
“I can't necessarily assure you that my own work is all by the books, but I can offer you a job that will give you access to research material and will pay you a salary.”
“...what's the catch?”
Ah, he can appreciate that you won't blindly trust him.
“I may want to use your research for my personal gain,” he admits without hesitation.
You're not exactly sure what his end game would entail, but…it would be hard to use a miracle drug for nefarious reasons, you think.
How bad can he be?
“I'm interested.”
“I can draft a contract of employment back at my lab,” he says, immediately turning away. “As an employer I will be fair, but I can't promise I will be kind. Having an outside assistant is not usually my style.”
“I can work with that,” you say and—realizing that he's already walking away—scramble to pick up your discarded robes and follow after him.
Once you reach his side, you gaze up at his mostly hidden face and ask–
“I never did get your name. What should I call you?”
“Doctor is fine.”
“...just Doctor?”
“Just Doctor.”
True to his word, he had been fair but not kind. Blunt, and sometimes cold, but…also a helpful teacher.
The feedback he'd give you would push you towards new ideas and greater heights, and while you're quite sure he never considered you his equal, over time you had no doubt that you'd earned his respect.
Respect that came in the form of dinners after hours while exchanging notes in the candle light. Two cups of brewed coffee in the mornings instead of just his own. An invitation to sleep upstairs in his quarters above the lab when you'd worked too late and could barely keep your eyes open. Him delivering a packet of herbs to your apartment door when you'd come down with a cold.
Affections were never expressed verbally, but with little gestures that warmed your heart. And as you noticed the shift in how he treated you, you'd decided to return the gestures as well.
Neither of you said much of it, but you like to think you both understood. That the first time you two stumbled up the stairs to his chambers while hands roamed and lips clashed, you both understood. That when those occurrences happened more frequently and you spent the night in his bed without a word about it, you both understood.
A relationship that could be enjoyed without labels. Two academics finding joy in their work and each other.
That understanding was there.
But now you can't understand what has happened—and where he's gone.
Ever since a few days after his disappearance, you've been temporarily living in his flat above the lab. Surely, he'll forgive you, considering one big reason for this decision is due to the experiments you've both been working on, and the fact that you've been continuing to make progress on both his and your own. You don't want his experiment to go neglected in his absence, so you've been putting in extra hours—doing your best so that when he finally returns, you'll get to see a glimpse of that rare, genuine, happy smile of his.
Because surely, he'll be back. You can't think of a reason he wouldn't be.
With a quiet sigh, you shrug your lab coat on and make your way into the small kitchen of the Doctor's apartment. You fix yourself some coffee and toast before making your way downstairs.
You yawn as you reach the landing on the first floor—the lab—and move your hand along the wall until you feel the light switch.
However, as soon as you flick the light on, a figure appears across the room—their back to you.
The Doctor's research notes are in their hand.
You startle, and accidentally drop your mug of coffee. It shatters into a million pieces at your feet—but the sound doesn't even make the intruder flinch.
“Many of these documents have “Y/N” listed as the co-author…would that be you?”
His tone is amused, but his voice sounds…familiar.
Familiar enough to make your heart ache, but not enough to get you off your guard.
“How did you get in here?”
You know you'd locked the door—
“I have my ways,” he responds plainly, and then finally turns to face you. He's tall, with a mask over his eyes. His hair is longer than your Doctor, but the color is the same…
“I answered your question, now you answer mine.”
He smiles at you as he waits for your answer, and while again, the shape of his smile is all-too-familiar, it's off. Too different from what you know. Amused yet…sinister.
“Yes, I am Y/N,” you inevitably confirm. He hums.
“His assistant?”
“Yes.”
“My, not sure how he hid an entire assistant from me. How unexpected…”
“And who is he to you?” you question, your eyes narrowing. You take a hesitant step into the room, careful of the broken ceramic on the floor.
“Surely you realize the resemblance,” he responds, giving you a nonanswer. He motions to himself, and your heart aches yet again as your gaze roams over him. Everything looks so familiar to you…his height, the width of his shoulders, and his slim torso…
He notes the longing that shines in your gaze as you regard him.
Interesting.
Maybe he can have some fun with this.
“You're not him,” you mumble, although your tone leaves room for doubt.
“I am him,” he argues. He holds his arms out in a grand gesture.
You shake your head.
