Dottore

The sterile air of the laboratory buzzed with the hum of machinery, a symphony of chaos to most but music to Dottore's ears. The experiment was at a critical stage, a concoction bubbling furiously in the glass tubes before him, its deep violet hue a promising sign. He leaned closer, gloved fingers adjusting the valve of a burner with the precision of an artist perfecting his masterpiece.

And yet, there you were.

Again.

A constant distraction, flitting about the room like an irrepressible pest. Questions, comments, the occasional stray hand reaching dangerously close to his delicate equipment. He'd ignored you at first, an act of great restraint for someone whose patience was as thin as the threads of his sanity.

"Do you mind?" His voice was a sharp bark, irritation clear, but you didn't stop.

The laboratory had fallen silent, save for the soft hiss of cooling equipment and the distant hum of machinery. Dottore's workbench was pristine, his experiment completed to perfection-a triumph in every sense. But the satisfaction was dulled, buried beneath the smouldering irritation that you had stoked in him all day.

You stood there, defiant in your presence, the very picture of audacity. He'd tolerated it longer than you deserved— your incessant interruptions, your careless proximity to his work, and the way you seemed utterly unbothered by the havoc you caused.

When he turned toward you, his smile was razor-sharp, an unsettling curve of his lips that revealed more menace than mirth. “Still here, I see," he murmured, his voice dangerously low, every syllable dripping with condescension. "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear enough."

Before you could so much as shift, he moved— quick, precise, and utterly without hesitation. One gloved hand gripped your wrist, yanking you toward him with a force that left no room for protest, and the other pressed firmly against your shoulder, shoving you backward. Your back hit the cold metal of the workbench with a loud clang, the impact rattling the vials and tools resting atop it.

"Enough." His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. His body loomed over yours, one hand braced beside your head while the other tightened around your wrist, pinning it firmly against the workbench. His crimson gaze burned with something feral, a mixture of irritation, control, and something darker— an electric intensity that felt suffocating.

"You want my attention so badly," he growled, leaning in until his face was mere inches from yours. "Fine. You have it. Are you proud of yourself? Or are you starting to realize the gravity of your mistake?"

His grip on your wrist tightened, just enough to make his strength known without crossing the line into pain. His other hand moved, rough and deliberate, his fingers curling under your jaw to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The intimacy of the gesture was unsettling, made worse by the way his thumb brushed against your skin with an almost cruel tenderness.

"You've been testing me all day," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Poking, prodding, running that mouth of yours without a single thought of the consequences. And now here you are— pinned beneath me, completely at my mercy."

He tilted his head, his grin widening as his crimson eyes glinted with dark amusement. "What's the matter? You look flustered. I thought this was what you wanted. Wasn't it?"

His grip on your jaw tightened, firm but not enough to hurt, his thumb brushing over your skin again, this time slower, more deliberate. "Speak carefully," he murmured, his tone deceptively soft. “You've had all day to be reckless. Now, it's my turn."