#— ⟢ tongue coated in poison ⦂ ⋰ * ✧ twt.

[peachesandmilktea]

artwork by ayu_kawa3 on twt

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒢𝑜𝒹

TW: Slight yandere implications, puppet Scaramouche, kind of a character study.

Scaramouche didn’t deserve love.

He knew that, almost too well. Worthlessness ran through veins void of blood beneath his porcelain flesh, too cold to be held in anything but a deadly grip by his numerous opponents. There was nothing soft about him - not his words, not his past, not even his skin, puppet-like as it was, disgustingly harsh to any touch. And perhaps that was fitting, in a way. A man too soft not to be discarded turning out to be solely made of sharp edges and icy ceramic.

People liked to play with dolls, and so he played with people.

A just retribution.

Men would fall in the wake of his plans, their lives torn from their hands like a candle flame blown by a mere summer breeze. Blood would spill, the very same kind of crimson he couldn’t find in himself, and there was something fascinating about the way it coated his hands whenever he was done. Had he been human, perhaps the scarlet nuance of it would have sunk into the lines on his palms - life line, luck line, love line. Or just a bit lower, on a soulmate mark branding his wrist, right above a pulsing vein.

But his skin was fair, smooth there, like everywhere else.

Perfect. The most splendid puppet there is, crafted by the hands of a God.

Only second to-

He crushed the thought under his heel whenever it arose in his mind. He’d learned, early enough, that jealousy and frustration were but ambrosia, a nectar to be relished in. Fury was to be feasted on and oh, it satiated him in ways food or drinks never could. Scaramouche bit on his anger, chewed it with fangs sharper than a sword, and spat out the loneliness and powerlessness that came with it, just like one discarded the bones of a chicken after a satisfying dinner.

Just like he’d been discarded, himself.

Sometimes, that very loneliness stuck to his gums, and the taste of it refused to leave his tongue. He caught himself staring at that little spot right before the crook of his palm took shape then, brushing against the emptiness of it with fingers colder than Snezhnayan winds. And perhaps he pictured something there - a mark, a name, a few words that would only make sense once he met whoever was fated to claim them, anything.

But there was nothing on his wrist, and there would be no one for him, either.

The only brand he was ever meant to bear was his mother’s, seared in the shape of her seal on the back of his neck. He’d attempted to get rid of it, once - three betrayals had birthed an anger more bitter even than poison in the void of his chest, and nothing would soothe it, he knew, but pain, blood and that goddamn fury that always seemed to be his most loyal companion.

He’d raised a knife to the back of his neck.

Had let the blade brush against the skin, there.

Before that empty wrist of his was snatched away by disgustingly human fingers, warm and pulsing with life. They’d tightened over him like loneliness tightened over that heart he didn’t own but fantasized he did, and he’d hissed, almost in pain. He couldn’t cling into anger no more for that kind of rage feasted on suffering and he’d been kept from causing it, so-

“What the hell are you doing?” the stranger demanded, and Scaramouche didn’t wait a second before retaliating.

His fist closed around her throat, stealing every ounce of breath from her lungs. Her back hit the shrine he’d been dwelling next to - the very sight that had awaken the blood thirst still clinging to his mind like a parasite. If he couldn’t spill his own, maybe he would spill hers, that stranger’s who dared touch him so casually, that insolent little-

His eyes widened when he took her in.

A shrine maiden.

She took advantage of his confusion. With those clothes of hers, too wide, an ocean of red and white, Scaramouche failed to notice her movements - before he could do anything to avoid the hit, her kick caught him right behind the knee, making him stumble. His grip weakened, and she freed herself from his claws, because of course, she would.

It didn’t matter that in another life, she would have been worshiping him.

They stared at each other for what might have been a minute. He felt her gaze on him, harsh, furious, and the feel of it was so familiar it would have been a breath of fresh her into his lungs had he borne any. Hatred was like coming home, and perhaps he was - she was an embodiment of the divinity that had discarded him, after all. Soon enough, she would attempt to chase him away like his mother had done, and he would kill her and soothe his anger the best way he knew - with blood, and a god-worshiper’s screams for mercy.

Instead, she pinched her lips, as if in deep thought.

And her eyes fell on his neck, right where the blade had slightly broken the skin.

“It looks bad,” she said. “Stay here. I’ll go get something to patch you up.”

Uh?

In less than a second, she disappeared inside the little temple, leaving him alone with more confusion on his hands than he knew what to do with. She hadn’t even acknowledged his violence, as if it didn’t fucking exist. He loathed the mere thought, but either she’d been right or she’d taken that fury of him with her, for he felt it leaving his chest, seeping through his ribs slow and steady like stream water.

