Please Watch Trigun 98

please watch trigun 98

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and cruel and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part, forbidden love

warnings: fem!reader, age gap, lots of worldbuilding for snezhnaya & the fatui & fontaine, dottore is his own warning, light angst but mostly romance, none others that i can think of off the top of my head, this is a lighter series compared to the others i’ve written. each chapter will have its own warnings, it is self-ship coded, and i will take liberty with dottore’s known lore.

status: incomplete

taglist: 50/50 (CLOSED. if you would like to be on it, still comment here—i’m going to periodically go through and remove people who don’t interact, and then i’ll add you)

notes: sigh i wanted to give my beluved a little series. this is something i’ll be working on in my free time for fun, so updates will be sporadic, i was gonna post the reincarnation fic butttt that one is a little too dear to my heart ALL SEGMENTS THAT SHOW UP IN THIS SERIES ARE MINE ‼️ i created them, do not take them to use for yourself.

00. THE SEGMENTS

01. MIDWINTER

02. JOY

03. THE COLOR PURPLE

04. THE FAMILY JEWELS

05. AN INEXORABLE DEATH

06. RISE OF A KING, FALL OF A QUEEN

… TBA

rbs appreciated!

getting hit with the homoerotic memories of your vessel be like

𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃, 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 ⑅ ۫ .

ᕱ⑅ᕱ ۪ ۫ 〜 ꒰ gepard landau x f!reader. nsfw — mdni . . . established relationship / public sex ( in an empty corridor ) / reader is clingy n' needy n' also a bit of a tease :3 / u call him ‘captain’ / he calls u ‘angel’ + ‘sweetheart’ / finger suckin’ ♡ / quickies / unprotected sex / creampies / read to da end for a silly littl surprise ^_< ꒰ྀི 1.8k wc

𝒸𝑜𝒸𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈 . . . geppie ໒꒰ྀི∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩꒱ྀིა dis is honestly jus’ vv self-indulgent oopsie . . it is also ! my first honkai piece eeee @ . @ i hope u enjoy :3 as always , feedback + rebloops are supa appreciate C: okiz baiii-!

gepard tastes strawberries and cream on your tongue as you pull him into an empty corridor at qlipoth fort, smells sunshine on your neck as you giggle in between cheeky kisses laid over his lips, his forehead, his jaw.

“hey, hey… someone’s going to catch us.” he chides you gently but to no avail, because when you whisper over his cheeks that you don’t care if someone sees, and that you just missed him so much, and that you might die if you went another hour without him, he can’t fight the shy laugh that bubbles in his throat, nor the pretty shade of pink that dusts his ears.

and that pink spreads to his cheeks, down his neck; it turns a deeper shade of rouge when you lean your weight on him and fist at the fur of his collar, breathe soft little noises into his mouth for him to steal and make a home of in his heart. “gepard…”

you sigh his name like that— with that delicate lilt to your voice— it sounds a bit like a dream to him, and he knows it all too well; knows it from all the late nights your toes curl and tap over his broad shoulders, from all the early mornings his fingers and lips have spent pulling honey from in between your legs.

it’s a noise so sweet, so pretty; he thinks himself to be a sinner with how something so innocent and angelic makes his blood run hot and cock throb with need. 

“yes?” exasperation laces his words and the stifled groans that follow when you kiss along the heavy vein of his neck, press your clothed pussy into his sinewy thigh and find his cock already half-hard, twitching and leaking pre from the love you slather over him. he’s inhaling through his teeth when you can only bring yourself to whine in response to his question, tug weakly at the zipper of his slacks; and before you do anything else to weaken his heart, he mumbles into your hair, breath thick with a burning desire that he tries to shove back down his throat, “not now, angel— c-christ, i’m still on duty…” 

a set of metal-plated fingers wrap around your hips, squeeze gently in a silent beg when you stumble back into the wall and curl your fingers into his coat almost woefully, tugging him towards you as best you can to feel more of his warmth. “n-no! no— promise it’ll be quick, please, need you so bad…” 

and against his will, gepard finds himself twisting like a sunflower at the sound of your voice— pitchy and petulant little pleas travelling straight to his cock, to the twitch of his fingers as they dig just a tad more forcefully into your flesh. “sweetheart…” your lover inhales sharply, squeezes his eyes shut to keep from looking into your own; for if he does, he’s afraid he just might give in to your salacious whims. “my guards will notice i’m missing.”

“even if they do, no one can question you about it, right, captain?” you whisper over his lips, squeeze your legs a little tighter around his thigh in an attempt to gain more friction where you need it the most.

“you… you never play fair, do you…” a chill flits down his spine at the name you call him and his head falls forwards to bump against your own, brain clouded with lust and a certain dizziness that makes him feel as though he might faint. 

“pretty please… ‘m already so wet for you, just look,” he follows your gaze to where his thigh has been pressed up against the hot apex of your legs, and the sight of your slick staining the crotch of your panties and white of his pants has him releasing a shaky exhale.

he’s losing his war against the sun.

because the captain of the silvermane guards is famously uncompromising, stubborn, loyal to his job and perhaps to a fault, yet, when you look like this— dusk falling overhead through the stained glass to cast a halo over your head and make visible the hearts in your eyes, when you look as stunning as you do with the sun glowing from your chest, gepard feels like his bones are being seared, his muscles burnt into dust by the heat you envelop him in.

