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syoddeye · 1 month

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siphon, part four

john price x f!reader part one | two | three | four ~2.3k words cw: kidnapping, implied stalking, dubcon/noncon oral, blood, violence, gore, death

An opportunity arises more than a month into your 'stay'.

"I'm takin' off for a few hours," John announces.

The dishes in the sink rattle beneath the dropped scrub brush. You tuck your chin to your shoulder and glance back. "Oh?"

He stands in the mouth of the hall in a jacket, thumbing through a keyring. "Got an errand."

The question forms instantly, but you hold it back for fear of appearing too eager. Returning to the dishes, you finish rinsing a plate and set it on the drying rack. Behind you, you listen to him putter between the den and the kitchen.

"I assume I'm staying here?"

John hasn't left you alone since you woke up in the backseat of his truck, head splitting. Since then, you've studied the cabin, inside and out. Wherever you are, the location is remote, thickly wooded, and mountainous. A minimum of an hour outside of the city. It's clear he took great pains to ensure you remain indoors. Although he's yet to employ the many security measures beyond the locks on doors and windows, you've observed an alarm panel. You've seen the gun. Then there is his favorite method of control - his sheer physicality. John's built, solid, and efficient. From the books on history, war, politics, and self-sufficiency, your working theory is he's former military. There is no need for a leash when he can outrun you.

He doesn't answer.

You turn to face him, untying the ridiculously frilly apron you might've thought was cute if a boyfriend had given it to you—not your kidnapper. Captivity has a way of killing romance.

His eyes fixate on your hands loosening the garment, and you watch as he selects two keys from the ring by feeling alone. The keys are simple brass, two different sizes. He plays with them idly, evidently lost in some sick domestic fantasy. You stare at them a moment longer – oh. You know where the keys go.

With his preternatural instincts, John returns to earth, raking his eyes from your form as you hang the apron. You cannot stem the burgeoning panic mounting in your chest.

"Sweetheart–"

"No."

As if you have a say.

John considers you, his gaze light and careful when he glances at the kitchen around you, but it settles heavily upon your person. He cracks his neck and pushes the key ring back into his pocket.

"Care to repeat yourself?" He echoes.

You inch to the right. Steps away, a pair of kitchen shears sits. Tonguing your lip, you reach for a reason—any reason—to let him hear reason. "I'll be good. Cuff me to the couch, lock me in the bathroom…Please. Don't put me back in there."

He tracks your movement. He tracks everything. "Not how it works, 'm afraid. C'mere."

This isn't how it is supposed to go. Maybe fucking John didn't grant you the access you thought it would, but it is supposed to make him believe you housebroken. Amicable to whatever plans he has for you, which, you know, he has. He's ruining your plans. Ruining everything.

"Please, I'll-"

"This is not a negotiation. Now come here." He beckons.

A petulant anger flares in your belly. Asking John into your body every night is supposed to mean something. If he puts you back in the kennel, it's all been for naught. He acts as if it's beyond his control, that he didn't contrive the entirety of this nightmare. It shatters something inside of you.

With the force you pull the shears out, the utensil holder cracks on the counter. John curses, closing the distance in three giant steps, and you fight a losing battle. He wrenches them out of your hand, tosses them, and drags you by the hair. You kick and slap with your free hand, but with a cruel rip of his hand, you feel hair come away.

He hauls you down the short corridor. Your breaths come in quick gasps as panic claws its way up your throat. You bark and fight like a stray dog on the business end of a catch-all. It's fruitless.

"Fuck you!"

"Later."

John fishes the keys out, unlocks the room, throws you into it, and slams the door behind him. You bolt into the corner. He ignores you while he opens the cage.

"Now," He points a finger at the entrance.

It isn't fair.

"I'm going to kill you." You blurt out.

John looks unimpressed, sighing. He advances slowly. There is no gentleness in his posture.

"Fuck you." You repeat in a hiss, tensing for the fight you know you'll lose.

His frustration laces with undisguised lust. "Say 'fuck you' again. It sounds like an invitation."

