Crying What The Fuck - Tumblr Posts

Ya know, I find the idea of a reader dating only one of Dottore's segments (take Webby, for example) hilarious. Like man's finally had someone interested in him, in who he is, and it isn't even Prime himself.

But still, it's whatever. Plus, it helps keep that one in line now that he has some sort of attachment to someone.

But then he comes back after Sumeru, segments deleted and having been dropped to the ground like they were nothing more than trash. And you. Fists pounding on his chest as reader yells at him with tears in their eyes for doing this.

And he simply lets them, for what else can he do?

You are not the only person who has had this thought and cannot, for the life of me, get over the angst of this.

One Segment had a whole life outside of the network and chances are, Prime knew it. He allowed it. Shrugged and said, “what’s the worst that happens? Let’s see how it plays out.” After all, it’s not like he would ever have that opportunity himself, he wouldn’t want it, but the Segments are perfect guinea pigs. Him but not him.

So here you are, with nothing but the Segment’s ruin core and a letter, once sealed, explaining everything clenched in the fist you beat against him. Prime is hard beneath your striking hand but your Segment, your lover, was different. There was a solidness there that you never quite perceived before until you were given the flesh and blood equivalent.

Prime takes all of your abuse in stride, both in having anticipated such an outcome and being used to such grievances. After all, you’re hardly the first to hate him; you’re not even the hundredth.

When you calm down, he goes about making your drink of choice and you feel shattered all over again, grief filling every space in your bones it can find. Same mannerisms, same careless approach to how hot the kettle is, an attention to detail that seems obsessive. Your lover, your partner, is buried in there among everything else.

He says little, only to confirm your preferences for sugar or honey, and you cannot bring yourself to touch anything when he places both cup and sweetener before you.

“The man you knew is gone,” he repeats when he removes the mask and your eyes trace over eyes familiar and yet so foreign.

You know those eyes. You could spot them in a sea of garnets and rubies soaked in blood.

“And yet who he became still sits here,” you reply.

The silence is not comforting but what else is there to say? Your life is gone, swept away by a storm so sudden, it may as well have been a dream.

“You’ll want for nothing. I would not mind a visit on occasion. Perhaps your insight into who he became would prove useful.”