Work Text:
The almighty Dottore, the elusive Second ranking Fatui Harbinger, the man who prides himself from being detached from human emotions and instincts – but words only hold till reality speaks.
It's no secret that there are plenty of rumours surrounding him; "What's under that mask?", "Does he really kill for mere experiments?", "I've heard he has clones.."
.
.
.
"Is he really that detached from human emotions?"
A common question he hears among his fellow harbingers and subordinates. After all, no one dares to enter his private quarters unannounced.. not even his segments!
But everyone always wonders; what truly happens behind those closed doors?..
Nothing interesting, not to Dottore at the very least. Paperwork, blueprints and office supplies scattered about, even in his bed - however.. perhaps the cold front he presents falters slightly whenever the man is alone.
It's simple, really. Every living being maintain the same purpose; survive, procreate and perish. The act of procreation within humans is a unique one, Dottore must admit. Humans don't have a mating season. Humans don't release pheromones to attract mates, and most annoying of all.. humans get horny whenever they want, without a warning.
Dottore despised being a human. Godhood is so close yet so far away, is it not? Alas, he must play into his body's whims. After double checking his lock and closing the curtains, he begins this tedious ritual so many other pathetic humans go through.
He only takes off his trousers, it'll be more efficient in a case of emergency, where he'd have to dress back up quickly. Afterwards, he lays down in his bed, craning his neck down to look down himself.
Pathetic.. his undergarments already soaked with his body's natural lubricant. In one way, he has to admit that it's a clever evolutionary trait amongst humans, making procreation easier. But for people like him? It only serves to aid in single man pleasure.
He doesn't bother with his clothing, only pushing his hand under the hem of the fabric as he touches the wet mess beneath. Even when pleasuring himself.. he still seems so detached as he focuses on his anatomy and the science around it.
His finger runs over his slicked clitoral glans, the eregonous zone of the human, if you will. A soft huff leaves his lips as he pushes his head into the pillows, continuously rubbing his clit at a steady rhythm. Dottore rarely gets his 'me time', he enjoys himself at a calm pace, unlike the other harbingers, who can rut like wild animals in heat.
Thick and creamy slick ooze out of his hole as he clenches around nothing, his breathing now wavering as he finally plunges in his middle and ring finger inside of himself with a groan. Dottore's other hand grasps the underside of the pillow hes laying on, as he's finally giving himself the main course of sexual relief.
With the help of the wetness, he easily pushes his fingers in and out, curling them within himself every now and again, almost as if to tease himself. Only subtle huffs come out of Dottore, as well as unintentional dribble that pools onto the pillow below as he focuses more and more on his orgasm.
His fingers absolutely ravage his G-spot, his calm pace turning quicker and rougher as he chases his high. The room is filled with wet squelching and huffy breathing, the eyes behind his mask screwed shut as he begins vocalising more and more, until he came.
His walls spasm around his fingers as he loudly groans into the pillow, feeling how his undergarments are completely soaked now. He pulls his soiled fingers out, feeling empty and gaping as his hole clenches around nothing once more, only oozing out the lubrication it lovingly provided.
Time stops for no one, remember that. Dottore shakes off his orgasm as he stands up, making his way to the washroom to freshen up and give himself a change of clothes.
Is this perhaps the answer we sought for? That the elusive doctor still has his human instincts?