#this puppet? can take so much damage | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had.

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you.

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.”

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered.

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.”

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse.

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!”

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains.

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest.

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away.

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you.

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive.

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours.

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second.

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds.

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood.

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through.

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did.

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming.

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips.

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest.

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them.

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas.

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar.

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too.

Everything would be done if another city fell.

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry.

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down.

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him.

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another.

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm.

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike.

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that.

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do.

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness.

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up.

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did.

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!”

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock.

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious.

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream.

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static.

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead.

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out.

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t.

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life.

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.”

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile?

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky.

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him.

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine.

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact.

Your face gains heat.

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment.

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow.

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?”

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began.

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died.

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar.

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found.

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.”

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk.

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls.

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.”

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around.

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more.

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water.

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering.

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet.

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important.

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything.

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course.

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious.

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years.

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place.

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet.

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds.

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?”

You weren’t going to stop until you found it.

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet.

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him.

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you.

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you.

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard.

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?”

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it.

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.”

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.”

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after.

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question.

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile.

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building.

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told.

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood.

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch.

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago.

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system.

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real.

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three.

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices.

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.”

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible.

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet.

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?”

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years.

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?”

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh.

The man forces a weak huff.

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you.

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same.

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you.

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck.

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?”

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.”

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you.

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon.

TAGS:

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tadc-harlequin-au · 2 months

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If this was a game, I think a fun gameplay mechanic would be like a friendship meter. The friendship meter is affected by how you interacted with others. And if you have a higher friendship meter with people, they'd be more willing to help you. For example, companions with higher friendship do more damage when pomni takes them with her. Or another example is because ragathas kinda like the shopkeeper if she has a higher friendship her prices will be cheaper but if her friendship level is low they'll be really expensive. You can raise the friendship meter by going on side quests with the others or using positive dialog, and negative dialog makes the meter go down. Idk I just thought that it might be fun.

I like this idea. And you know what, FUCK IT.

AN AU OF AN AU!!!!!!! WHICH IS ALSO CANON-DIVERGENT FROM THE HARLEQUIN AU LMAO I TRULY AM AMAZING /j

THE AMAZING DIGITAL SOULS-LIKE!

I CAN"T seem to avoid the concept of "What if the Harlequin AU was a game instead", THE UNIVERSE KEEPS PUSHING IT TO MY FACE LIKE MY YOUNGER SIBLINGS WHEN THEY SEE A COLORFUL THUMBNAIL sighs....... back to my Shadow of the Colossus boss osts bullshit..... (affectionate)

The Amazing Digital Souls-like is a Non-canon compliant Alternate Universe (that's also a game rather than an actual fantasy world) of the Harlequin AU, where a stylized souls-like VR game called "The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin" came out at some point during the rise of souls-like gaming.

Waking up in a well-lit main lounge of a manor, the new, amnesiac Harlequin player is met by "Bubble", a Butler Blimp, and "Caine" The Puppetmaster (whom is VERY VERY LOUD btw), claiming to be the only one who can "help her" in her current predicament.

As to be expected, she's very much on the verge of a mental breakdown, barely keeping it together while attempting to make sense of the world around her. (seriously, who thought pitching this game who sucks people inside of it to the public was a good idea??)

The Puppetmaster then proceeds to infodump everything the Harlequin player should know:

That this is a souls-like game;

she is a Harlequin Puppet in the middle of a TERRIFYING ROBOT apocalypse!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SCARYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and that she has to go on a boss-rush type of playthrough IF she EVER wanted to have a chance at getting out!

He'll also be the game's official guide, to which the player is having trouble digesting all this information (not surprising at all.)

When asked what's her name, she can't remember and begins crying onto the floor again (lmao skill issue). The Puppetmaster then picks one at the top of his head; "Pomni", which she reluctantly takes because it's better than having nothing.

From there on out, Pomni undergoes through a series of hardships as she dies (in a video game!!!!!!!!!!!!! MIND YOU, SHE DOES NOT DIE IN REAL LIFE!!!!) over and over again, attempting to defeat various bosses, who are the NPCs. She gains more and more confidence in the battles, but she's still quite the nervous wreck otherwise.

But hey, at least she's getting quite close to Caine, right? He's so nice, and sweet, and very caring of her, careful to reassure her that she's doing a great job with the tasks. There's also a deja vu in her head that's telling her this is somehow familiar, and his presence is a comfort to her.

Surely, everything's all fine and dandy, right?

... right?

Little did this Harlequin know, there is a DARK secret to all this.

And that is the fact that the late bosses aren't just regular boss AIs, they're OTHER PLAYERS trapped in a boss's body, for some goddamn reason. She finds this out when she accidentally does a good chunk of damage to a boss's heart, making them able to speak to her for a bit before going back to being hostile.

