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cassiopeia-hashima · 2 years

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I love this series so much;-;

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, mentions of past prostituion (not dottore or reader), implication of reader being slapped and getting hurt (not badly)

notes: i dont think u guys understand how much fun im having introducing the segments sobs. adhufsdiuf i might make a little reference sheet for them and attach it to masterlist if u guys want

JOY

Mutiny.

He had been dealing with mutiny for five years. He should have expected that the Iota segment wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. He should have sewn it shut. In a matter of a week, every single one of the segments knew that their red thread had finally appeared. In a matter of a month, every single one of the segments had abandoned their projects to return to Dottore’s estate in Snezhnaya and Dottore was fed up.

This was exactly what he didn’t want to happen. He knew his segments because they were him, and he knew that as soon as they found out, they would be on their way back to Snezhnaya to find out if it was true for themselves. He had half a mind to deactivate every single one of them but he figured that even if he did that and recreated them, it would just be the same issue all over again and a massive waste of resources because the segments would not change--it was why they were created, to preserve his mentality at different years.

It did not take long for the older segments to put together what Dottore was planning on doing with the red thread and their soulmate and they were not happy about it.

Dottore didn’t think he had a single day for himself in the past five years. The segments were relentless, offering to help with his research. Two sets of eyes are better than one, they would say, but Dottore knew they were full of shit. Dottore had always valued his independence highly, even as a child. There was no way that they all suddenly wanted to work with him at any given moment after years of convincing him that they were perfectly capable of running research without his supervision. They were using it as an excuse to keep an eye on him, to make sure that he didn’t make any progress on figuring out how to sever the thread, and Dottore was livid over it.

Every day, a different segment was waiting for him at his lab or in the library, pressing him to work on a variety of different projects--none being research on the red thread, of course. And to Dottore’s absolute frustration, his segments were as manipulative and intelligent as him, so whenever he tried to brush them off to do as he pleased, he was met with snide comments about so much for not letting their soulmate get in the way of their research.

He had backed himself into a corner, and it was no one’s fault but his own.

Dottore sighed as he flipped through one of Epsilon’s reports.

Ley line outcrops sprouting up more often in Avidya forest.

Possible roots in Dragonspine breaking the surface? Does Irminsul grow upside down?

Upside down, Dottore pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to think. Could it be growing in the Abyss, and the roots are traveling up through the earth past the surface?

How would that even work? Could the Abyss sustain life? Does the Irminsul tree even count as life?

One of his hands slid down his face, rubbing at his mouth as he tried to piece together the puzzle laid out before him. He would have to talk to the Balladeer. The Sixth was the one that Pierro frequently sent on missions down in the Abyss, if anyone knew more about it, it would be him… or Pierro himself, but Dottore did not necessarily want to go out of his way to talk to Pierro because it usually ended in him being sent on another mission.

“Let us go looking for them.”

It was Rho again, this time, standing at the door to Dottore’s lab. He exhaled, dragging his gaze up from the papers to the segment. Once he was acknowledged, Rho stepped into the room and Dottore raised his eyebrows waiting for him to continue. Rho looked pointedly at Dottore’s thumb, Dottore just shook his head once he realized what Rho was referring to, turning around to prepare a burner.

“You would deny the younger segments time with our soulmate? Deny them the experience of actually knowing their soulmate while they are the same age?” Rho pressed, drawing closer to Dottore. Dottore looked at Rho over his shoulder, warning him: don’t you dare come closer. Rho pressed his lips together, stopping midstep. “It’s been five years since the thread appeared, they are already five years older than Kappa. They’re the same age as Iota. Soon they’ll be older than him, and Gamma, you know how Gamma-”

“There is no way to find them,” Dottore dismissed. “Get back to work.”

“Iota has been hysterical for days, Gamma is so anxious that he can barely focus on his research. Neither of them had ever given up hope that our soulmate would appear and you’re going to refuse-”

“How do you intend for me to find them?” Dottore was getting irritated. Never had he dealt with so much insubordination from his segments until this cursed red thread had shown up. “Follow the string? We both know that’s not possible. There will be no clues for another five years, at least, and ten years is more likely.”