“god, you’re gonna kill me…”

even so, he doesn’t think he minds dying at your hands when it’s like this. he’s admitting defeat before he even realizes it; with your fingers tugging at the blonde that curls around his ears as he hikes up the skirt of your dress with one arm and hooks the back of your knee over the inside of his elbow with the other. and then you’re sighing— all dreamy and blissed out when he hastily pulls his cock out from his slacks and taps his throbbing head over your clit before gliding his length along your soaking folds.

it’s too slow— how he inches into you, pushing his hips back and forth once, twice, three times until your pussy swallows as much of his cock as it can, until the sharpness of his hipbones rubs against your own. and it’s so wrong, so lewd— the position he has you in, his entire body weight caging you against the wall, broad shoulders hiding you from view should any passersby turn the corner and be met with a sight so incredibly… debauch.

you paw desperately at the breastplate of his armour as he fills you up, your tight ring of muscle stretched to accommodate his girth, and no matter how long he takes to prep you, no matter how wet you are, there’s always that initial dull ache that rips through your groin when he pushes into you. it has you lurching into his chest, little sobs of ’s so big, ’s too much pressing hot on his ear.

and, oh, gepard is just so sweet, cradling the back of your head to keep it from hitting the wall as he shushes you softly, “shh, it’s okay, you’re okay— y-you gotta be quiet.” his gentle nature only makes you keen further, makes your legs tremble in his hold and your voice crack from how pitchy your whines get; he’s left with one last option to prevent the two of you from getting caught.

before he can let another sound rip from your throat, he’s tearing off his glove with his teeth, grinding his molars against the worn leather as he pushes two of his fingers past your open mouth, pressing down on your tongue to silence you as best he can.

his assertiveness makes your mind fog up with submission— it has your toes curling at the low baritone of his voice as it drills breathy groans into your ear, your heart feeling the reverberations of the growl bubbling deep in his chest— because, fuck, when you lick and suck at his fingers like that, it shreds away all the remaining patience he has, wears it thin until there’s just one thread left.

“b-baby, you’re all the way in here…” pulling off his digits with a little pop, you whisper through slurred words and bring a palm to your navel, his own hand following suit. he presses down lightly, enough to have you gasping from a blossom of pleasure, enough to have your gummy walls oozing slick around him and clamp down tightly to suck his length in even deeper. he’s so deep— you swear he’s in your womb, and just imagining his cock nestled there, throbbing and leaking hot cum to mark you with a proclamation of his love makes the blood boil blue in your chest, course through your limbs and to the aching twitch of your fingers. “feel you in my tummy, gepard.”

“o-oh, god…”

and that’s when the last thread snaps.

gepard doesn’t think there’s anything else in this universe that makes him lose sight of his cool like you do, because as soon as you’re saying those words in that sinfully sweet voice of yours, he’s given up on letting your little cunt adjust to his size. instead, he’s panting and groaning and fucking up into you without warning— hips ruthless enough in their thrusts to lift your tippy toes off the ground, leaky head of his cock grinding into the spongy patch of tissue that has you wailing out and hiccuping over your cries. "g-gepard!"

it’s almost feral, the way he silences you with his kisses, dipping his tongue into your mouth to explore the sweet concavities, a growl ripping from his throat with each draw of his hips as he grinds into the most sensitive pleasure points lining your wall and rolls his crotch into your neglected clit— his ministrations coax pretty noise after pretty noise from you that he swallows with his own, drawing them down deep into his heart. 

when you begin to hiccup on shallow breaths and your bambi eyes glaze over with honey, gepard realizes he’s worked you up to that soft, dreamy headspace; the words tumble out of your pouty lips before you have a chance to think them through— all slurred and lilted like a sweet dance— because you’re drunk on his cock, and terribly in love with him, and all that. “you’re gonna make me cum.”

you drawl out shakily as he continues to rut up into you, make a mess of your pussy as lewd slapslapslap’s ring through the empty corridor. and when you moan over his mouth and chase after his lips, gently tugging on them and whining a little k-kiss me, gepard, wanna kiss you when i cum, it’s too much.

it’s so much, because it’s only been a short while but the dreamy look in your half-lidded gaze and your pitchy voice send a glow of mind-numbing pleasure through his entire body, down from his chest all the way to his cock— and just like that, he’s cumming alongside you— thrusts sloppy and jerky before he plunges into your completely. spurt after spurt of creamy white ribbon fills your womb, flushing your limbs full of a tingling warmth only he can give you.

your cunt spills his thick seed; it oozes down all sides of his cock, down his balls and to the floor, and in your hazy comedown, your light panting breaks off into a lovely little peal of giggles. “you came s’much… ’s all for me, mhm?”

“mhm… all for my pretty girl,” the sweet sounds you make endear your lover all the more to you; it’s evident by how he smiles tiredly into your hair, sucks in his cheeks in a failed attempt to keep from blushing so much, straightens the bows in your now mussed ponytails, rubs his nose sappily over yours— one way and then the other.

your post-coital bliss ends far quicker than either you want it to, for the clang of metal hitting cobblestone and a disgusted gasp from the eldest landau has your eyes going wide, gepard’s face flushing a deep berry as he stutters over his words and tries to reason.

“ugh, gepard, get a room!”

A FISH OUT OF WATER ┊ MIYA ATSUMU

synopsis: you are his constant in a life shaped by an ever changing element. he wants you. but you are the most oblivious creature he has ever met.

tags: GN reader, merfolk au, merman atsumu, human reader, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, falling in love, courting behaviours, obliviousness, cultural differences, first kisses, getting together

wc: 3.5K

↱ written for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server ↲

As a child Atsumu never understood other finfolks fascination with humans, good or bad. Ma was never reluctant to explain, rather, he just didn’t care to ask. There were far more important things to do in the reef. Like hunting shelled crabs, riding the currents, and eating oysters so he could spit pearls at his brother's head until he gave chase.

But three moons before his twelfth birthday, he found you.

Suspended in the water, bubbles dwindling around your frame as the fight bled from your muscles. You sank into a lifeless repose. A human. Small, smaller than him. Thoughts whirring to a stop, his mind blanked, and his tail propelled him forward in a blink.

You were light in his arms at first. Breaching the surface had been the scary part. Worse then, as he needed to drag you up onto the shore where he could be seen. The section of beach close by was secluded. Shielded by large rocks, tide pools formed in the crevices. Atsumu deposited you onto the sand, hissing at the tides that crawled behind and splashed at your chin as if to scold them.

