Il Dottore/female Reader - Tumblr Posts

Blasphemous Rumors - V

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.  Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year.  A marriage of convenience.  Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality.  Slow-ish burn.  Semi-enemies to lovers. On AO3 here. Likes, reblog, and comments appreciated.

You peered out between the crack in the doors at the back of the cathedral.  Every pew was full.  Breakfast, what little you had of it, churned in your stomach.  Your hairpins were too tight and you fought the urge to fix them. 

The front steps were packed to the brim with common folk shivering in their coats and furs, eager to get a glimpse of you despite the bitter cold.  Why would the inside of the church have been any different?

Everyone seemed accounted for.  You had gone through the guest list extensively; it was far too long for your liking.

And it was far too late to back out now.

The high collar and long lace sleeves of your dress were soft, rather than irritating; you were right to have chosen the shop you worked with.  Your final fitting had induced tears, both of lamentation and awe; you only wished you shared such a moment with anyone other than the Tsaritsa.  Who were you to deny an Archon, after all?

She gifted you the veil that now covered your hair and face, as light as freshly fallen snow.  

Part of you wished, hoped, that perhaps you might catch a familiar shape in the crowd.  But as far as you could see, neither of your parents were present.  As expected.  Your father wouldn’t have been in good shape to attend, at any rate.

All that waited for you was a Harbinger, dressed in white, and the Tsaritsa beyond.

You rehearsed this for the past few days with the Omega Segment acting in its master’s place.  The very act did nothing but weigh on your nerves like your boss weighed his mora.  It was infuriating, actually, that Lord Dottore did not deign to show up to his own rehearsal ceremony.  He had that luxury.  You were required to appear.  After all, you had no copies of yourself to delegate tasks to and you were the only one in the ceremony who would do more than just stand and speak.

Typical Harbinger.  Others suffered while they reaped the benefits of their positions.

Running would get you nowhere except a shallow grave.

You agreed to this.  You gave your word.  And such a position would give you plenty of information to pass on.

The music started, the doors opened, and on beat, you began the long trip down the aisle. 

Your grip on your flowers tightened as you went.  The bouquet in your hands was a monstrous thing, flowers practically spilling out of it in an array of irises, cecilias, glaze lilies, and an overabundance of greenery.  The florist had gotten far too overzealous and you wish you hadn’t been so tired during those meetings.  Around you, the church was sparsely decorated except for the long carpet you walked on.  All eyes were, inevitably, be drawn to you.

 Brides were supposed to smile, you reminded yourself.  You hoped your smile only felt tighter than it looked.

Lord Dottore was dressed in mostly white and, naturally, not without that feathery mechanical thing draped over his shoulder like a mink pelt.  His mask was black with blue accents, different than usual mask he shared with Omega.  The tails of his coat were accented with bright blue, matching his waistcoat, and it even looked as though he repurposed the usual dangling tubes into accessories for his suit jacket.  Across his chest, a red sash, not unlike the Tsaritsa’s, denoting his station and affiliation.  A bright and luminous aquamarine gem was nestled into a pin at the base of his throat, floating above a white cravat. 

Despite the upper half of his face being covered, he did a decent job of appearing enamored: a tilt of the head; a charismatic smirk that passed for charming; a shifting of his weight as he fixed his cuffs.  If you didn’t know any better, you might have believed it yourself.

As you approached, you realized his shirt wasn’t black but a deep blue, almost as deep as the midnight sky back home.

You caught the quickest glance at his sharpened teeth when he attempted to match your smile.  It came off more like a snarl as you passed your flowers to an attendant and took Dottore’s awaiting hands.

You shared his sentiments.  Your feet were already aching and the event had barely begun.

The Tsaritsa spoke of a blur of sentiments that, perhaps in any other situation, would have brought you to tears.  Selflessness (impossible for the man before you), a reciprocity of compromise and challenge (only out of necessity to keep your job), sharing in the accomplishments of another (again, impossible for your future husband) were things that, surely, the crowd collected here knew to be absolute bullshit.  Il Dottore, Second of the Fatui Harbingers, was infamous for his ruthlessness, his lack of humanity, unwavering resolution for knowledge at any cost.