Rho was frustrated, Dottore could tell from the way the segment was clenching and unclenching his jaw rapidly. Dottore couldn’t bring himself to care because quite frankly, he was frustrated. He could feel the emotions of each segment, of course he knew Gamma was anxious, of course he knew Iota was hysterical. He could feel his anxiety, he could feel his hysteria. He could feel Zeta’s hope and Theta’s rage. He could feel Delta’s stress and Epsilon’s curiosity. He could feel Lambda’s indifference and he could feel every single one of his own emotions so intensely that he wanted to rip out his own hair.

He was not used to it. Even after five years, he was not used to it. He had gone centuries feeling little to nothing and he felt overwhelmed--he couldn’t figure out how to deal with this in an efficient manner and over the past week, it just seemed to be getting worse.

“We can go in the general direction,” Rho finally responded and Dottore only shook his head, closing his eyes.

He felt tired, he felt so tired all of a sudden and he wasn’t sure why--he had never felt so tired so abruptly before. He wondered if the whole situation was finally starting to set in, five years later. None of them had the nerve to confront him about this before now.

“Good luck with that,” Dottore said dryly, “All of Teyvat is south of us, you’ll have six whole nations to search.”

“You could help,” Rho snapped, Dottore could see his segment’s temper waning, and he could feel his own thinning. “Instead of trying to…”

He thought maybe it was more than just being tired over the situation.

He exhaled carefully, fingers pressing hard into the cool metal table beneath his hand. His body felt exhausted, as if he had been forced into spars with the Captain again. His chest felt heavy and his mind felt sluggish, and it was so sudden. If Dottore didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought one of his segments had the audacity to try to drug him.

Rho was still talking, but Dottore was now distracted, trying to figure out what was wrong with himself before Rho could take advantage of the apparent weakness to push him even more. His gaze drifted up to the vents of his lab, filtering the air from some of the more dangerous chemicals that he worked with in his experiments.

Had they failed?

No, Rho would be feeling it as well.

Unless it was only affecting him because he’s been in the room longer.

Even then, Dottore’s body was created to withstand what would take down the average human’s body. Chemicals should not be enough to make him feel like this. It had to be something else.

It had to be something else.

But what?

Dottore didn’t know and the longer he dwelled on the issue, the more his body betrayed him. Rho was beginning to realize something was wrong, he could tell from the way his voice was becoming slower, from the way his brows were furrowing as he observed Dottore.

What was-

The thread. Dottore’s gaze drifted down to his thumb as the thread vibrated--once, twice, three times, the daily goodnight that he had become familiar with. Every night, without fail, once the sun began to fall, his soulmate would flick the thread, he had become accustomed to it in a way that he shouldn’t have. His gaze drew to the side, to the window of his lab where the sun began to set over the snowy hills in the distance.

He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late.

“It’s been five years since the thread appeared,” Rho had reminded him.

Five years. His soulmate would have turned ten years old recently.

The third stage: emotions, pains, they would be shared between the two soulmates—begins once both soulmates have reached the age of ten.

At once, all of the puzzle pieces joined together before his eyes--the tiredness, the influx of emotions that did not belong to him or one of his segments, the odd, momentary pains that would prick his hands and knees. They were not his emotions or his pain. It was not his fatigue.

It was his soulmate’s.

Dottore was many things--a scholar and a Harbinger, but above all, he was a fool and suddenly, a very, very mortal one at that.

Some people thought it romantic that Celestia prevented soulmates from finding one another before their fated meeting. Dottore thought it was absurd—especially because he had to deal with… this.

The Iota segment was sobbing, curled in on himself on the ground, babbling about how their string was gone and their soulmate was dead. Dottore wondered if he should be embarrassed, staring at the younger version of himself, unimpressed and unmoved by the outburst, arms crossed at his chest as people in the city began to look their way--never for too long, because they knew exactly what the symbols that adorned their cloaks meant, but long enough that it was beginning to tickle his nerves.