You convulsed and curled in onto yourself like the tiny dumbo octopus that lived in the crevasse near his home. Water spurted from your nose and mouth. It gathered in the corners of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. Atsumu stared as you wailed and felt his own tumultuous emotions swell dramatically. Restless under his skin was the urge to calm you. To comfort you. But he had never been any good at that kind of thing.

So he reached out to pat your leg. It was covered in clumps of sand. Your shorts and shirt were drenched, and one of your feet had lost a flip flop. Then he repeated what Ma always told him, “Don’t worry, guppy. I’m here”.

That distracted you enough that your attention fell on him. Your immediate petrified screech reverberated harshly in his sensitive ears, both pressed flat to his head as he hissed and squirmed further back into the ocean to escape the sound.

“A—A monster! Get away!”

An odd sense of vulnerability washed over him. Embarrassment, shame, anger. At that moment, Atsumu decided all his assumptions must have been correct. You were clearly a few fish short of a shoal. “M’not a monster,” he’d shouted back, fins flared irritably. “Be grateful I saved yer life, Ugly! Ugly, ugly, ugly!”

Your face scrunched up at the insults, covered in salt water, tears and bile. A dull ache struck against his skull, hard and sudden. You had kicked him in the head and ran away.

Osamu laughed at the mark upon his return. Atsumu endured, kept his mouth shut and resolved never to go back to the surface. Ever! But curiosity still drew him back the next morning. And the next. Every day he checked, you were there, standing awkwardly on the beach and squinting at the horizon. Searching.

Ma’s voice echoed through his thoughts while he hid from view. Atsumu was great at lots of things. Loads better than Osamu. Racing, hunting, splitting shells, tying knots, playing ball. Not so great at making friends. Try to meet ‘em where they’re at, she said. Smile. Be nice. Find what they like and ask about it.

When he finally plucked the courage to make his presence known you’d been back in the tide pools. The ends of your shirt pulled out to hold all the shells you were collecting, heavily weighing on the wet fabric. A few tumbled down as you crouched to pick up a limpet, mouth curling into a pleased grin. Limpets are boring, he thought. And an idea struck.

Diving lower, Atsumu combed through the sand and seaweed until he spotted an iridescent spiral of orange and purple. The snail went helplessly as he clasped it between his webbed fingers, shooting for the rocks. You were still there, filling the silence with a directionless hum.

Atsumu broke the surface quietly. Enough distance between that you could not kick him again. “Hey!” he called, hands thrusted out toward you, head already turned toward his shoulder to brace for another scream. “Got a snail. Wanna see?”

Nothing came. He hadn’t realised how much your acceptance meant to him until then—when you crouched excitedly close by, unheeding of the tide soaking you further, and gasped as he presented the gift. Relief burst in his chest, warm and tingly to the tips of his fins at the careful prodding of your fingers to the creature in his palms; so intense that a wave of luminescence washed through his scales.

“I was looking for you,” you later admitted, voice softened in apology. “Thank you for saving me. I’m sorry I kicked you and called you mean things”.

Atsumu detailed the slight pout to your lips. Knees shifting in the sand. Eyes wide, gleaming hopefully as you waited for his reply. Something fluttered in his stomach the longer you looked at him. Horrified, the longer he looked back, the more it dawned on him that you were not ugly at all.

“Good. So y’should be,” he grumbled, smacking his tail up onto the shore. Heat blotched across his cheeks when you glanced at it in awe. Timid, he added, “…S’fine though. Didn’t hurt”.

Smiling gleefully at that as his gaze darted back and forth, you held out your pinky and promised to always be his friend.

Time elapsed. Seasons passed. No longer a juvenile, his colours started to come into full bloom. Rich gold around his hips and waist, tapering into black toward his large ruffled tail fin. Even his hair lightened as he took to adulthood. After his twentieth birthday the months seemed to come and go faster than he liked. You were his one constant in a life shaped by an ever changing element. Atsumu’s blatant affection for you remained his worst kept secret but none of the finfolk scorned him for it.

Osamu’s steadfast teasing was the only downside. Offhanded or feigning disinterest, he’d always ask, “What d’you keep doing up there?”

Atsumu bounced a hard clam off his brother’s thick skull, “Nothin’. Told’ya a million times, I just like the surface”.

“Uh-huh. Does the ‘surface’ in question happen ta’ have a name and a pulse?”

“You’ll soon have neither if you don’t shut yer trap, ‘Samu!”

Summer comes along and once again, Atsumu decides to remain in the reef. There’s a new den for him in the alcove, carved out from the outcropping of rock with his own hands, right next to a dense forest of kelp. The afternoon sun filters through it in rays as the currents shift, dewy light dancing on the walls.

Two years he has been eligible to migrate and find a mate. This will make it his second absence from the celebrations. Ma never pushed him despite the worry written plain on her face. Osamu only pinned him with a knowing look as he went. It will be the longest they’ve been apart from one another and he doesn’t like it.

Realistically he still could have attended—should have, maybe, lest the other pods find his refusal disrespectful. But Astumu had no compulsion to go. The very idea of leaving you threw his instincts into high gear and he needed to race the currents just to calm the urgency wracking his bones. Because somewhere amidst the years spent with you he became aware of the voice clamoring in the back of his head. One that had been growing in intensity for some time, but hadn't been quite as loud as it was until the elders advised him to take a partner.

You were his mate.

Atsumu had been subconsciously courting you since you were children. Bringing you food and gifts, letting his display scales flash lurid in your presence. He kept guard as you slept on the sand, picked the seaweed and dirt from your hair, swam in synchrony with you when the tides were calm, wrapping your legs around his tail until you become a knot of a person. In hindsight, it was embarrassingly obvious—

Yet you are still blissfully oblivious to it, and that nags at him like nothing else.