Hell, you even severely compromised on traditions that might have added authenticity.  Normal couples celebrated in Snezhnaya for at least two days; a marriage for a high-ranking military official would have warranted far more.  Back home, it was still common to practice the tradition of ransom for the bride but that required your parents and you caught a muttered remark about the cost of your ring.  Betrothal and Crowning were replaced with a simpler ceremony that would not insult the Tsaritsa while remaining true to Dottore's sentiments towards godhood (absolute bullshit, in his opinion). 

He cared little for ritual.  Ritual was nothing more than unsubstantiated nonsense to explain a world instead of looking closely for answers.  So long as everything was legal, it didn't matter to him otherwise.

In exchange, both of you would instead endure a tour of the main city for photographs before the reception.  Pantalone's idea.  Of course.

Would anyone really believe the two of you were serious about this…

The Tsaritsa did though. 

Didn't she?

You tried not to marvel at Lord Dottore's long fingers when he removed his gloves to exchange vows and rings.

His recitation was, of course, perfect.  If he wasn't a scientist, you were certain he might have been a stage actor in another life.  Dottore's touch lingered as he carefully arranged both of your rings and slid them home, ensuring they nested into one another perfectly. 

Compared to your pair of rings, his appeared plain when you slid it on after affirming your vows in return.  Then again, this union meant nothing and his adornments were always more about his rank and their functionality.  An unassuming band of platinum suited him just fine.

Touching him was less a sparking jolt at the sensation of skin on skin and more akin to a burn, as if thawing one's hands in front of a roaring fire after a day in the tundra.

The Tsaritsa spoke again, giving closing remarks.  You wanted to pull away already but there was little choice in the matter.  Dottore's fingertips were curled into yours, the smallest amount of contact you could get away with already, and it wouldn't take much for him to decide that you weren't playing along.

"…your union will be sealed with a kiss."

Lord Dottore's shoulders squared instantly and you felt the tension run into his fingers, now feeling more like curled claws.  Fuck.  Of all things you had discussed…practiced, even (you stepped on his feet more times than you cared to consider and yet still had your feet).  Had both of you truly forgotten…

The longer neither of you moved, the worse this was going to be.  You felt expectant gazes and heard a soft wave of whispers.  Convincing.  This needed to appear true—

You let go of Dottore's hands and you were thankful that he took the cue to lift the edge of your veil.  Disappointment sunk in your stomach as he kept his head as level as possible, preventing you from sneaking a look up his mask.  You stepped forward to close the distance, cupping his cheek with your left hand before you tilted your head to the side and pressed your lips to his.  Fluid, smooth, natural.

That was your role, you reminded yourself.  It would take both of you to make this work.

His lips were soft, as warm as his hands (warmer, perhaps, you considered).  As human as any other person you kissed before.  You pulled away, catching a glimpse of his ears turning pink, before he ducked down and captured your lips again, finally back on track. 

He turned his head to break the kiss but didn't pull away immediately.

"Quite efficient, Accountant," Lord Dottore whispered.

His words tickled your neck and threatened to send a shiver down your spine.

The closest you would never get to gratitude.

Touring the city was excruciating.  In-between trying to put names to faces and track who was speaking to whom, you waved and smiled from the carriage window, thankful the gray clouds were holding off their inevitable snowfall.  Every stop meant a photo, meant standing too close to your husband, all the while hoping you came off as shy and dutiful rather than stiff and uncomfortable. 

The schedule left little time for breaks.  You managed to nurse a glass of water, fix your makeup, and gather your remaining strength as an attendant bustled your dress before you entered the Palace Ballroom, arm in arm with the Harbinger.

If your husband was a different person, you would have pushed back on his insistence to get the first dance out of the way as soon as you were in the room.  But you agreed with him and it was better to get it over with.

As rehearsed, you took your position, thankful all the while he had slid his gloves back on as soon as you were in the carriage hours ago.  Bad enough you had to be essentially pressed up against him for this.  You would rather eat glass than touch him again, especially if he was going to feel warmer than he truly was.