The Delta and Gamma segments were trying to calm him down, telling him that no, their soulmate was still alive and yes, the thread was still there--Iota just couldn’t see it because it disappeared from his view. Celestia’s oh so convenient way of stopping soulmates from tracking each other down before they were meant to meet each other.

Dottore shook his head, exasperated when all attempts at soothing Iota failed. This was exactly why he didn’t like bringing his segments out with him, it always became some sort of project. Dottore’s lips twisted into a frown as he contemplated just leaving them to continue further into the city, in the direction of the old building that was rumored to be the base of the new black market network spreading throughout the Snezhnayan capital, encroaching on the territory of the organization that had been working with the aristocrats and the Fatui for decades to keep the economy stable.

Dottore was the one sent to shut it down before it got out of hand, sent to defend their ‘partners’... and perhaps get a few important figures in their debt. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to go but he figured while he was out, he could get Gamma the supplies he had been looking for before he had started having a meltdown over their soulmate, but once Iota found out that Gamma was joining him, Iota insisted on coming along… and since Iota was tagging along, Delta demanded on coming too, not one to let the ten-year-old segment out of his sight for long.

Dottore supposed it was for the best, he could leave the other two to handle the outburst while he went to shut down the new competition.

The wind was brisk against his skin as he made his way down the dirt roads, small vendors lined the streets, their stands dusted with snow, the shop owners bundled beneath heavy cloaks and furs. None of them dared to try to sell their products to him--instead, he only received wary glances and hushed whispers as he passed by.

The people of Snezhnaya did not trust the Fatui. They had no love left for the Tsaritsa and her followers, placing all of their faith in the old aristocratic families of their motherland instead. The noble families kept the coffers full and homes warm in the dead of winter where their Archon had abandoned them and the Fatui cared for naught but their own goals and ambitions.

There was some truth behind their reasoning, Dottore acknowledged as he turned down the last side street. The Tsaritsa did abandon her people to prepare for the war against Celestia, even if it was for their own good in the long run, and the Fatui did only really care for their own goals… or at least Dottore did. Capitano, Arlecchino, Pulcinella and Signora, they all had varying degrees of sympathy for the common folk but it didn’t matter because when it came down to it, they would always put the downfall of the gods first.

And that disconnect would always keep the aristocrats a level above the Fatui when it comes to good relations with the civilians. It was none of Dottore’s business, he didn’t handle politics--that was up to Pulcinella to try to fix--but it was beginning to affect his research. His funding was decreasing rapidly, and between that and dealing with his segments and the influx of emotions from his soulmate, Dottore was at his wits end.

His soulmate was an anxious little thing. He had learned how to differentiate between which emotions were coming from his segments and which were coming from them. There wasn’t much he felt on their end besides nervousness and tiredness at night and as frustrating as it was, he could not close off their emotions like he could with his segments. No matter how hard he tried to ignore the waves of drowsiness and apprehension, they always managed to trounce him at the most inopportune times.

But it was midday now, so he shouldn’t be at risk of any unwelcome sensations. He figured it was the best time to confront their new enemies.

Dottore exhaled as he finally reached the old building—it was worn down, the wood of the door split down the middle. He was not sure what he was expecting but it was not this.

He frowned as he pushed the door open, bracing himself for a group of enemies inside only to find an empty, unfurnished room. His frown deepened, gaze darting around as he tried to figure out if this was some sort of trap or if the place had been abandoned… and if it had been abandoned, that means the Fatui had a rat to sniff out.

… But the place didn’t seem to be abandoned. In fact, it looked as if someone was living there. Water was boiling on a stove in the corner of the room, there was a half-eaten meal on a dingy kitchen table, and on the opposite side of the room, there was a bed with half-made sheets.

He wondered if the location he was given was wrong because this place appeared to be a refuge for a homeless person.

There was a door at the end of the room with a dim light glowing from beneath and Dottore decided he better at least try to get some answers as to the actual location of the base before heading out, lest he deal with the Jester’s displeasure again.

A thin layer of snow coated parts of the hardwood floor, having trespassed through the split roof above, crunching beneath his boot as he approached the door. He didn’t waste a second when he got to the door, pushing it open hard—perhaps too hard, considering it nearly came off the hinges as it slammed into the wall.