With that in mind, Pomni has to DELIBERATELY hit their very durable hearts, if she wants them to be reform as normal players as the hearts imprisoned the ACTUAL avatars of the players.

The Puppetmaster is taken aback, but seems to let Pomni do her way reluctantly.

Once they are freed however, they become Pomni's allies, but they seem... unnerved by the Puppetmaster and tend to avoid him. Every time Pomni asks them why, they're just quiet and looking away. Otherwise, they seem to be grateful and helpful to Pomni about anything else.

This of course, raises Pomni's suspicions of the game's advisor, but she still needs to comply with the rules of this world and thus, has to keep throwing herself to the wolves over and over again.

By the time Pomni frees the Maddened Princess of the Theater, The Puppetmaster declares her ready to face with THE FINAL BIG BAD HIMSELF, The Patriarch of Puppets, an "evil entity who transformed everyone into horrible Puppet monsters". Everyone scoffs silently.

Pomni, according to him, must defeat the Patriarch as the final step to video game freedom.

But by the time Pomni arrives to the final arena, The Patriarch attempts to have a conversation, and seems to be struggling with himself.

The Patriarch explains that his boss body contains "Able", someone who was close to Pomni in real life, who entered in the hopes of making his brother leave the confines of the game. He was able to remember details due to his admin access. Caine only agreed to leave IF he was capable of defeating all the bosses without using his admin abilities, "just like old times".

It was only until his late game run when he figured out (after a heated argument) that the original AI gamemaster, the very heart piece on Caine's chest, took over Caine and was making him act like a manipulative monster. When he tried to pry the heart piece away, he got sealed in the Patriarch's body as punishment.

The Puppetmaster may be unable to revoke his admin access, but it can be sealed off.

Able's been stuck ever since, but still secretly had a bit of access to the game codes if he did it on the low, an oversight by The Puppetmaster, and thus, managed to gain some semblance of control over the Patriarch's otherwise very hostile and bloodthirsty AI just in time for him to talk to Pomni.

The Puppetmaster denies these accusations, and advises Pomni not to believe the boss's manipulative words.

Pomni now has two choices.

>Kill The Patriarch of Puppets, or >face The Puppetmaster.

"Kill the Patriarch of Puppets" ending:

if Pomni decided to not believe Able, he loses his control over The Patriarch and the final boss fight begins. Once Pomni is victorious, The Puppetmaster then congratulates Pomni, but reveals a secret: That there was never an exit.

Pomni simply passed the final test, and now, she's ready to become a boss herself. Try as she might, she cannot escape this and she becomes "The Mechanical Jester of the Circus", the new final boss of the game. All her movesets are reconfigured to become the boss' attacks.

Able resets to normal, now forever trapped to be The Patriarch as The Puppetmaster corrects the previous oversight. The others are reset to become bosses again.

A new player joins, unaware of the horrors that awaits them.

Sad ending :((( How very tragic....

"Face the Puppetmaster" ending:

if Pomni decided to believe Able, a boss fight still ensues but this time, The Patriarch of Puppets is only the Penultimate boss instead of the final stretch. Pomni frees Able, who reforms into his original 'card deck' avatar and regains administrative access to the game.

The Puppetmaster accuses Pomni of breaking his heart and breaking game rules, and thus, has to battle with him IN ONE GO. There is no more reset button for her.

But Able comes in clutch and ensures her that HE will be the one to make sure Pomni can come back as many times as possible to finish the fight and free Caine.

Once Pomni is victorious, The gamemaster heart piece breaks, and Caine is knocked out. All the blocked out memories return to the players.

(Able's design belongs to sm-baby btw!!!!)

Apparently, the VR game was revolutionary. Players could physically enter the world and be immersed in the game's astounding graphics, creative boss rushes and open world exploration aspect. It did VERY well initially, but not well enough to stand the test of time.

Player numbers eventually dissipated when the brothers moved on to greener pastures (so the game didn't have updates), and the AI gamemaster was heartbroken for essentially being abandoned. As a result, any new players that entered the game could not escape, simply because they all forgot they had access to the menu from the very beginning. lmfao

When Caine rediscovered the game and wanted to replay it for old time's sake, the same fate befell him. The gamemaster recognized one of his creators, and took over his entirety, becoming The Puppetmaster.

Able followed suit, wanting to let Caine out but he was sealed into the Patriarch's body before he could succeed.

Pomni, who's actual name is "Penelope", was Caine's significant other in real life and got worried that Caine wasn't responding to her calls while she was on a business trip. She tried contacting Able, no response either.

When she finally arrived to their apartment, The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin game was on, and recognizing it to be the brothers' old souls-like game, she put on the headset. And from there on out, the story begins.