He wasn’t used to being ignored, not now that he was a harbinger.

It made his anger feel useless.

She came back a while later, and Scaramouche himself didn’t understand why he’d remained there, waiting. In her hands, she cradled bandages the same white as her sleeves, and he found the gesture laughable - perhaps she hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t bleed. There was nothing for her to wipe away and secure behind a bit of fair fabric. What he’d cut through was ceramic, and it would repair on its own.

Yet, the strange shrine maiden took a step towards him, raised a hand to push back the collar of his kimono.

He caught her wrist in the same way she’d caught his, earlier.

Tight, tight, tight, like the cage of fate.

“Are you fucking blind?” he spat, his words filled with less violence than he’d meant to. “Can’t you see there’s no blood? Keep your hands to yourself before I cut them off, mutt.”

She eyed her wrist, right where his fingers circled her flesh.

They covered the mark she bore, there. He didn’t want to see it, either, didn’t want to remind himself of the emptiness of his own skin. The mere thought of it made anger bubble inside his chest once more, filling the void birthed by the absence of a heart. The return of his fury was soothing, in a way.

But it escaped him once more when she raised her eyes to his and asked, sour:

“And are you fucking dumb?” she asked, in the very same tone he’d addressed her. “Instead of ripping through your own goddamn flesh, why don’t you hide that mark of yours instead?” A sigh rolled on her tongue, and Scaramouche realized the sound was almost playful. “That’s what most of us do, anyway.”

For a second, he didn’t understand what she meant by those last words.

Then, he let his fingers part from her wrist.

The skin underneath was empty, just like his.

“I covered it with makeup,” she explained with a little hum while he stared, confused. The violence birthed in his chest by her previous insolence was dead now, no more than embers slowly turning to ashes. “Until I make the right shade for you, you can use bandages to hide that mark of yours.”

Hiding it didn’t feel enough - he wanted it gone.

“Why?” he snarled, the word hissing through his gritted teeth.

She met his gaze once more. Somehow, her eyes made him feel small. We’re equals, it seemed to claim. You’re neither above me, nor below. Not a god, not an empty puppet, simply a stranger wandering the woods nearby my temple.

She was wrong, but Scaramouche didn’t have the heart to correct her.

How fucking ironic. Yes, right.

“Why am I being nice to you?” she wondered, an eyebrow arched in pretend surprise. “To some people, it’s natural, you know. Perhaps you should try it.”

A snarl caught on his lips.

His fingers twitched, longing to catch her by the throat once more, and make her spill her truth. Yet, he found he couldn’t - what if her lips stayed shut should he assault her once more ? Answers, that’s what he needed most then, or at least it felt like it.

She was hiding her soulmate mark.

Why would she discard something he’d yearned for his whole life?

“Stupid,” he spat instead, the toughest violence he could afford. That felt weak, still. “Why do you hide it? Doesn’t every pathetic girl dream of their sworn lover?”

A laugh rolled on her tongue, and it echoed in his ears like raindrops.

Clear, gentle, and fresh.

“Misogynistic much, isn’t it?”

Scaramouche only groaned in response. She pursed her lips, holding back her smile - why? he wondered, for he wanted to see it - before sparing him the wait for an answer.

“Fate bores me,” she explained, her gaze averting from his face to get lost in the details of the bandages she held. The fabric seemed softer when she was the one to fold it just right. Scaramouche didn’t even protest when she wrapped it around his mark, too enthralled by her words as he was.

“Perhaps I’ll uncover it someday, but I want to choose,” she kept going. “See my soulmate for myself, and decide whether I want to remain by their side or not. I’ve seen enough men using those marks as a way to collar their lover, in an animalistic claim, almost. Should I marry a beast, I want to choose which one.”

She smiled, her fingers gently tapping on his mark as she tested the strength of the bandage.

“Are all men beasts, then?” Scaramouche wondered in a growl, for he didn’t know why, but he wanted her to keep talking.

The sound of her voice echoed into the emptiness of his chest, as if calling for the heart he didn’t own. There was something fascinating about her words, a ridiculous sense of arrogance he usually loathed in mortals - no one could walk against fate, no matter what she thought.

Perhaps he could see that arrogance in himself, too.

And perhaps that was why she felt like home.

“Lucky you’re not a man, then,” she commented, playful.

For the first time since that morning, when he woke up craving pain and blood, Scaramouche felt a scoff roll on his tongue. She’d softened his edges with the gentleness of her hold on that hated mark of his, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“No, I’m not,” he hummed in affirmation, glancing at her wrist once more.