Dottore’s eyes narrowed on the only figure in the room. A young man, no older than nineteen or twenty, leaped to his feet, violet eyes unfocused and wild at Dottore’s arrival. He was tall and thin, too thin, dark hair poorly kempt. He would have brushed him off as another homeless citizen of Snezhnaya, to be dead as soon as the first blizzard of the winter hit… but Dottore hesitated, noting the inked quill in his hand, and the parchment on the desk he was sitting at.

Two long strides and Dottore was at the desk, snatching the parchment before the man could react. His eyes scanned the words rapidly, reading the list of requested goods, and it didn’t take long for him to put together what was happening.

He raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, “Where are the rest of your men?”

The man did not respond.

“I advise you to answer my question lest you find yourself without your head,” Dottore said dryly, placing the parchment back down and looking up at the man, who he could only assume was running the competing market.

“There are no men.” The response was clipped and cold, Dottore’s eyes trailed down to where jagged nails were digging into his palms—he was scared, trying to hide it. Good. “Only me.”

“Only you?” Dottore asked, amused. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care if you believe it,” the man retorted.

“If you care about your life, you’ll care about what I believe,” Dottore countered, watching the way the man stiffened at his words.

“Does it matter what you believe, or if I care about my life?” the man asked, voice quickly. “Or will I die anyway?”

Dottore smiled thinly, “I haven’t decided yet.”

The man looked frustrated. Dottore was unbothered, waiting for him to speak--the following silence was cold, tense. Dottore liked to believe he was a patient man but he was also a man who did not like his time being wasted.

One man causing such a ruckus amongst their partners… he considered the possibility of it actually being true. He didn’t think there was any chance of it, logically. The original organization has controlled Snezhnaya’s economy for centuries now--it was well embedded in society, the aristocrats depended on it, the civilians depended on it, the Fatui depended on it.

One man-

“The people aren’t as fond of the aristocrats as everybody thinks. They’re just the only option when the Fatui is the alternative,” the man finally said, “and it doesn’t matter what organization is running the market, when it comes down to it, the people keep the economy alive. The Triglav have been decreasing the quality of their products--watering down alcohol, reducing portions of produce in the markets--they thought the people would remain ignorant to it.”

Dottore mulled over his words, as far as he was aware, the Harbingers were also ignorant to the Triglav fiddling with the economy and goods. He wondered if the aristocrats were aware, working with them to shave some extra profits off the civilians. More irritated, he wondered if this was part of the reason why his funding was being affected.

“Except they realized,” Dottore mused, eyeing the man, trying to figure out how he became involved with it.

“Except I realized,” the man corrected sharply, giving Dottore another wary glance before he sat back at his desk. “I was the one that noticed what they were doing. I was raised on the streets of Novotroizov, just outside the capital, but I spent most of my time here-”

“I don’t care for your life story,” Dottore said. “Get to the point.”

The man smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “I had connections here in the city, it was not hard to siphon off unhappy contractors from the Triglav once they knew that they were being swindled by them and their families were suffering as a consequence.”

Dottore hummed to himself, “And where did you learn to read? Write? Understand economics?” he asked doubtfully, gaze drawing over the man as he dabbed the tip of his quill back into the dark ink.

The man hesitated, quill hovering over the parchment for a moment before he cleared his throat. “I worked at one of the higher-end red houses in the city, one that the aristocrats and the elites of the Triglav enjoyed to frequent. They run their mouths without care as to who might be listening. I learned much from them.”

Dottore almost smiled. Almost. The irony of the Triglav being the one to create their own competition was just a bit amusing to him. He rarely dealt with their elites personally but they were very quickly becoming a hindrance to his research and all hindrances must be dealt with.