Dottore frowns, and walks towards you. His heels click against the floor as he gets closer and closer, until he's towering over you and blocking out the sun.
You startle when he snatches your hand, but your heart does a weird flip the second he presses it to his chest, above his heart.
“I may be different from what you remember, but I can promise you we are one in the same.”
You take a shuttering breath. He's not the man you know—the man you remember—but he's something so close that you can't help wanting to believe he's what's yours.
“You're the Doctor?”
“I am the Doctor,” he responds.
Which version of the Doctor, he doesn't bother clarifying. Telling you that he's not the segment you know would be such a simple admission, but he finds it more fun to string you along.
He wants to experience what exactly this segment has been getting up to while secluded in his laboratory. How, exactly, he ended up with a pretty little lab assistant that so obviously adores him.
He never considered himself capable of loving another human being, but perhaps your research together had caused you to grow close…
“If you are, then…,” your voice wobbles, tears beading in your eyes as you glance up at him. You didn't think you'd get this emotional. When did you start missing him so much?
“...then, why do you look so different? I mean–”
“Dear, this is nothing to get upset about,” he coos, hooking a finger beneath your chin. A sly grin lights up his face as he speaks his next words.
“This version of me is arguably more handsome, is it not?”
His words make you giggle, despite your lack of knowledge of their true meaning.
“That outfit is certainly an attention grabber. Although I had no qualms with your lab coat.”
Something about how you're smiling at him through your tears makes his stomach clench.
“That's a good girl, I'd rather see you smile,” he says, and then leans in a little closer, whispering.
“Now…why don't you show me how much you've missed me?”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Your fingers tremble against his chest, wanting to curl into his shirt and draw him close, but you hesitate.
Because you’re no fool. The man in front of you clearly isn't the one you've come to know.
…and yet, despite this realization, and all of the suspicions and unanswered questions about the Doctor before you—you still find yourself leaning in.
Because in the end, you’ve missed him.
After months upon months of being holed up in the lab together—sharing meals, and ideas, and physical affections—you’ve become reliant on his presence in your life. So even though there’s something glaringly wrong with this situation, you can’t help but cling to whatever traces of him you can find.
Gripping onto his coat, you press onto your toes while simultaneously dragging him down. The second your lips meet, he makes a pleased sound—his arm curling around your waist to pull you closer.
At first, he allows you to lead—curious of the emotion behind your soft, longing kisses—holding him so tightly as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear again. But after a short while, he decides to turn the tides. He deepens the kisses, curling himself around you like a snake that has trapped its prey. His tongue slides against your own, his free hand cupping your jaw and forcing your head back to allow him farther in.
He kisses you like he’s devouring you, your head feeling fuzzy as he steals your breath away. Yet, amid the mind-numbing kisses, you can taste the edge of curiosity—like he’s trying to learn you.
You whimper as your lungs begin to ache, and finally, he relents. He pulls back, and his gaze immediately zeroes in on the sight of you—your lips swollen, face flushed, and eyes unsteady.
If he could reach inside your chest and feel your heart in the palm of his hand, he’s sure he’d feel an ache of guilt. Guilt that you’ve given into your desires so easily, and are here, kissing a Doctor that feels unfamiliar to you. And yet, in the same beat, he thinks that the ache of guilt in your heart would be overpowered by the one between your legs.
Because right now, despite your uncertainties, you’re looking at him with eyes that crave more.
“You certainly are interesting,” he grins, and before you can think of any sort of retort, his lips are back on yours.
You gasp into his mouth as his large palms grip your ass, and before you know it, he’s lifting you off the floor. He backs you into one of the tables nearby—glass shattering against the floor as he swipes his hand across the surface to clear it of any objects.
“Those were new beakers–,” you start to complain, but he silences you with a hand at your throat.
“I can assure you a few broken tools are of little consequence.”
His fingertips tease at your pulse as his other hand slips beneath your blouse. With ease, he undoes the buttons one by one, until the silky fabric is slipping down your sides.
Your chest heaves with hurried breaths as his gaze rakes down your front, and he squeezes your throat a little tighter when you squirm under his attention.
“You are quite a pretty thing,” he muses, and before you can even register what is happening, you see a glint of metal, and then hear a rip.
When you look down, you find the cups of your bra falling away from your breasts, and a small knife in Dottore’s hand.