It's inexorable – he violently collects you as if for a dance in the kitchen. You glare through the bars, and he closes the padlock. You both breathe heavier. His hand lingers on the door, and you see the faint imprint of your teeth on the webbing.

"Let's see how much fight you've got left when I come back, hm?"

You lunge for his hand, eager for another bite.

He draws back in time, and his laughter cracks like a whip. "I love you, sweetheart. Nothing you do will change that." He brushes himself off and admires your sulking. "And I've got all the time in the world to change your mind. You'll love me.”

The cabin falls into silence with his departure. You hold yourself tight and take deep breaths. You need to focus. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You could've rolled over and let him lock you up for a couple of hours. But no, you flipped the chessboard like a fucking idiot.

A dripping noise coaxes your eyes to the water bottle. There's a crack in the plastic between the nozzle and the body. Probably broke when he threw you in here. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, reaching for the comfort of sleep. The REM cycle evades you most nights, what with the monster snoring in your ear over your shoulder.

Drip.

Water erodes even the most solid foundations, and you haven't had the luxury of stability in weeks. You grab the dispenser with both hands and pry it from its fastenings. It hurts your hands and takes more energy than you'd like, but it comes loose, and the plastic zip ties snap. Cursing the damned thing out, you hurl it awkwardly through the cage. It doesn't travel far. Doesn't feel as triumphant as you'd've hoped. A stream of water pools from its belly as it bleeds out on its side.

A despairing voice wishes it were you.

Your mouth is dry when he fetches you.

"I'm sorry."

John's grip is ironclad. His face pinches in mild confusion as he helps you from the kennel before a smug smile replaces it.

"What for?"

"Being difficult," You murmur, stretching your legs. "Breaking the water bottle"

"You're a fuckin' brat," He corrects, pointing to the plastic and metal and slurs into your temple. He reeks of whiskey. "Pick it up. Then do the dishes."

You follow him out into the kitchen and suppress a groan. Your stomach grumbles, smelling the late dinner he cooked for himself when he returned and before he let you out. Beside the sink, your destination sits a tin of tuna singled out from the others. You open and eat the bland fish before he changes his mind. You fill the sink with warm water and soap and start in on the chore.

John sits in the living room, well within view, smoking a cigar. The stink carries in your direction, cutting through the sterile scent of the dish soap.

For a few minutes, the silence sits like a third person in the room, occasionally interrupted by the clinking of a dish and the dipping of the brush in the water.

"I'm in a better mood," He starts out of nowhere.

You strain to listen, gauging whether it's a conversation or a soliloquy, and then dunk the cracked bottle, massaging the pliable material and working it under the suds.

"I grabbed a pint and told some folks about my woman troubles," he snorts, laughing at his own joke. I got some good advice."

The image of John holding court at some smoky bar comes uninvited. What lies did he tell his fellow patrons? That his 'girlfriend' threw a fit and stepped out of line?

Beneath the water, the plastic cracks within your tight grip. Your arm jerks, sloshing a smattering of bubbles onto the counter. You swiftly clean up after yourself and move on to drying.

"Leave 'em in the rack." John orders, rising from the armchair in the dark of the living room, leaving his cigar to burn out on the ashtray.

You fumble in surprise at his steps. Should be used to it by now. You hurry with the dish towel. "John, there's only–"

"Now."

His tone brooks no argument, not that you were in a position to dare. Swallowing thick, you abandon the chore half-complete and slink into his arms. John bullies you down the hall, grabbing handfuls of your ass. "Told me to be nice to you, eat your cunt a bit." He sighs into your hair, nudging the bedroom door open with a foot.

You don't fight him or gravity and fall back on the mattress.

John looms, eyeing you like a second dinner. Leaves the light on to see every gruesome detail. He makes short work of your jeans and rubs your calves appreciatively before discarding your underwear.

"So I'm giving you a freebie, just this once. I upset you," he explains and kisses your thighs. “You thought you were ready, but have you ever heard of the three-three-three rule, darling?"

"N-No," You stammer when he pinches for an answer.