Must be dealt with. Dottore looked at the man with a new light, an idea forming in the back of his head. The Ninth and Eleventh spots were now free, and so long as the Triglav controlled the economy, the Fatui’s money would at least partially be at the whims of the aristocrats that work with them and the organization's elites as the Fatui did not have their own bank…

“Well, as I see it, there are two options, I-” Dottore paused suddenly, a stinging feeling sharp across his cheek, as if he had been slapped, and a jolt of shock. Or, not him, his soulmate, he realized, gaze darting down to the thread on his thumb, because the man hadn’t moved from his desk, his knuckles white around the wood as he waited for the ultimatum. He forced himself to continue, voice tight, trying to mask the rising anger, “I can kill you, resolving this issue all at once, or we could try to find some use for you in our ranks.”

They were slapped, Dottore could feel echoes of the stinging sensation across his cheek, the shock that had run through his soulmate’s body, he could still feel the shock, now riddled with distress. Ten years old, he could barely constrain the rage pooling in his gut, he could barely control the way his mind brought him back to his own childhood with his parents and the unpleasant adults living in the village, who is slapping a ten year old? And with that much force?

He could barely focus on the situation at hand--luckily, the man was still sitting in front of him, he hadn’t moved or spoken, suspicious of the options he was given, but Dottore needed to calm himself before he did start speaking so he could respond properly.

But he couldn’t, and he felt so, so human because of it, vulnerable to emotions that were supposed to have been killed off a long time ago. He hated it. He hated it so much, his entire life--everything that he had built for himself felt as if it were crumbling. All of those years of teaching himself how to control each and every little emotion, all of those years learning how to seal away the unwelcome ones and channel them into something that was easier for him to process, they were wasted because the gods finally decided to curse him with this damned thread.

And then he felt it--an odd, foreign emotion curling in the depths of his stomach, something that was not of his own nor of his segments, something he hadn’t felt since the day he was chased out of his village.

Fear. Fear coming from his soulmate. Was it because of whatever was going on where they were? Or could they feel his anger and it was scaring them?

Dottore didn’t know, and he hated not knowing, but he hated even more the fact that he somehow cared enough that it made him calm down when he hadn’t been able to make himself calm down on his own.

“You don’t even know my name,” the man accused, but his tone was more hesitant, considering Dottore’s offer. Dottore forced his attention back to him, despite the way his thoughts lingered on the phantom pains against his cheek. “I don’t have a vision, I don’t-”

“Yes,” Dottore agreed. “I did not ask because I do not care to learn it--if your existence demonstrates itself to be useful to us, you will be given a new identity and a role to play in the coming war, you will have to leave your name, family and companions behind to take up the mantle… though I doubt that will be difficult for someone like you. Whether or not you have a vision is inconsequential--again, should you prove yourself, you’ll be given an even more potent version of one, one that does not have shackles of Celestia attached to it.”

There it was, Dottore thought to himself, letting out a huff of amusement once he caught the greed flash through the man’s expression. Hooked, the prospect of power would seduce even the most virtuous man, and he knew as soon as he stepped into this room that the man before him was no man of honor.

“How will I know if I’ve proven myself?” the man asked.

“You will know,” Dottore said dismissively, turning on his heel to leave before another unexpected bout of emotion or pain swept over him. “Do remember who got you to your position, if this works out. I will need considerable funding for my research… and don’t bother trying to run, we will find you.”

“If everything has been discussed, I’ve had quite enough of tonight’s theatrics,” Pierro’s voice was cold and sharp as he rose to his feet, preparing to dismiss the Harbingers from their meeting.

Dottore waited, eyes drawing across the eight other Harbingers, waiting to see if any of them would speak up. The Balladeer was livid, having spent the majority of the meeting arguing with the Marionette and the Knave, with the Knave’s pet following along making disparaging comments. None of the rest of the Harbingers appeared to intend on saying anything, so just as Pierro was about to dismiss them, Dottore cleared his throat.

At once, all sets of eyes turned in his direction, stares with varying degrees of annoyance trained directly on him. Dottore only smiled thinly, “I would like to discuss an option for the empty seats… or one of them, at least.”

“Perhaps you’ve become slow of mind in your old age,” Scaramouche said sharply. Dottore raised his eyebrows beneath his mask, not even bothering to call out the hypocrisy. “We discussed this for nearly an hour already and you didn’t bother to give input once.”