He smelled more pleasant than you usually experienced.  The lack of viscera and disinfectant helped.  This close, closer than you had been all day as he led exactly on beat, you caught hints of musk, along with sandalwood, mint. 

Dottore pulled you flush against him after spinning you out, angling his head towards the crook of your neck.

"Relax your shoulders," he muttered.  "You're resisting the rhythm and making this harder than necessary.  All that convincing work earlier can be undone quite easily, Accountant."

"Is that a threat, my lord?" you teased, passing off a playful smile.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth but it didn't stay long.  He was quiet in the carriage, professional.  Other than his vows, he barely said a word to you all day.

"For once, not from me."

You schooled your face, instead resting your chin on his shoulder as the mantle's feathers brushed against your cheek.  It was much softer than you expected.

What had you missed?  Other than perhaps appearing, as any person might, a little weary during the tour, you had been nothing but polite and warm during any interactions with guests. 

"Even one as erudite as myself knows to move with the music and the flow of the event.  Stop thinking, Accountant."

You tried to ignore the slight squeeze of his arm around you; it was a little too tight to be assuring.  Focusing on the music, a song you could hum in your sleep by now, you tried to relax your shoulders and hips and follow through with the sway of each step.  The song ended; its final note was cut short by the sharp sound of knives on glass.  You fought a grimace, realizing your guests were goading you to kiss again.

This time, the Harbinger was quicker, stealing your lips as soon as you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Better," Dottore whispered as he pulled away.  "By the end of this, you might even fool yourself."

You threw him the same smile and demure look as you did in the jewelry store and fixed his cravat to stifle the urge to punch him.

"Are you sure I won't fool you, Lord Harbinger?"

"I'd like to see you try."

The socializing took the longest.  The Harbingers themselves, although never without a quip to throw, were civil enough.  You led most of the conversations once the two of you reached the tables of dignitaries and nobles, Dottore falling back to either have more in-depth discussions or to observe, as he often did.  Eventually, it was just you when he muttered something about getting air and you were determined to get greetings and gratitude off your plate before dinner.

Your head swam as you recalled every single face, every name, every seating arrangement.  It wasn't that different from data, from account numbers, balances.  No one would call you an extrovert by any means but the only thing keeping you going was the very knowledge that Dottore was not going to do it.  Such things were not worth his time.  Without his Segments in normal situations, he was protective of his time; now, it was your turn to fill in the gaps.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes at yourself.  Your duty was to the people of Snezhnaya and beyond.  Your duty was your family.  This marriage was a means to an end.  You only played your part because if you didn't, the consequences were far, far worse than you wanted to consider. 

You were partway through the final table when you felt a hand on your elbow and you saw everyone at the table straighten considerably, as if they were puppets ready to perform.  Instead of any kind of introduction or pleasantry, however, Dottore turned his attention to you, his hold gentle.

"Dorogáya moya, come eat before your plate gets cold."

You felt your face flush at the use of the term, both at the familiarity and the double meaning.  Over the last few weeks, you learned that he was not a native to Sneznhaya, as you were, but he spoke the language so fluently one would never know.

With a smile, you let yourself be taken to the head table, where the first course of many sat waiting for you.  Your stomach grumbled at the sight of food.  You'd been hungry since before the ceremony.  Now that you looked, you noticed that the wait staff were well into bringing out dishes, carrying trays over their shoulder.

Funny that he would come find you when he left you alone to tackle the ridiculous social obligations of his station.  Then again, Lord Dottore couldn't exactly have you fainting at your own wedding. 

"So, I'm expensive, am I?" you asked, glancing through your peripheral at him as you took a long sip of water.

You half-entertained wine earlier but you needed your faculties and wits about you.  Water was best.

"If time was a currency, yes," Dottore turned his head to you, fork and knife still poised on the plate.  "Surely you can quantify how much of my time could be better spent on almost anything else."

"And surely you know how easily anyone could read into a Harbinger calling his new wife expensive as establishing an amazing matrimonial foundation."

Dottore tilted his head and raised a shoulder, a gesture you always took to mean silent acquiescence.  If you could see his eyes, you imagined his eyebrows would be rather expressive as well.