Raking claw tipped fingers through his hair, Atsumu paces the length of his den with thoughts of how to be more deliberate in his courtship. Human relationships were complex—purposefully difficult, in some cases. You might respond better if he simply confessed what his intentions were.

You’ve promised to come by the cove as soon as you’re free today. Adulthood came with plenty of changes for you as well as him. You have to work more than he likes. It means less time together; hours spent with other people, any of which could stake their own claim and take you from his reach.

Agitated, Atsumu darts to the surface the instant the sky settles into evening. The sun spreads a blush across the ocean’s surface, tepid but pleasant when it kisses his cheeks. Your distant figure is climbing over the rock formations with careful movements. At first he lingers in the deeper water, submerged below the nose to watch like he used to all those years ago.

“‘Tsumu!” arms high in the air, you wave and bounce on the balls of your feet when you spot him. Lazily, he rides the small wave that floods onto the shelf you are standing on, arms folding on the craggy surface to keep his upper half above water.

There’s a bag over your shoulder. It drops low with the weight it carries. “Look what the tide dragged in,” you let the bag drop, contents half spilling out across the floor. Familiar things. Suncream, bottled water, a change of clothes. Your foot comes to rest atop the worn volleyball as it rolls toward the edge, flinching when he splashes at you in retaliation. “You’re here earlier than usual. Did’ya miss me?”

Atsumu bobs, eyes rolling. “Was too busy making up my new den to think twice about’cha, sunshine,” he cracks a grin. You bat at the hand that threatens to circle around your ankle as you lower yourself to sit on the shelf’s edge, legs swinging over the depths.

“All grown up and living on your own now,” you pat his head in what is intended to be condescension but only ends up conveying fondness for him as your fingernails scratch gently at his scalp. “Proud of you”.

“Stupid,” he mumbles, tipping into the touch without shame as he bobs in the water. Peeking up at you through the hair drying unruly over his eyes his heart sits prominent at the back of his throat. You’re in your swimsuit under your clothes again, he notices. “Ya gonna get in with me today?”

“Planned on it,” you replied coyly. Atsumu inhales deeply. Gills flutter. He feels his fins flare around his hips and smothers the need to hide himself, nudging his cheek to your bare thigh. A beat passes and your smile dims somewhat, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, ‘Tsumu”.

He rumbles his disapproval. Turning to nose at the skin there, Atsumu loosens his jaw and gently pincers your flesh between his teeth. Just enough to serve as a warning. The muscle and sinew remains relaxed despite it all, entirely sure he wouldn’t hurt you.

A heavy warmth drapes over his being at the heat, blood and beating heart echoing through your veins. “Gross,” you say without malice, flicking his temple at the lave of his tongue over your nonexistent wound.

“Ugly,” he returns, affectionate cadence unrestrained. You temper a smirk, kicking water his way as you tug your t-shirt over your head. Atsumu sinks into the sea’s cool embrace while you undress. Years ago you would have shied away from his blatant staring.

You’re welcoming to the arms that circle your waist as you turn to lower your body into the water. Atsumu doesn’t need to hold you up anymore, not like when you were young and easily drawn into the stronger currents, but he does so regardless. It earns him a soft huff, and a weak protest that is patently for show, but you let him.

A pleased sound vibrates in his throat before he can bite it back. You’re truly the softest thing he has ever laid hands on. Your fingers trail along his biceps, tracing the scales decorating his shoulders. Bioluminescence pulses through them with a shudder and you laugh at him, though not unkindly, “You’re lookin’ a lot brighter lately”.

Your ignorance is a blessing sometimes. Hiding his face in your hair his tail undulates and pushes your entwined bodies back toward the reef. Pride swells as your thighs cinch around his hips. The tides break around you, paving a pathway of foam from the shore to the corals. Below are vibrant formations, each unique and intricate, shelter for shoals of fish darting from the shadows stretching across on the seabed.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Just did,” Atsumu snarks reflexively. You tighten your hold around his neck, leaning back to glare at him. You are about as intimidating as a sea bunny. He hums, “Alright, I’ll bite. What is it?”

Something flits across your features. Hesitance, maybe. Then your anxieties are spilling out into the open, “Why’d you split off from your group? Are they mad at you or something? If it’s because of me—”

Words stutter into a pitched plea for mercy when he pointedly tucks his chin to suck a mouthful of water into his cheeks. You flinch preemptively, throwing your hands up to your face. Atsumu holds a moment longer, pursing his lips as if readying to fire. You push at his chest in a fit of nervous laughter, “Okay, okay! I get it, it’s not my fault—don’t spray me!”

He doesn’t spit it at you. The seawater falls from his lips, trickles over his chin and returns to the tide. “Yer ability to overthink never fails to amaze me,” your breathing hitches as he brings your foreheads together. The flustered look you cast him makes him squeeze tighter, unwilling to let go. “They’ve gone to the mating grounds, that’s all. Figured it was as good’a time as any to find my own territory”.

You pause, a crease forming between your brows. “The mating grounds? You’ve never mentioned that before”.

Atsumu shrugs. The movement ripples out around you in broad rings. “Never needed to,” he says. “Wasn't important. M’here, aren’t I?”

“Why?” the pressure from your thighs lessens, just a fraction, but he’s already scrambling to cup the back of your knees and keep them there. You freeze. Scrutinising any minute change to his expression, eyes bright and flickering. Atsumu avoids your gaze with his inner cheek between his teeth. Slow, a smirk pulls at your lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve got no suitors”.

Atsumu chitters, displeased. You shouldn’t find the idea amusing. He wants you to hate it. Sulking, he says, “Glad ya think that’s funny”.