Not a man, but a puppet, the words seemed to echo around him, singing into the breeze blowing through the branches of the cherry trees.

Not a man, but a discarded doll, the lying stars seemed to say, twinkling as they were above his head.

Not a man, but a god, Il Dottore’s voice whispered in his ear.

Hours later, the sun rose above the horizon, and he left her there, that shrine maiden. Spared her life and walked away without a single look behind, despite her insolence, despite the fact that her blood should have coated his hands. 

If it was his first act of mercy as an all-powerful deity, then so be it.

Soon enough, he would travel to Sumeru, to take his rightful place there.

And perhaps someday, he would come back and teach her, that stranger without a mark.

That the only beings weaving mortals’ fate as they wished were the gods, and he would be one soon enough.

----------

I wrote this in literally five seconds in between two nightmarish essays, i stg i never wrote THAT FAST in my life. wasn't really inspired but ehhh i think i kinda like it??? oh and i wrote the beginning of a part 2 to this so maybe i'll post it soon

also i've been obsessed with Genshin please send me all the requests thanks ❤️

[absinthc-blog]

tag  drop  !!

— ⟢ interaction  ⦂ ⋰ * ✧  name. — ⟢ sms  ⦂ ⋰ * ✧  name. — ⟢ twt  ⦂ ⋰ * ✧  name. — ⟢ snap  ⦂ ⋰ * ✧  name. — ⟢ paring  ⦂ ⋰ * ✧  name & name.

[dreamsclock]

based on this thread i made on twt :) set the day before the season 2 finale !! also i’ve never written c!punz so if he’s ooc that’s why lolol

warnings: exile arc mentions, mental deterioration, blood, mental illness, paranoia, broken found family, hurt no comfort

Here’s the thing: Punz likes Dream. 

He fucking loves Dream, alright: they’re brothers, forged in bloodshed and bloodbaths and blood oaths taken as careless gangly teenagers only just making their first marks in the world, when Dream had been bright eyed and Punz had been willing to see the best in people. Things are different now — he’s not the same kid he once had been, and he hasn’t seen Dream’s eyes from behind the mask in so long, but he doubts they’re bright — they’re still brothers, despite all of that. He still loves him. 

He does. It’s why betrayal is so hard. 

Because there’s no way to sugarcoat this, really. It’s betrayal, nothing almost, nothing not really about it, pure and simple, he’s betraying Dream in one day, and that’s not going to change if he tries to put it nicely. It doesn’t matter why he says he’s doing it — for money, for the good of the server, for Dream himself — it’s betrayal, and that’s how Dream is going to see it. 

Guilt sits where his heart should when he meets up with Dream in his underground bunker, hears his frantic muttering long before he sees him. And Punz isn’t an idiot, he’s not going to sit and blame himself for how Dream has ended up, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel responsible for not helping him. Hearing him now, mumble plan after plan under his breath, knowing exactly what state he’s going to be in when he gets down there, stings more than he’d like to admit. 

And yeah, Dream is exactly as he imagined he would be; decked out in heavily enchanted armour, axe in hand, shield in the other, pacing up and down and up and down and up as if he’s ready to fend off imaginary enemies, mask firmly in place as usual. Punz isn’t surprised, but his heart jolts anyway, and does an unpleasant little twist in his chest that he thinks might be regret. 

He doesn’t really recognise the man he’s looking at. 

“Dream,” he calls out, low, and Dream’s head jerks to face him, axe up and on the defensive instantly, before lowering it instantly when he sees who’s calling him, “just me.”

“Punz.” Dream exhales roughly, puts his weapons and shield away, though the armour stays on. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again before the end.”

Punz shrugs. “I wanted to check up on you. Before… the end.” 

The end. It’s a fitting name for what's to come. He jumps off the elevator, heading to his friend’s side: Dream is stiff but yielding when Punz pulls off his helmet, though stubbornly resists the rest of the armour. 

“How’re you holding up? Aren’t you uncomfortable in all that shit?”

“Eh, you get used to it,” Dream says, tucking his helmet under his arm and swiping his hair back, “I can’t be caught off guard and killed now. Not when we’re so close to getting control back. Not when we’re so close to winning.”

Winning. Getting control back. Listen to yourself, Punz wants to scream at him, those two things aren’t the same, this isn’t winning, look at yourself, you’re losing your mind. He chokes it back, because Dream sounds so reverent, an ugly note of desperation slipping into his voice, and Dream’s worse emotions have never been pretty — have always been explosive and abrasive and loud — but somehow the desperation from him coats Punz’s tongue like poison. It reminds him of exile, when Dream would come back after days away, a thousand miles from him, rambling about disks and control and Tommy, always Tommy. It’s the same desperation, same people: but Punz is smarter now. He knows a time bomb when he sees one, and Dream has all the signs of being one. Punz is smarter now. He knows it’s only time before Dream detonates.