“I had no interest in interrupting squabbling children,” Dottore replied dryly, turning his gaze back to Pierro, who looked exhausted as he sat back down at the head of the table.

“Speak, Dottore. How faired the mission against the organization usurping the Triglav?”

“There was no organization,” Dottore said. “Only one man. I believe it to be prudent that we find a spot for him amongst our ranks. Perhaps not as a Harbinger… yet, but a chance to at least prove his worth.”

“One man?” Sandrone questioned, tone laced with disbelief.

“I find it hard to believe as well,” Pulcinella agreed, dark eyes piercing into Dottore. Dottore met his gaze, undeterred, annoyance tugged at his stomach--he hated being doubted.

“I can assure you, mayor, that I would not waste our time with dubious information,” Dottore drawled, fingers tapping against the wood of the table.

“I oversee the nation for our esteemed organization. I believe I would know-”

“Did you know that the Triglav were decreasing the quality of Snezhnayan and foreign products to make more of a profit off of the common folk?” Dottore interrupted, lips flat as his amusement dwindled. Pulcinella did not respond, and he took that as answer enough. “I see, so you do not know everything about the nation, do you, mayor?”

“Make your point, Dottore, this meeting has lasted too long already. I have other matters to attend to,” Pierro said. Dottore was glad his eyes were hidden beneath the mask.

“The man undermining the Triglav is an orphan, homeless, making by on nothing but connections he formed on the streets. Could you imagine what he would be capable of with resources to back him?” Dottore pressed. “We do not have the support of the people, we do not have an economy backing us, the aristocrats and the Triglav are in bed with one another, working together to sabotage us. It’s only a matter of time before this situation spirals into civil war, and Her Majesty is very much against that.”

“And you think one man will solve all of our issues?” Arlecchino asked, but she didn’t sound as doubtful as much as she did curious, watching Dottore carefully as she waited for him to respond.

He considered her words. It would be bold of him to claim that it would, as he had no reason to believe that this man would solve all of the internal issues that the Fatui were facing. He was promising, yes, but promise was just that--promise. Dottore had watched even the most promising minds in the Akademiya fall to ruin before they could make something great of themselves.

But if they didn’t think he was confident in this, it would be shut down. And any chance at increased funding for his research would be shut down along with it, which is what it boiled down to for him at its core. He needed more funding.

“I think he can solve a significant amount. The mayor clearly cannot handle internal affairs on his own. He doesn’t even know half of what’s going on right beneath his nose. The Triglav have been slighting the people of their goods and us of our money. Funding has been decreased-”

“Ah, of course,” Dottore’s eye twitched at the interruption, not even bothering to look at Scaramouche as he readied himself to respond to yet another snide comment from the Sixth. “That’s what it comes down to, your funding. How…”

Pain. Blinding pain shooting up through his hands and forearms, as if a million jagged rocks were digging into his palm and tearing through the flesh, as if he had taken a particularly bad fall and braced himself with his arms, drowning out the rest of the Balladeer’s comment. Were he a lesser man, he would have hissed at the sudden pain, maybe even flinched. Dottore was no lesser man, and he could not afford to give any sort of hint about the red thread tied around his thumb to the vultures perched around him who would take advantage of the weakness at any given moment.

Instead, he inhaled, forcing himself to continue, annoyance becoming more severe with each passing day as this was now the second time he was interrupted during an important meeting because of his soulmate.

“Yes,” Dottore said sharply. “Perhaps with better funding, we could make you into something greater than just a mere puppet. Your durability will only be of use for so long, and what will happen to you then? I can see the cracks already. You are not indestructible, Scaramouche.”

Scaramouche did not respond, and Dottore took the opportunity to continue.

“He is a commoner, an orphan, with enough connections throughout the people of Snezhnaya to displace the Triglav without any resources beyond his own mind and those connections,” Dottore continued. “You cannot convince me you do not see the potential this could bring us--nigh-complete autonomy from the Triglav and a wedge between the aristocrats and the people.”

“The consequences for if it fails…” Pulcinella trailed off. “We could be facing civil war far sooner than we’re ready for. The Triglav will not take kindly to us trying to unseat their monopoly… the aristocrats even less so.”