Your face falls, then. And you are seeking the strong grip he had on you before, clutching at his shoulders. Your hands slide carefully up the column of his neck, featherlight over his gills. A shiver breaks out across his skin as you take his face into your hands. “Hey, no. I didn’t mean—” you stop to sound a frustrated groan. “I didn’t mean it like that, ‘Tsumu. I just—I thought you were joking. Why wouldn’t a mer like you have everybody vying for your attention?”

His mouth shapes around a small ‘o’. Then it draws wide, crooked and teasing. “A mer like me, eh?” he echoes, slipping back from your grasp to circle you in the water as a thrilling static buzzed under his skin. Need grips him and hems his scales, saturating them with rich gold hues. “Like what?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, loser. You know,” you struggle to tread water and spin to track his circular motions, pushing a vindictive wave of water at him. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen”.

The glow from his display is bleeding into the blue-green waters and attracting the attention of the reef dwellers but he’s too pleased to be mortified. He halts his stalking, crowding into your arms, “Y’think I’m—?!”

Your fingers thread into his hair. With all your might you dunk him under, cutting his sentence short as a wave rushes to fill the space in his open mouth. He laughs through the descent of your body, the force having pushed him low enough that he is facing your bare stomach. Remaining there, even as you relinquish your grip.

Other finfolk never really commented on his colouring. They hadn’t attempted to initiate courtship, either, not with his priorities elsewhere. You have praised his scales before but this feels different. In the context of being wanted—desired as a partner. Maybe it’s just pretty words. But you would not have submerged him in a fit of embarrassment if there weren’t some truth in it.

Fins vibrating eagerly, small trails of bubbles rise to the surface. You're patting at his arms now, worried why he won’t come up, expression distorted by the water. He sinks forward, face pressing up against your midriff. Your abdomen immediately clenches. Nails dig into the curve of his shoulder as he mouths at your sternum. Arms rise to wrap around your waist and your knees flank his ribs, squeezing tight.

A mer’s senses are that much sharper here. He feels your stuttered breath, hears your heartbeat quicken, smells the beginnings of arousal. It tastes like victory, overwhelming all rational thought. Head to tailfin his instincts are begging to drag you to his den and fuck you to sleep.

But he can’t. Not yet, and not the way he wants to.

Pushing into a soft, resting stomach, Atsumu takes a breath, shakes himself from his reverie and blows hard against the skin. You immediately convulse, trying to squirm out of his grasp. Overhead, your sweet laughter; muffled by the white noise around him but just as euphonious.

You’re panting when he finally resurfaces, your head tilted to keep your chin above water. The tide must be coming in. He supports you against his chest, making you a few inches taller. “You dickhead. Fishbrains,” you chide breathlessly, betrayed by the fond look in your eye. “Shit. Don’t do that again”.

“Mean. What happened to gorgeous?” Atsumu’s pout trembles, struggling to keep his amusement at bay.

“I'll take it back!”

“No take backsies,” he croons, nuzzling at your jawline. Dangerous. “Glad ya think I’m hot and all but that’s not the only part of courting. Like, proving yer able to take care of them. Hunting an’ preparing food. Presenting gifts. Helping them groom. Keeping guard. S’why it takes the whole summer”.

As he speaks a slither of dread settles heavy in his gut. The memories practically flit across your face, visibly connecting the dots. “But you’ve always done those things—” your voice loses strength, mouth opening and closing a few times before finishing, “for me…?”

The sky is bruised. Clouds have gathered by the cliffs, and the sun is almost tucked beneath the horizon, casting a final burst of orange across the glittering ocean’s surface. His display dims. “Yea’,” he clears his throat, summoning a playful tone, “Real sharp, angel. I sure know how to pick ‘em”.

Any confidence he had slips between his fingers like dry sand the longer the silence draws between you. A sad note catches in his throat. His gills twitch as he waits with bated breath. Warm, soft hands come to cradle his face. Your thumb sweeps gently back and forth beneath his eye.

You don’t laugh. You don’t even splash at him. Rather, reverently, you say “…‘Tsumu”.

He peers up to meet your gaze. Softened by dusk, you are watching him through lidded eyes, crinkled at the corners. A sharp sensation frissons up his spine. You tilt his chin, bringing him into a chaste kiss. Atsumu shudders, hands pawing desperately at your hips. You pull back a hair’s breadth only to kiss him again, full lips sliding together, a more deliberate press that grows fervent at the cautious lick of his tongue.

When you seek air with a sharp inhale your eyes flutter closed for a moment. Atsumu doesn’t bother to dull his purr, nor the soft flow emitting from his tail, forming a golden ring of light around your entangled bodies. Mirthfully, you murmur, “I can’t believe it. You like me”.

It feels right; like finally letting himself have everything he’s ever wanted.

He laughs quietly, tucking a kiss beneath your ear, “Somethin’ like that”.

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and cruel and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui, no other warnings

notes: i enjoyed writing this one ajfdhuaisdfuhs it was a bit of a character study for dottore, i love being able to get into his head like this

MIDWINTER

He was born without a mark. It’s not abnormal--statistically, half of the population would be born without a mark because you don’t receive your mark until your soulmate is born. Most receive theirs within the first five years of their life, if they weren’t born with one. Others are unlucky, and they have to wait up to ten. 

Dottore never received his. 

He waited years. When he was five years old, and other kids his age were starting to see the red thread that connected them with their soulmate, he was still waiting on his mark. When he was ten years old, and other kids his age were starting to feel their soulmate's emotions, he was still waiting on his mark. When he was fifteen years old, and other kids his age were finally seeing random words scrawled on their forearms reflecting their soulmate’s thoughts, he was still waiting on his mark. 

When he was younger, he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter--that one day, his mark would show up, just like how it did for everyone else. But it was hard to convince himself of that when everyday he was reminded that he didn’t have one. He was reminded by nasty kids who would push him to the ground and laugh at him, he was reminded by equally nasty adults who whispered that only the soulless and the damned didn’t receive their soulmarks, and he was reminded by his parents who stripped him down to search him for his mark everyday so they could prove their son wasn’t cursed. 