You suck in a breath as you realize how easily he could have hurt you, and how utterly helpless you currently are at his mercy, but Dottore pays your fear no mind. Because despite it, your pulse is racing beneath his fingers, and your thighs are clenching at his sides.
He’s not exactly sure how his other segment treated you, but regardless, it’s clear you’re getting off how Dottore is treating you now.
“What? You’ll scold me about the beakers, but not your bra?” he teases. You open his mouth to refute his insinuation of your priorities, but before you get the chance, he cups your breast, and gives it a pointed squeeze.
Immediately, whatever words you had intended on saying devolve into a wanton little gasp, and the sound only stretches Dottore’s grin wider.
He pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger—twisting and tugging—loving the way your back arches with each little touch.
Releasing your throat from his grasp, he moves his hand to your other breast—groping and teasing you with his fingers until you’re whimpering from the sensitivity. Your hips begin to jump with every tease of your nipples, and Dottore shifts his stance to grant you some relief—his thigh pressing between your legs, and up against your clothed pussy.
“I wonder if you could get off like this,” he ponders aloud. “If you could be trained to cum just from your breasts being touched.”
The idea is absurd, but nonetheless sends a bolt of arousal straight through you—the fabric of your panties further dampening as you mindlessly grind yourself on his thigh.
He’s never been this aggressive with you before. Your love making with the Doctor has been plenty passionate before now, with a little manhandling and S&M thrown in here and there—but this is entirely new.
And obviously, you don’t entirely dislike it…
“The chances of that happening would be—mm—extremely rare,” you pant, still attempting to hold onto your reason.
He clicks his tongue.
“Rare as it may be, I thought you wanted to please me, my dear. So, why not try?”
And then, he’s parting his lips and leaning down—his mouth suctioning on your tit. His sharp teeth graze against your nipple, and a cry is dragged from your lips.
Your pussy throbs, your pulse rushing in your ears.
Your chest is already so sore that each new touch is tinged with pain, but…beneath the initial pain is pleasure—a dance of desperation that has your hips grinding faster and harder against him.
With a hum of approval, Dottore switches breasts. At the same time, he snakes a hand between your legs. The skirt you’re wearing has already hiked up to your hips, so it’s hardly any trouble to hook his fingers around the crotch of your panties and pull the fabric aside.
“There you go,” he coos as the barrier between your pussy and his thigh disappears. The instant boost of direct friction on your clit has your core tightening, and with each lap of his tongue or tease of his teeth, your pleasure only winds tighter.
“I–,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the wooden table beneath you.
Your chest is littered with hickies and bite marks—your nipples puffy with abuse. And between your legs, Dottore’s slacks are darkened with your arousal, your hips losing their rhythm as your pleasure threatens to spill over.
“Now, cum like a good girl,” he tells you, and you almost sob. How does he have so much control over you—your body following his command as if the direction has been programmed into you?
With a choked cry, you come undone. He shamelessly laps at your nipples as your orgasm rolls through you—each stroke of his tongue drawing the pleasure out until the feeling finally subsides.
When it does, you take a deep breath, and melt onto the surface of the table, needing a moment to catch your breath.
Unfortunately, it seems that Dottore has no intention of giving you that moment.
Yanking you forward, he roughly manhandles you around until your chest is pressed to the table. His hands leave you as soon as you’re in the position he wants you, and you hear the zip of a fly being pulled down.
“Wait–,” you begin to plead, turning your head to look at him. It’s not like you want to stop—you still want to keep going, but you just need a second to recover—
His hand grabs your skull and presses your cheek into the table, cutting off your words. Then, he forces your legs wider with a nudge of his foot, until you’re balanced on your toes—your thighs straining.
“What a pretty picture,” he mumbles. He hikes your skirt up around your waist, and then drags his fingers down the curve of your spine, and across your ass. He takes a moment to admire the sheen of arousal glistening on the folds of your pussy, before he fists his cock nestles himself between them.
Your breath catches as you feel the head of his cock press at your entrance, and then, he’s shoving inside.
He groans as your pussy engulfs him inch by inch, adoring the way your body shakes as you struggle to accommodate him.
“How do I feel?” he asks once his hips are flush with your ass. “Like usual?”
Your cunt quivers around him, and you take a shaky breath. He’s being rougher than what you’re used to, but–
“So good,” you pant. He grins.