“I never cared for the opinions of others, especially those who never had to try to improve their life, such as most of our guests who were born into their position.  There is little reason for you to be anything beyond polite.  It is those closest who must be fooled, not the rest of the country.”

“All it would take—” you hissed.

“You’re forgetting who you married, Accountant.” Dottore gave you what anyone else would have called a charming smile. “Unlike you, they fear me.  Now eat.”

He needed you to cooperate but if he thought he was going to spend the next year commanding you around...arrogant, self-important, manipulative ass…

You kept your face neutral as you lifted a utensil, pushing away the thought of driving your fork into his leg.  It was the least he deserved. 

Flavor exploded in your mouth as you took a bite to eat.  Any other time, you might have reacted beyond simply reaching for another forkful from your plate.  The finest thing you tasted in months, years, and just like everything else, it was wasted on this moment.  A moment you would never get back. 

Funny how right he was.

Food helped.  Each of you played the part of doting newlywed, dancing, smiling, laughing.  You only ever heard Lord Dottore chuckle but never outright laugh.  It was almost sweet, how genuine the sound was.  Did he even realize it, you wondered, when the mask slipped and for a moment he appeared almost human?

Of course he did.  Nothing would ever get passed him.

Except you.

If you made it out of this alive.

It was no secret that a Harbinger's station meant a certain quality of life.  Estates of their own, entire wings within the Palace for work and for leisure.  After all, the Cryo Archon only had her Harbingers to dote on, who else would make use of the space, you often wondered.  Staff were well-compensated and taken care of but the stark contrast between your dormitory and living spaces compared to the soaring ceilings and marble pillars and gilded frames turned what little food you managed to keep down.

You weren't in charge of auditing the annual operating budget (that was exclusively for the Ninth himself) but you could estimate.  More than what you would make in your lifetime thirty times over, probably.

The walk from the ballroom to the far reaches of the Palace was shared in silence.  Exhaustion was woven into the very layers of your gown and by now face-planting into the bed, makeup and all, sounded like a wonderful idea.  After all, it was not as if anything about this arrangement was normal and Lord Dottore himself expected nothing, he had been quite clear about that from the beginning.

He was impossible to read right now, even for you.  Mouth in a flat line, shoulders back, arms behind him as he walked as if he were simply out for a stroll.  Without the context of a common discussion topic, mostly regarding his funding, you couldn't tell if he was simply bored, exhausted, or annoyed.  All three in a stormy cocktail seemed likely. 

The rooms themselves were as lavish as the rest of the Palace.  Opulent furniture that was dusted but never used filled the sitting room that you walked into, the walls lined with filled bookshelves.  Floor to ceiling windows revealed the usual white landscape and the mountains beyond while projecting your reflection back at you from the illumination of a nearby lamp.  Your bag, the singular container of all of your packed belongings sat on a sofa, as if discarded hastily.

Through a set of double-doors was a second private sitting room and the bedroom, as large as half of your entire dormitory floor.  Dark wood, flowing lines, clearly hand-crafted rather than assembled on a factory line.  Too many pillows on the bed. 

Did he even sleep?

The only details the space was even occupied were the books piled haphazardly on a coffee table, on a bureau, scraps of paper and blueprints scattered but clearly organized in a way that made sense to someone.  A coat strewn across a couch arm.  Mechanical parts and a small set of tools on a table where one might ordinarily hold a private dinner party.

You caught sight of a large closet and beyond it, a washroom, each room with their own set of double-doors to close the space off.  For a man as arrogant as Il Dottore, perhaps even vain (after all, who made clones of themselves if they weren't?), you expected far more clothes and shoes.  His budgets rarely, if ever, accounted for clothing unless it was for a specific occasion but that didn't mean much.  And you doubted he would have made room for your pitiful amount of belongings.

On one side of the closet was a large three-way mirror, the kind you dealt with at the seamstress, complete with a platform.  Obnoxious.  This felt out of place compared to the amount of space in the closet itself.  Unless, of course, he did his own tailoring or a Segment did.  Would explain the lack of receipts and mentions of it for his budget reviews.