Dottore accepted that he did not have a soulmate. He would even go so far as to say he embraced it. It took him a long time to reach that mentality, years of coming to terms with it, but he firmly believed that he was better off. Having a soulmate was a mortal weakness that he was freed of--he had seen it be the downfall of many men before and he refused to meet the same fate. 

Without a soulmate, he could focus on more important things. He could devote his time and energy to his research, further the Fatui in their rebellion against Celestia, and he could do it all without the weakness that all of humanity had. 

He was stronger without a soulmate. It proved he was above mankind, beyond the limits that humans were confined to. He was better without a soulmate. 

A harsh gust of wind battered the window of his room, ice webbing at the bottom of the glass, creeping up the sides. Dottore sighed as he lifted his hand to his face, pulling off the mask that hid him from the rest of the world. 

He wasn’t sure why he was thinking about this again. His gaze drew to the mirror on the opposite side of the room, eyes tracing the rough, jagged skin across the top of his face--a product of the demonization cast over him by the people of his old village. Dottore’s lips twisted into a deep frown as he forced himself to look away, it had been a long time since he had even had a passing thought of it, much less dwelling on it as he was now. 

He turned away from the mirror over to the candle resting at his nightstand--dimly lighting up the dark, spacious room. Shadows reflected eerily across the room from the trees swaying in the wind outside to the small flame dancing at his bedside. A blizzard rattled the palace around him, he wondered if it was the doing of the Tsaritsa or if it was just a natural storm. 

Dottore hated the winter.

He always had. It had nothing to do with the bone-chilling weather and frequent storms. He barely could even feel the cold anymore, and he thought storms might be better for him because he could coop himself up in his lab without having to worry about the Jester disturbing his research and telling him to go on some mission. He had hated the winter even before he had left Sumeru for Snezhnaya, where the temperatures were five times as warm and the earth of the forest started to dry from a lack of rain. 

Winter had always been the unluckiest time of year for him--it was when he was originally chased from the village, it was when he was cast out from the Akademiya. Winter was when he had faced some of the biggest failures of his life regarding his research into Archon residue. Winter was when the first segment he had created was destroyed. Winter was when he was dealt a fatal blow that had made him abandon his body for an artificial one. 

Dottore despised the winter. 

He sat on his bed, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, that was the only explanation for why his mind was wandering to such a topic. He had been able to free himself of the shackles that many mortals were restricted by--aging, natural death, even unnatural death could be avoided, for the most part, but he still found himself chained by fatigue and hunger. He could suppress it longer than the average person but it never failed to limit him. 

He supposed that he should rest. Tomorrow there was to be a meeting with all of the Harbingers--discussion on what was to be done about the spots of the late 9th and 11th, who had met their end on a failed mission in Natlan earlier in the month. With the Captain finally returning with their bodies, it would be time to put them to rest and figure out how to move forward. He could already hear the bickering of Sandrone and Scaramouche, Arlecchino’s snide comments that just set the other two off even more. 

Dottore thought that the whole situation was ridiculous. There had been no need to send two of the newest Harbingers down to Natlan when they all knew very well that Natlan was getting more and more aggressive to the Fatui within their borders. They had been sent on a diplomatic mission, to observe, but the Pyro Archon claimed that they had made an attempt on her life. A blatant lie, but the only ones left alive to corroborate the story were the Pyro Archon’s sycophants.

It was meant to be a challenge. The Pyro Archon was challenging the Tsaritsa to do something about her butchering two of her most loyal followers, she was hoping for a war… but Snezhnaya could not afford a war right now. Their economy was failing and the dead of winter was nigh, when all crops would start dying and animals would freeze mid-trot. Famine would begin to wrap its chilly fingers around the throats of the citizens of Snezhnaya, the bitter cold would seep into the warmest homes and it was not the time for the Fatui to war with Teyvat’s strongest military. They were already struggling politically with the old-blood aristocracy breathing down their necks and with the support of the masses, there wasn’t much that the Fatui could do to press back until they were in a better position, even with the support of the Tsaritsa herself. 

Dottore pinched the bridge of his nose, the meeting was hours from beginning and he could already feel the incoming headache. He had no interest in Snezhnayan politics, he had no interest in what was to be done about the empty seats amongst the Harbingers. All he wanted to do was continue his research--the Delta segment would be returning from Sumeru at some point tomorrow to give him an update on the Irminsul project and his input was needed before Delta or any of the other older segments took any further steps. 

He let out a heavy breath as he rose back to his feet, intent on changing out of his clothes and into something more comfortable before he finally laid down to rest for the night. As he rose, he felt something soft, feather-light even, brushing against his thumb. Without thinking, he reached for a handkerchief folded tidily on the edge of his bedside dresser.

He wiped off his hands without even bothering to look, figuring that it was just the remnants of the material he was working with down in his lab but as he crossed the room to his wardrobe, that strange, weightless feeling against his thumb remained. 

Dottore’s eyes finally drew down to his right hand, curiosity getting the best of him, as always. And he stared, for a second and then two before a laugh bubbled in his chest, begging to be released. 

Not for the first time, he thought that the gods had a sick and twisted sense of humor because wrapped neatly around his thumb was that thin, red thread that supposedly tied him to his soulmate, over four hundred and fifty years late. 

He thought it was strange how everything around him moved on as normal as if his whole world hadn’t been shattered in a matter of five seconds the night before. He wasn’t able to sleep after noticing the thread and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to look for the soulmark that was undoubtedly branded somewhere on his body. 

He felt weak. Mortal, again. He hated it. 

“Then we wait,” Sandrone said dryly, her sharp voice drawing Dottore back into the conversation. His eyes left the red thread for the first time since he arrived at the meeting, flickering up to where the woman was resting in a chair, a large automaton standing behind her. “Why give a seat to someone unworthy? We’ll wait until two have proven their strength and they can-”

“And how long will that take?” Scaramouche’s voice was cold and grating as he interrupted Sandrone and Dottore’s lips thinned, realizing the inevitable argument between the Sixth and the Seventh was about to begin. 