Releasing your head, he instead gathers up your arms, and folds them behind your back—one of his large hands encasing your wrists to trap them together. And then, his hips are snapping forward.
He sets a demanding pace right from the get-go, quiet cries involuntarily forced from your throat with each thrust of his cock.
Dottore fucks you into the table like a man drunk on power—his control over you absolute, even as your fingers twitch in his hold, wishing you had something to grab onto to help ground yourself. Instead, you’re left trapped like a fuck-doll beneath him, your hips and ass beginning to bruise from his rough handling, and the hard edge of the table.
Yet, despite his somewhat cold and detached attitude, pleasure begins to wind in your gut once again.
Too quickly, in fact. What, with the way he ever-so-slightly changes the angle of his thrusts and immediately manages to find your g-spot.
A garbled, desirous sound is immediately ripped from between your lips, your body shaking beneath him as the head of his cock grinds over that sensitive spot inside of you again, and again, and–
“Doctor, please, I–,” your tongue feels like putty in your mouth, your cognizance wavering with each smack of his hips.
Above you, he grins.
“Please what? More? Harder? Even though your ass is already flushed, and your cunt is clamping down on me? Aren’t you getting close?”
That’s the issue, you want to argue, but you can’t think straight.
“Doctor—,” you snivel, your eyes burning as tears well up. Everything feels so wrong, yet so right—your mind caught between wanting to beg him to stop or beg him for more.
“If you can’t use your words, I don’t know what you want, my dear.”
He smacks your ass.
Your pussy throbs, and your sanity wavers.
You can hear in the tone of his voice that he’s having the time of his life watching you fall apart beneath him, but you…
You can’t take it. It’s all too much—
You sob, and your body fights against his hold, your hips bucking.
You’re cumming again–!
“Zandik!” you bite out as your second orgasm rips through you—your breath catching in your lungs at the intensity of it.
Dottore’s hips grind to a halt at the sound of that name, but you hardly mind, considering the intensity of your orgasm immediately dies down.
You finally have a moment to breathe—the tension in your body melting away as your pussy milks around his cock.
However, the much needed reprieve leaves you oblivious to the eyes burning holes into your nude back, because now, there are too many questions and feelings buzzing around inside Dottore’s head.
Such as: why do you know that name? Had his segment actually divulged their real name to you? If so, how much affection had he actually held for you, to allow you to call him by a name most of them preferred to reserve for the original version of themselves?
Yet, beneath all of these baffled questions, there’s one ugly emotion that has a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest.
Jealousy.
The Doctor you know, the Zandik you know, is not him. But he’s the one here now, filling up your cunt and making you cry.
He wants you to call for him.
He yanks you up by his grip on your arms—your momentary respite over.
With a rough shove, your back hits the cold floor. The air is knocked from your lungs, but before you’re able to replenish it, Dottore’s hand is once again at your throat.
He kneels above you, his fingers squeezing your neck as the other hooks beneath your knee—forcing your legs open.
“Do not call me that,” he almost growls, bearing down on you. Your wide eyes shine with fear as you regard him, an apology forming on your lips.
However, he doesn’t want you to be scared, despite the fact that he is not the segment who cares for you.
“Call me Dottore,” he continues, his voice slightly softer. You test the name on your tongue.
“Dottore,” you echo obediently, but the grin that breaks out on his face following the sound of his name doesn’t serve to reassure you. Because as excited as it seems, it also looks wicked.
His fingers tighten on your neck, and you raise your hands—trying to pry at his wrist.
“Dottore–”, you gasp, your head feeling fuzzy. He’s not just restricting blood flow anymore, he’s gripping your throat so tightly that your airway is affected too.
And you know that with his knowledge of the human body, he knows this as well. Yet, he doesn’t seem to care.
Ignoring your pleading, he shoves his cock back inside of you.
The snap of his hips is even more brutal than before—his chest heaving with exertion and excitement as he fucks you.
“Dottore–!” you try again, your voice quiet and hoarse. Your vision is beginning to swim.
His only response is a heady groan, his head hanging forward as his balls tighten.
God, you feel so fucking good.
Despite the way your pupils shake unsteadily, and your grip on his wrist has begun to involuntarily loosen, somehow, your cunt is tightening up again.
Your lips part—intending to beg him once more to go easy on you and let go—but no words come out.