You locked eyes with your own reflection and saw where your make-up was thinning, how your hair had finally succumbed to the weight of the product in it.  No matter how hard you tried to keep your eyes open, they seemed to have minds of their own; you were beyond tired at this point.

And the dress was finally taking its toll.  The lace was scratchy and the corset was digging into you.  Without thinking, you finagled your feet and removed your heels without bending over.  You closed your eyes, instantly relieved at the sensation of your heels sinking into the carpet.  The pain was still there but it nice to be on even ground again.

Your eyes snapped open when you felt slight tugging on the buttons of your dress and it took everything in you now to jump, nerves frayed and split.  Dottore looked up from behind you, mask still in place, and you could only presume he was making eye contact.  Harder to determine without facing him.

"Don't tell me you expected to reach every single button yourself, Accountant," he sneered.

"More like I didn't think you would help.  Not without prodding."

Dottore scoffed as he undid the buttons running the length of the dress and loosened the back stays of your corset.  He tugged slightly at your dress' sleeve but not enough to reveal your shoulders.  Never once did you feel the brush of his gloved hands on your skin. 

Dottore stepped back when he finished, your gaze remaining fixed on his mask.

"Polite for a man who stepped foot into my office covered in blood on more than one occasion," you remarked.

You were graced with the wide, vicious smile you knew so well, sharpened teeth gleaming.

"Go wash up, you smell like you wandered through a florist's nightmare."

He nodded his head in the direction of the bath but made no attempt to leave the dressing room.  You held back a grimace as a sound of disgust escaped your lips.

"You have such a charming demeanor, Lord Harbinger."

You gathered up your dress and entered the bathroom before he could remark further, shutting the doors behind you with the resounding clicks of the latch and lock.

The bathroom was tiled and just as ornate as the rest of the rooms: a large vanity with more counterspace than you ever saw in the dorms; a water closet for the toilet; a standalone shower; a tub that stood on its own feet and looked as if it was intended for at least two people, maybe more.  You were beginning to think there was no in-between in the Palace; either everything was utilitarian and functional or overly-decorative and wasteful of resources. 

Here too, you could only see a smattering of personal effects.  Signs the room was occupied but not necessarily used.  Curiously, you picked up a bottle and read the label once, twice, and then again, realizing it was actually some kind of acid and not a mouth rinse solution.  Whoever brought your things over from your dorm had at least been insightful enough to unpack your toiletries and you were thankful you would not risk burning off your scalp to wash your hair.

Just as you were rummaging around for your things, you noticed a bundle wrapped in soft tissue on a chair near the door.  Weird.  Was this for you?

You removed the rest of your jewelry and tugged gently on the lace sleeves, the upper body of the dress coming free without further resistance.  You stepped out of the dress, arranging the pile of tulle and lace neatly nearby before turning your attention back to the small package.

Gently, you pulled apart the paper.  From the pile of cloth, you plucked the top piece and held it up, frowning.  It left little to the imagination.  Same for the other half.  On the bottom was, you presumed, what was meant to be worn over the lingerie, made of the same fabric with a small bow on the back and ruffles on the hems.

To the credit of whoever put it there, it was very fine material.  The kind that was befitting of your newly acquired station.  Lace this soft and sheer was painstaking to make and couldn't be machine-replicated. 

There was no note in the packaging.

Lord Dottore held no expectations, you reminded yourself.  Had a servant put this here?  If so, on whose behalf?

You put the lace back down and ran the shower, adjusting the water as you ran through scenarios in your mind.

Was Dottore testing you?  Could he have only said such a thing to get you to agree?  If he'd changed his mind, it would have been more prudent to tell you.  On the other hand, telling you would allow you to prepare and he wasn't in the habit of allowing anyone, subject or not, to have time to skew results.  Plausible enough.

Or perhaps Pantalone, in his ever-insistent and nosy nature, had this planted here?  Considering the state of your ring situation, this was also viable.  He wasn't above planting evidence, arranging scenarios so they worked in his favor without fail.  From Lord Pantalone's perspective, Dottore acquiring a wife so soon after their deal was struck would have been immediately suspicious and potentially short-sighted, subject to various tests of his own...