“However long it takes,” Sandrone responded, voice little over a hiss, blue eyes flinty.

“Ah, yes, yet another a bright idea from the Seventh. Let’s just leave the spots empty when enemies are on our doorstep, show even more weakness,” Scaramouche scoffed, not even bothering to hide the way he rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his seat. 

“If you have a better idea, Balladeer, please, speak up with it,” Sandrone replied. “I’d love to…”

The thread was vibrating. 

Dottore’s gaze flickered down beneath his mask to where his hands were resting on the ebony table, tuning out the conversation around him as he focused on the red string. He could barely feel it, much less see the little vibrations, but he was hyper-focused on it now. It was uneven thrums, as if someone was flicking the thread over and over again--they were getting faster, more impatient, and Dottore couldn’t help but think back to his childhood, when he was five years old and would watch other kids his age laying in the grass snapping their string incessantly, waiting for a responding snap from their soulmate. 

His eyes flickered to the wide windows on the far side of the room, the blizzard still raged outside but he could see the sun rising in the distance. 

So, you’re finally awake, he thought to himself, gaze drawing back to his thumb as the thrums got more and more insistent. A child. His soulmate was a child right now--excited at waking up to the appearance of the thread, hoping that their soulmate was just as excited as they were. Dottore had, for a long time, believed that his heart had gone cold and dead and he did not like the ache he felt in his empty chest. 

A weakness. Just like that, he was brought down to the level of man. 

Soulmates were blinding, they caused people to act with their heart and not their head. Dottore prided himself on being a man that removed his heart from decision making. He put nothing above furthering his research--no morals, no virtues, no principles came before his success and he could not allow this to change anything. 

He had gone this long without a soulmate, he didn’t need one now. 

But he couldn’t tear his eyes off the vibrating thread no matter how hard he tried. He could hear the conversation continuing around him but it sounded like a distant buzz--nothing could break his concentration on the thread, not even himself, and before he knew what he was doing, he was lifting his pointer finger and flicking it down, right on the string. 

He inhaled as discreetly as he could once he realized what he had done, straightening in his seat. The vibrations from the opposite end had stopped instantly, and then all at once: one, two, three, four flicks. 

Excitement, but all Dottore could feel was dread sinking in his stomach.

He could feel a pair of eyes on him. Dottore forced his gaze up to where the Tenth was sitting across from him, green eyes trained on his hand. Dottore’s lips flattened. Did he know? How would he know? But even with the mask adorning his face, the Tenth must have felt Dottore’s livid glare, looking up with a sheepish smile as he motioned to his own hand, his pointer finger, as if he was trying to show Dottore what he was looking at. 

Dottore’s ring.

Of course, Dottore thought to himself dryly. He should have expected nothing less from the avaricious man.

Brighella had been brought in by Arlecchino--the Knave had spoken highly of the man’s intelligence and fighting ability, but so far all Dottore had seen from the Tenth Harbinger was a greed for wealth and alcohol. Dottore thought the man was more deserving of the title Jester than Pierro was, because all he was good for was his unintentional drunken entertainment during events. 

Dottore let his gaze drop back to his hands, where the vibrating had finally stopped--seemingly pleased with finally getting a response from him--and Dottore couldn’t push away the emotions clawing at him from every angle. 

He hated it. 

He was good at compartmentalizing all of his feelings, pushing away all of the unwelcome ones and storing them in little corners until they finally dissipated but he couldn’t this time. They were too intense and Dottore felt overwhelmed. It had barely been half a day and he was already rattled by the new circumstances--rattled enough that he was struggling to keep himself composed internally. 

Anxiety and dread were paramount, yes, but there was also pity. 

The people of his old village had convinced him that he was cursed but he knew now that he was not the cursed one--it was the one that shared a mark with him instead. 

Delta had arrived. Dottore could feel him approaching the palace, battling his way through the blizzard. He was not alone, he could feel another presence at his side--another segment--and he had a feeling he knew exactly which one it was and he was not pleased. 

His movements were sharp as he put away the materials that he was using, annoyed at Delta and his inability to say no to the younger segments. For as stubborn and prideful the older segment was, all it took was a few whines from the Iota or Kappa segment and he was rolling over doing whatever they asked. 

Dottore did not know how having a soulmate would affect the segments. He just knew it would be a distraction that they could not afford.

Would they have a mark? Dottore didn’t even know if he had a mark. He had yet to step in front of a mirror and look--it would make it too real, as if the damning thread wasn’t real enough. 

Would they be able to see the thread? Would they have their own? Dottore hoped not. He did not want them to know--not yet, at least. 

Dottore exhaled, safely storing the final vial in a cabinet too high for the Iota segment to reach and knock down just as the door to his lab was flung open harshly, shaking the cabinets closest to the door. He raised his eyebrows, turning on his heel to face the two arrivals. 

Both segments were bundled in layers, cloaks drenched with water and furred hoods littered with snowflakes. The Delta segment was frowning, eyeing the room suspiciously, and the Iota segment was bouncing at his side, head whipping back and forth as he looked around the room--his first time in Dottore’s personal lab.

Something that Dottore had tried to keep on purpose. The last segment he wanted in his lab was the Iota segment--he was the clumsiest segment, one of the two segments with absolutely no sense of self-control, letting his curiosity get the best of him even in the worst situations. He was created in the mindset of his ten year old self, right after he had been cast out from his village. Dottore had thought that he could use Iota to see the Aranara of Vanarana but evidently, Iota no longer had that childlike innocence that allowed children to see the Aranara… which Dottore should have expected considering the circumstances after which he was created.

“You’re late,” Dottore said dryly, wiping his hands with a towel as he stepped out from behind the lab table he was working at. 