"Three days, three weeks, three months. The three most important dates when bringing a dog into a home. Though, by my estimates, it's been working just as well for you."

John chuckles before delving into your heart. The lurch in your belly barely beats out nausea.

Three months. You'd rather die.

The sharp jab in your chest demands freedom.

You let him lose himself. It's easy. He's eaten you out for hours before. You carefully disguise your movements as enthusiasm. You shove your shirt up and over your bra, fondling yourself, discreetly withdrawing the nozzle you broke off of the water bottle in the sink.

Dread and anticipation mix, making you tremble and quake. John, of course, thinks it's all him. It is, in a way. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes briefly when he opens them to take in the parting of your lips.

"John, please," You beg, threading one hand through his short hair.

His eyes shut in focus, humming gleefully, and he doesn't see you coming on either front.

Swinging with everything left, you stab the sharp, concave end of the nozzle into his neck. It sinks in like his windpipe wants it. You both jerk, you with relief and him with a pained, wet scream. It's messy. Blood blooms around his fingers where he clutches the metal. You drag your jellied legs across the bed as he stands, stumbling forward to grab you with a desperate and angry hand.

At his peak, you cannot outrun him. Bleeding profusely from the neck? Tips the scales. You book it to the door and the hall, and he comes crashing after you. Adrenaline and pure fucking fear hurl you down to the kitchen. You skid to a halt on the linoleum and lunge for the drawers from which you've seen him draw knives.

John's steps are haphazard and clumsy, but the full weight of his body is behind each one. He thunders down the hall, slurring, trying to push out words. It all comes out in bellows. A dying animal. Seeing you grab a cook's knife, he stumbles, pausing at the threshold of the corridor. Locking eyes, he reaches for the metal tube stuck in his throat instead. He gurgles something that roughly sounds like you bitch.

"I wouldn't do that." You half-heartedly warn, brandishing the knife.

He wrenches it out anyway, hand slapping to the hole immediately after, but there's too much blood. It's too slick. Red sprays. More than you thought.

John makes it one step before he slowly slumps to the ground, and you stalk closer, giving a wide berth with the blade in hand. He sags back to the wall, feebly pressing thick fingers against the gaping wound in his neck. It's useless. You know it. He knows it.

You crouch, naked from the waist down. Even now, he ogles, the shitstain.

"Do you need help, John?"

His eyes narrow, struggling to focus. The blue looks flatter. Vacant.

A genuine smile splits your face.

"Why don't you just ask?"

The truck dies just off the forestry road. Of course. At least hell is in the rearview.

The sun is barely above the horizon, and John's phone still can't get a signal. Cursing him out, you slip the rucksack full of supplies you found while raiding the cabin. You could've grabbed more but couldn't stay there any longer. You pussyfooted over the gun, ultimately deciding it wasn't worth the energy to find the right key or pry the door open. Not for a weapon you've never used before. Finding your shoes was the best discovery apart from the truck keys and his phone. You'll need them for the walk.

It's almost an hour before you hear a car. You hook a thumb, walking forward, staring intently at the bend in the road ahead. Seconds later, an old, two-seater pick-up appears, and though it takes a moment for it to stop, they do.

You clamber towards the driver’s side window as it rolls down.

“Need a ride?”

“Yes, please. My truck died. Can I get a ride to town?”

“‘Course. What’s your name?”

Giddy and relieved, you give your name as you toss the bag into the open bed.

“What’s yours?” You ask, smoothing a hand over your forehead.

Your unwitting rescuer smiles. Jesus, he’s handsome.

“Kyle.”

#john price x f!reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x f!reader #price x reader #price x you #cw violence #cw kidnapping #cw noncon #cw blood #cw death #darkfic #read the content warnings for the love of all things #got whatever that was out of my system

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jessamine-rose · 1 month

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⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessionary until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡

Note:: Church AU is still on my “will not write” list. I only wrote this because I specifically like Priest! Dottore and Angel! Capitano. Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

#il dottore #dottore #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: violence #tw: dubcon #spicy warning #mdni #g/n reader #jessamine-writing

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