Maybe it was neither and a servant or even a Segment thought the notion would be funny.

But it was too expensive for that.  No one paid that much mora on something without a purpose…or at least, most people didn't.  Your boss was, as always, the worst exception.

You stepped into the shower, ridding yourself of your makeup and perfume and the rest of the day's trappings.

As you stepped out of the shower, feeling at least a little more human, your stomach sank.

In your frustration with Dottore, you never grabbed a change of clothes. 

Because your bag was in the sitting room.

Your heart squeezed as you lamented your poor planning.  Really?  At this rate, you would be found out.  How the hell could you possibly think this was going to work when you didn't even grab your things and put them in the closet?

Why hadn't the one responsible for the task done that?  That just made sense!

You could walk out in a towel, go grab your things, and make it even more obvious that you were only doing this because, perhaps, you might get better intel. 

And while Lord Dottore wouldn't care about any of that, was it really necessary to make a show of how much you didn't want to show skin around him?  No. 

He thought well enough of your professionalism.  And part of that would be embracing the role you were supposed to play.  If a servant were to see you not in lingerie as befitting a wedding night, but in drab pajamas…whispers usually spread like wildfire on a good day.

You dried your hair as best you could, freshened up, nestled the lace against your skin.  While you weren't used to the cut of certain things, it wasn't uncomfortable per se.  Altogether, it was quite lovely. 

Another thing wasted on the wretch in the other room.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, you found Lord Dottore laying on the bed, covers pulled back as he scribbled into a book.  Even now, his mask was still present.  His hand stilled and he turned his head to you briefly to acknowledge your presence before he went back to what he was doing.

Steeling yourself, you crossed the room, crawled onto the bed, and straddled him.  He hadn't changed at all, only bothering to remove his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat.  Deftly, you grabbed the book from his hands and tossed it to the floor to force him to look at you.  He was solid and warm beneath you, the same as any other, and you tried not to think of how little separated the two of you, how bare you were under the lace.

Dottore tilted his head, lips pulling into a smirk for a moment before it spreads into a full-toothed grin, his hand reaching for and gripping your thigh.

A leg wrapped around yours and you met the bed quicker than you expected to, soft sheets and a firm mattress under you.  You blinked, Dottore's grinning face above you, never far from reach.  You felt a hand ghost over your side, your breast, your collarbone, before it settled on your neck, caressing your pulse point.  Despite your proximity, you never felt him press against you, not even when he brushed his lips over your cheek, where the faintest scar remained.

"I hardly you know, my dear.  Besides, I already told you that I have no expectations beyond those in public.  Such acts between us are quite unnecessary," he said.

Dottore rubbed his thumb up and down the column of your neck before he angled his head so his lips were near your ear.

"Unless, of course, you're simply needy enough to put yourself in the maw of a wolf so easily for a quick reprieve.  You never struck me as the sort but I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Heat flooded your cheeks at the insinuation but before you could protest, the Harbinger rolled off of you and out of the bed.  He bent down, picked up the book, and made his way to the door to the sitting room.  For a moment, Dottore looked at the leather-bound cover in his hands before he turned his attention back to you.

"There is little need for someone as lovely as you to give more than is asked to a monster such as myself.  We leave at daybreak."

Oh.  Right.  Honeymoon.  He took care of that and you still had no idea where you were even going.

Without another word, the doors shut, leaving you alone in the large bedroom.  Light bled in through the bottom of the doors.  No doubt he would be awake a while longer. 

You clutched at the bedspread, embroidered with silk and stuffed with down.  It gave easily under your hands, as such soft feathers often did, providing nothing substantial to squeeze.  You weren't insulted or even hurt, as many others in your position would have been.  Confused, certainly, but your ego was intact.

Seduction wasn't precisely a skill you practiced.  Numbers told stories in unique variations and patterns and provided more consistency than people.  People were unpredictable.  Il Dottore especially.

You fell asleep, wondering when all of this would come back to bite you.