Punz is smarter now — he’s not going to be around to be caught in the explosion.

(More merciful, too. He likes to think this will help Dream in the end, likes to tell himself that’s why he’s turning against him.)

(He doesn’t know how true that is.)

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” He asks, and Dream tilts his head, drifting away from him and begging to move around the room, one hand tapping nonsensical patterns into the wall. “Big day, man.”

“Big big day,” Dream agrees, humming, “the biggest. I’ll finally—” He laughs under his breath in quiet elation. “I’ll finally be in control. I’ll finally be able to stop the wars and the fighting and the— the stupid disks. I’ll be able to control everyone, make sure nobody gets hurt again. And things will go back to how they used to be.”

Dream turns to face him, and Punz imagines the too-bright, feverish gleam in his eyes behind the porcelain mask. 

“We can be a big family again.”

Punz remembers seven year old, gap-toothed Dream, little Dream who had extended a hand to him and very proudly proclaimed him another friend after only minutes of initial conversation. 

(“You’re part of my friends now,” Dream beams, tucking his hands into his pockets, “which also means you’re part of my family!”

“Family?” Punz squints distrustfully, suspicious and wary after too many years on the run. “You don’t mean that.”

Dream laughs like Punz is an idiot. “I do,” he says, and it’s impossible not to believe him, “course I do, Punzy. We’re friends now. And we always will be. We’re like a big—”)

“—Big happy family,” Punz murmurs, throat burning, “yeah. After tomorrow, I think we will be.”

Because maybe losing will reform Dream. Maybe losing will make him look around at angry, frightened faces and realise how bad things have gotten. Because right now? Looking at Dream surrounded by others’ attachments and dwarfed by the towering height and size of the bunker? Punz is looking at a stranger. 

And it stings, because he thinks at one point his only attachment to this server had been Dream. 

(And it stings, because he thinks he’s still attached to him, enough to hate who he’s become, enough to mourn the boy he’d once been.)

And it stings, because he’s leaving Dream for money, because Tommy had offered more, because Dream is too focused on his dream of a family and not on the crushing reality that it’s never going to come true. The server will never be what it once had been. L’Manburg had ruined that. Dream is destroying himself over a dream everyone else has woken up from, and Punz knows he can’t stop him. But he’s not going to get dragged down with him — he needs money to survive, he needs material goods because nothing else on this server is safe, and Tommy had offered the higher price. 

Money and the vague chance Dream will come to his senses if he has no one. That’s what Punz is running on. 

“You’ll come when I call, right?” Dream asks, gazing into the hole in the wall that, if he gets his way, will soon trap Bad’s only attachment — Prime, Punz thinks, not for the first time, this is fucked, this is so fucked. “You won’t let me down?”

Punz’s heart aches. “I’ll do what needs to be done,” he promises, and Dream is too distracted to pick up on his wording, “are you coming by my base to actually get some sleep tonight?”

Say yes. Show me you’re still in there. 

Dream doesn’t look up. “It’s okay. I can’t sleep right now. You should, though.” He hums low in his throat. “Rest up for tomorrow, okay? And— Punz?”

He stops. 

“Yeah?” 

When he turns around again, Dream is facing him, and his voice is softer than usual. 

“Me and you. We’ve got this. We know what we’re doing this for.”

(“Us against Pogtopia.” Dream’s smile is grim. “We can do this. I trust us, Punz.”)

(“We’ve got to do this,” Dream tells him, the facade of leadership slipping in a vulnerable moment, “we have to beat L’Manburg. We’re fighting for our home, Punz. Our family. We can’t afford to lose.”)

(“Punzy!” Dream laughs. “Me and you against the world. You’ll always be my friend, right?”

And Punz is less cynical than he used to be, because he knows the world can be good, and knows good manifests itself in a short nine year old with a smile as bright as the sun. “I’ll always be your family,” he says, because it’s worth it to watch the sun come out, “we’re brothers, Dream.”)

Punz’s chest twinges. 

“Family,” he agrees, thinking of the chest full of money in his base from Tommy, of Dream, old and new, “I know.”

He can see the shadow of a smile beneath the mask, and knows they’re both as hollow as each other. 

“See you,” Dream calls out, and he sounds so insignificant in the room, so crushed by its size and purpose, the weight of the world on his shoulders, “stay safe.”

Punz lingers at the portal entrance, heart heavy. “You too,” he replies, and he leaves Dream alone.