“We will win if it comes to war,” Arlecchino said. “What are they going to do, throw their gold coins at us?”

“No, they will throw our people at us,” Pulcinella responded coldly. “It’s not a matter of winning the war that’s the issue. Our military is dominant, in comparison to their forces. The issue is minimizing civilian casualties, which will not be possible without proper preparation. That could take years, decades. Her Majesty will not want us to antagonize while the people are at risk.”

“I will not go another year, much less decades, without proper funding,” Dottore said, poison dripping from his voice as he spoke. “We have been handed the opportunity to finally become the dominant power in Snezhnaya on a silver platter. We would be fools not to make the most of it. I am no fool, Pulcinella.”

“And if it fails?” The Captain spoke up for the first time, voice low. “Pulcinella is right, we cannot afford the backlash that this failure might bring us.”

“If it fails,” Dottore said tensely, “then I will kill him before it can be traced back to us.”

“Very well,” Pierro said after a moment of silence. “Bring him in, if he proves himself, we will consider replacing one of the two empty seats.”

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Dottore’s eye twitched, gaze drawing from the parchment in front of him to the countertops across the room, where the leaky faucet dripped to the metal of the basin incessantly. He inhaled sharply as he forced himself to look back at the report, trying to figure out what exactly Theta was trying to get at with the conclusions of his residue research.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Dottore exhaled through his nose, lips pressed together thinly as his gaze drew back to the faucet. Even in his rare moments of peace, where his segments were busy or asleep, the universe somehow found a way to disrupt him.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Dottore rose to his feet suddenly, the metal legs of the chair he was sitting on scraping against the ground loudly as he grabbed the report and left his lab, intent on finishing the reading back in his own room. It was getting late anyway, the moon was rising, and it was only a matter of time before his little soulmate made their way to bed and forced their own fatigue onto him.

He made his way down the dark halls quietly--as if on cue, he felt those familiar tugs, three, each with half a second between them. Goodnight, his soulmate was telling him, and he only shook his head, glancing down once before turning his gaze back ahead.

He would have to figure out how exactly he would integrate the boy from the city into the organization, and get him the resources he needed to actually be able to do something more than siphon off contractors of the Triglav. He didn’t know how though--it would have to be subtle so as to not draw the attention of their enemies until they were in the position to actually challenge them. If they found out that the Fatui were working under their noses to mess with the economy that the Triglav had built, they’d have a lot more issues to deal with than they’d like.

Unfortunately, Dottore was never good at subtlety.

If it were up to him, he’d simply remove the issue, just as he nullified extraneous variables whenever they rose to issue during his experiments. With the aristocrats and the Triglav out of the way, the Fatui could do as they pleased, Dottore could do as he pleased without all of the restrictions placed on him by the Jester… but alas, the Tsaritsa did not wish to draw the ire of her people any more than she already had, much to his displeasure.

Would one man be the change they needed to get the upper hand over the Triglav and the aristocrats? Dottore didn’t know and he despised not knowing, he hated uncertainty. He was a methodological man, a calculated one--he set plans in motion and saw them through to the end. He was able to map out all possible conclusions and plan accordingly, but he couldn’t for this, and he didn’t like it. Every time he thought of one possibility, another issue arose, and then another, and then another until the whole thing was spoiled and Dottore had to start from scratch.

It felt more like a gamble than a thought out plan. Dottore hated gambling.

Was this the best course of action? Was this going to help him in the long run? What were the chances it even succeeded?

Low, he determined. There was a good chance that even if the young man from the village was able to make something out of the resources he was given, he would still be forced to fall on his own blade if the situation took a turn for the worse with the other two parties. He didn’t particularly care for the fate of the man, but he had a feeling that if it got out that Dottore was the one behind the whole operation, his already depleted funding would turn to dust between his fingers.

Then you can’t let it get out, Dottore decided, stepping into his room--dark and cold with the candles and fireplace snuffed--which meant he would have to take out the man on his own before the Triglav and aristocrats could go about interrogating him… He would have to be ahead of the flow of information, and he had never been one to insert himself into webs of spiders and nests of snakes.