“Yes,” Delta responded, voice just as dry. “There’s a bit of a blizzard outside, if you didn’t notice.”

Dottore raised his eyebrows at the snark and Delta, the most quarrelsome of the segments--except maybe Theta--only raised his eyebrows right back. Dottore’s eyes narrowed, annoyance worming its way onto his expression at the blatant disrespect. He had half a mind to remind him what exactly happened to the last segment that pushed him too far but instead, he was forced to move forward, right hand curling around Iota’s wrist just as the boy reached for some of Dottore’s notes. 

“Do not start,” Dottore said sharply--perhaps he should have watched his tone, Iota was always the most sensitive when it came to tone and the last thing he wanted to deal with was a hysterical child. 

… but Iota didn’t react to his tone. Instead, his eyes were wide and wondrous as he stared at Dottore’s hand. His right hand. Specifically, his right thumb. 

Dottore’s stomach dropped, he released Iota’s wrist in an instant, stepping away, but Iota was persistent, darting forward to grab Dottore’s wrist now, reaching to grab the red string but his hand went right through it. 

“What is that?” Delta asked, voice quiet and sharp. 

So they could see his thread, but Dottore could safely assume that they did not have their own. 

“Is it real?” Iota was still trying to grab the string--undoubtedly to tug at it just to feel the responding tug from their soulmate, just as he had felt from the opposite end this morning. 

“It is real,” Dottore wasn’t even sure if he believed the words himself but logically, he had no reason to think otherwise. “It appeared last night.”

The reaction was almost instantaneous--Delta’s eyes shot open and Iota was wailing, clutching at Dottore’s waist, letting out incoherent babbles of how he knew that they had a soulmate, and how he knew that they weren’t damned or soulless, and how Kappa and Gamma would be-

“Do not tell them,” Dottore said sharply and Iota sobered up immediately, bottom lip wobbly and red eyes teary as he peered up at Dottore, questioning. “This is to stay between us for now, do you understand?”

“But Kappa-” Iota sniffled, confused, “and the others, they’ll be-”

“Do you understand?” Dottore asked again, gaze heavy as he waited for a response from both of his segments. “We do not need any new distractions, we’re finally making progress on our projects.”

Iota looked as if he had been physically slapped, brows knit together and biting his bottom lip as he looked between Delta and Dottore, as if expecting Delta to argue with Dottore. Dottore kept his expression steady, challenging, waiting for Delta to say something. Delta was argumentative but unlike Theta, he was not stupid. He knew when to pick fights and when to back off.

Delta was searching Dottore’s face for something, and Dottore made sure to keep his face blank. “You really don’t care?” Delta finally asked.

Dottore didn’t respond, partially because even as Delta asked the question, there was another soft tug at the red thread wrapped around his thumb. He forced himself not to look down at it, ignoring it this time. He did not care, and even if he did, he would force himself not to, just like he did a million times before when he forced himself to not care that he didn’t have a soulmate. 

It was better for him, and it was better for the child on the opposite end of the string--who would grow up expecting their perfect match and be met with him.

“You were called back to report on the Irminsul project,” Dottore, a master of deflection, changed the subject rather than responding. Delta scoffed. “So, sit down and report. Enough of this nonsense. This is exactly why the other segments will not know.”

The anxiety, and the dread, and the pity was gone. It was replaced by anger. 

Dottore was sick and tired of the gods fucking around with him.

Dottore stood in front of the mirror, lips thin and mask removed as he considered searching for the soulmark that was bound to be branded somewhere on his skin. It had been a long, long time since he had last searched his body for one. He had stopped after he had been cast out from the Akademiya--having given up on acceptance of any kind, be it from strangers or finally receiving his soulmate. He didn’t even want to look now but curiosity had always been his fatal flaw. 

What did it look like? Where was it placed? His body was artificial, would there even be a soulmark?

Slowly and meticulously, he removed his shirt, scanning his torso and arms for any sign of the mark. He didn’t know what to look for--as far as he was aware, people’s marks could look like anything. The majority of people had some sort of symbol, be it a flower or animal or even some sort of item that’s a shared interest of the duo. 

Dottore had no idea what he might share with his soulmate. 

Methodologically, he turned over each arm--just as his parents would do when they were frantically searching him for a mark when he was a child. 

Nothing. 

Dottore stared at himself in the mirror, the scars that littered his body and face were stark in comparison to the rest of the fair skin. He shook his head as he finally turned around, back facing the mirror. He twisted his neck, looking over his shoulder to scan his back, gaze crawling up from his waistband until it reached his shoulders. 

Dottore inhaled sharply, red eyes widening just a bit as he caught sight of the mark branded right between his shoulder blades--a small cluster of purple flowers spread out on his skin. 

Heliotropes, he recognized and Dottore didn’t know if he should roll his eyes or laugh at the irony. Symbol of eternal devotion… poisonous to humans. 

Of course. 

Dottore thought that should be enough of a sign to end this before it weakened him even further--nip the issue in the bud before it could become detrimental. He had never actually seen someone cut their thread before but there were old wives’ tales about it and if anyone could figure out how to do it, it would be him. 

For his sake, and for whoever was on the opposite end.

… and then there was a little tug at the string--once, then twice, and then a third time. 

The moon was high in the sky now. Night had long fallen. He wondered if this was meant to be a goodnight. 

Dottore sighed as he stepped away from the mirror, sitting down at the edge of his bed, leaving the goodnight unanswered as he contemplated what he should do. His gaze shifted back to the window as a branch rattled the glass. 

Dottore hated the winter. Time and time again, it proved to be the worst months of his life… but a part of him--deep, deep down--wondered if this was all too bad because as he watched the ice creep up the frame of the window, this time with the phantom vibrations of his soulmate flicking at the string, it was with a bit more fondness than there was the night before.

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reblogs appreciated!

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