You’ve run out of air.
Tears slip down your cheeks, and you can do nothing but watch him through your blurry vision—his heavy breathing and grunts of pleasure sounding farther and farther away.
Only when he feels you go limp—your eyes rolling back into your head and your pussy squirting on his cock—does he finally loosen his grip.
Your chest heaves, and your eyelashes flutter, but you nonetheless remain like deadweight beneath him.
Even so, he refuses to stop.
He fucks you with abandon, a breathless little laugh worming its way out of him when he sees the mess you’ve made of his pants.
“Ejaculating while passing out…how sinful,” he muses.
He lets go of your neck, and moves his hand to your other leg—forcing you open wider.
Your pussy somehow tightens in spite of your state of unconsciousness, and he clenches his jaw, his cock throbbing.
He wants to leave his mark on you. Overwrite any of his segment’s remnants.
And so, he does just that—slaming inside of you until he finally reaches his own peak. He breathes a sated breath as he empties his balls inside of you, and when he finally has nothing left to give, he pulls out—his gaze lingering on your twitching hole, and the seed that leaks out of it.
Then, he inevitably tucks himself back into his pants, and gets to his feet.
His boots click against the floor as he strides to the other end of the lab, and makes his way up the staircase to the second floor. He’s up there for a short while before he returns, a few sheets of paper in his grasp.
He files them away with the other documents of interest he’d managed to gather before your appearance in the lab earlier on, and then tucks the stack of files inside of his coat.
He’s gathered all he needs from here. Meaning, it’s time to leave.
Except…
His gaze falls to where you’re still passed out on the floor.
Logically, he should leave you here to burn with all the other traces of this segment, but…perhaps he can find a use for you. After all, your research with the Doctor had yielded positive results for him and his business partner, despite the fact that his segment had purposefully left any mention of you out of his reports.
With a tiny sigh, Dottore makes his way to your side. He tugs your skirt down over your soiled pussy, and then retrieves your discarded top from nearby. He buttons it up as high as needed to preserve your modesty, and then hefts you into his arms.
He casts one final glance at the lab of his younger, now-gone segment, and then steps over the threshold of the door, out into the port.
Instantly, a fire ignites behind him.
“Oh? I almost had the vessel depart without you. Where have you been? And who is that?”
Pantalone's last question is directed at the limp body thrown over Dottore's shoulder.
“Please tell me it's not a cadaver…”
With a huff, Dottore brushes past his colleague and ventures deeper into the ship. Pantalone follows behind him as Dottore maneuvers his way to his sleeping quarters, and gently places the body upon his bed.
Hm. Perhaps it isn't a corpse if he's treating it with such care.
“She is very much alive, I assure you.”
He turns his back to the bed, and shoos Pantalone out of the room, following him out.
“I simply…knocked her out for the journey.”
“I agreed to come with you to Port Ormos to retrieve your recently decommissioned segment’s experimental notes. I didn't sign up for human trafficking.”
“Enough of that,” Dottore bites, the metal floor of the ship clanging beneath his boots. They follow the hallway until they reach the front of the ship, and with a little wave, Pantalone signals the crew.
Immediately, the horn of the boat sounds, and the engines rumble to life.
The two Harbingers stand at the bow as the ship slowly begins making its way out of the port—their gazes finding the trail of black smoke that rises from the lab burning in the distance.
“Unbeknownst to me, this segment had taken on an assistant,” Dottore finally explains. “Her brain and experiments seem useful. And I find her affections for me to be intriguing. Despite knowing I am not the segment she loves, she was so desperate to make herself believe that I am.”
A wide smile spreads on his face, and Pantalone smiles back, though his own smile isn't nearly as unnerving
“I see. So…you're taking her prisoner? Or, making her your assistant? Although, I must admit, that really doesn't seem your style.”
Dottore hums, looking contemplative.
“I don't need an assistant. However, my segment seems to have genuinely cared for her. So the least I can do in the wake of his untimely demise is continue to take care of her.”
Pantalone quietly chuckles, and fetches a cigarette from his coat pocket. He holds it between his lips, lights it, and after taking a long drag says–
“Ah, I see. So, she's a pet.”
Dottore takes a deep, shuddering breath—his excitement apparent in the way he doesn't even bother scolding Pantalone for smoking.
“Hmm…I suppose she is. How fun is that.”