But, that’s assuming the worst case scenario, Dottore mused. Should all go well, the elites of the Triglav will be hung, and the aristocrats will finally be displaced from their position at the top. Dottore will have significantly increased funding, and they might very well finally have their Ninth or Eleventh seat filled again.

As he reached the desk at the far corner of his room, Dottore’s chest felt heavy in a way that he had never felt before. Dottore exhaled carefully, placing down the report and taking a seat as he tried to figure out what was causing the strange feeling. Not his segments, he was confident that he had been able to seal off their emotions from his, and it certainly wasn’t his own emotions making him feel this way.

And if that’s the case…

He sighed, gaze drawing down to his thumb, then it must be you.

As soon as he redirected his attention to where the thread was tied neatly around his finger, he felt the soft little tugs. Slow, uneven, he could practically see the pout spread across his soulmate’s unveiled face. It had been quite some time since the daily goodnight tugs, and from what he’d been able to tell over the past five years, his soulmate would always fall asleep soon after the goodnight.

What is the matter? he mused to himself, biting back another heavy sigh as he stared at the thread as if it would give him a verbal response. He realized, distantly, that he was wasting far too much time on this—he needed to finish figuring out first, what Theta had been trying to write and then, what it even meant—but he found his attention anchored on the thin thread, on the soft, slow tugs.

The sinking feeling in his chest was becoming even more intense, and it was sadness, yes, but there was something else. Not for the first time, Dottore damned himself for his inability to properly understand and process emotion.

It was cold, empty, but somehow oppressive and shadowy all at the same time. A part of him wondered if a child should even be feeling this way, but then he thought back to his own childhood—to the Kappa and Iota and Gamma segments—and something inside him twisted, dark and ugly as he considered what that might mean for his soulmate.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the rush of anger. He didn’t like the surge of protectiveness, the urge to shield someone he didn’t even know from the cruelty of the world as he did for his younger segments. He didn’t like that he couldn’t control it. He didn’t like that he couldn’t ignore it. He didn’t like it.

A stranger, the rational part of him hissed. They are a stranger, control yourself.

A stranger that is meant for you, a dangerous, dangerous part of him argued, voice smooth and alluring, a siren that could reel in even a sailor of the strongest willpower. Your fated.

Fated by the same gods who have cursed you a thousand times before, the harsher voice snapped back, grating in his mind, tearing through his head like grinding gears. This is another one of their cruel tricks, and you are playing right into their hands.

Dottore could feel his head aching and that void-like feeling was only getting worse. His chest felt like a gaping hole, like the heart of the abyss, and he felt like a puppet, whose strings were subject to the whims and emotions of a ten year old.

Why do you feel like this? Dottore wanted to demand, let me fix it so I can return to my work in peace.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t help but notice the way the tugs on the thread were becoming slower, less insistent… as if the person on the other side was giving up hope.

Is that what you want? he thought to himself, incredulity fogging his mind as he put together why his soulmate was feeling these emotions. His finger lifted on instinct, ready to test his hypothesis as he gave a small tug on the shared thread.

The change was instantaneous—sharp and sudden enough that Dottore felt whiplash as his heart leapt from his chest, mind doused in a sort of euphoria that he only ever felt when he made a breakthrough in his research.

Dottore shook his head, forcing himself not to roll his eyes when he realized that the wave of depression stemmed not from a situation happening in their life, but instead from a lack of attention.

He was annoyed at the disruption to his research, but with that ugly feeling gone—the coldness replaced by a very unfamiliar sense of warmth and a light, bubbly feeling in his chest, a childish sort of joy that he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced before—he could finally breathe again, the air felt fresh in his lungs and his mind felt clear. He was able to refocus on the report in front of him with an ease that he hadn’t had before.

Unfamiliar, he repeated to himself, red eyes drifting down to the thread one last time before he took advantage of the new concentration, but he wasn’t sure if it were entirely unwelcome.

reblogs appreciated!

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cassiopeia-hashima · 2 years

Text

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

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.

—-

reblogs appreciated!

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