The other players are able to forgive Caine's actions, and not pass lawsuits once they are able to go back to the real world. Now, with the gamemaster gone, the game has become somewhat active again, though this time, it was the others (and additional new people) hopping in back into the game just to hang out and maybe do some DLC boss rushes implemented by the brothers.

It's pretty epic, y'all. Happy ending yippie!!!!!!!!!

Now if you'll all excuse me... OWIEEEEEEEEEEEEE MY ARM AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

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cloudysfluffs · 1 month

Text

--And Once with Tickles!!

A/N: BLARHG i havent posted a fic of any kind in like four years. and i havent written a TICKLE fic in like SIX years!!!! so i might be a little rusty. but this fic has been in the works for OVER A YEAR NOW and itd be a shame if only my bf gets to see it :P so im posting it to da world!!!!!

Summary: basically just if the tickle scene from Sock Opera was longer ^^'' its literally my favorite tk scene of all time so now you can have an entire fic where i stretch it out for 5k words!!!!!!!!!!!! <3

Lee: Bill? Dipper? Bipper <3

Ler: Mabel + Stan

WARNING: THIS IS AN SFW TICKLE FIC!!!!! KINK/FETISH BLOGS DO NOT TOUCH!!!!! MOST OF THE CHARACTERS IN HERE ARE MINORS AND ALL OF THEM ARE RELATED!!!!! DON'T BE WEIRD!!!!!

“Whoah, whoah, hey-- hey, HEY!”

SMASH!

The cake prop crashed against the ground with a horrible crackling sound, breaking apart beneath both of their weights. There was a collective jump and gasp from the startled crowd. Even the puppets themselves-- or, at least, the soul piloting them-- seemed taken off guard.

Despite the panic and destruction, neither Bipper nor Mabel took too long to shake it off. Bipper landed on the ground, on his stomach, just a few feet away from Mabel, who’d landed on her side. Instantly, he pushed himself up, eyes wide, feeling around the floor for the journal. A stagelight swiveled, reflecting off the shiny gold cover, and both of them leapt for it with the determination of a starving animal on a hunt. They touched down at the very same time. They wore matching, angry glares, each gripping the journal so tightly that their knuckles were turning white. Mabel knew, as she squinted to avoid the spotlight, that there was no hope in saving the show. But there was hope for saving her brother! And if that meant sabotaging everything she worked for, then…Well, it was about time she sacrificed something for Dipper.

They rolled across the stage, tumbling over one another, until Bipper’s head reached the edge. If he craned his neck backwards enough, he could see the confused and terrified face of the audience. Something he would’ve found amusing, if the stakes weren’t so high. Mabel was on top of him, her knee on his stomach, and both hands on the journal, tugging and yanking with all her might. He just held on, harder, gritting his teeth. The very same thought was in both of their minds. I’ve almost got it!

“Get out of my brother’s body, you evil triangle!!” Mabel yelled, pressing her leg down even harder. Enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to cause any lasting damage. She really had to engrain that thought into her head. Once Bill got out of here-- and she would get him out of here-- it would be Dipper’s body suffering the consequences. He’d already been through too much. It turned out to be just enough to get the book to slip out of his hands. Both of their eyes widened in shock, but before Bill could give too much chase, she made sure to whack him with the journal. Just for good measure. She’d wanted to do that this whole time!!

Mabel stumbled to her feet, running back to center stage, just as Bipper was starting to sit up and rub his forehead. He growled, in a way she hadn’t heard since she was in Stan’s mind, in a way she knew her brother couldn’t replicate if he tried. Fascinatingly, she watched as his face seemed to heat up, reddening his skin even more than it had been already, as he pushed himself off the ground. If he were human, she may have assumed his failure had embarrassed him. But this was Bill, they were talking about…so, if she had to guess, this was his human-body equivalent of his yellow turning red. Kinda cute! In a weird, gross way.

“Grrr…You can’t stop me!” He scowled, his eyes narrowing on the book. Mabel looked behind her. The set pieces blocked access backstage from this side, and while she could move to the stage stairs, or even jump down, that’d take a good amount of coordination. Before she could decide…she was leapt on. She gasped, feeling the air leave her lungs as she was tackled to the wooden floor. The journal slipped from her grasp, and landed on the floor beside her. Both she and Bipper placed their hands on it at the same time, hers on the edge, and his on the palm of the cover. Bipper was sitting on top of her, straddling her waist, his chest heaving as he panted. She felt breathless, too. But, as she stared up at him, still pink in the face, and with a tired, yet satisfied grin on his face…It was as if something clicked in her mind.

“I’m a being of pure energy, with no weakness!”

Mabel stared at him, almost in disbelief. It seemed so obvious. In any other circumstance, it would’ve been the very first thing she thought of, when searching for a method to gain the upper hand in combat, without actually hurting the other person. She did it to Dipper all the time! So often, in fact, that she figured the townsfolk wouldn’t bat an eye, if they saw her do this at her own show. For the first time, it was her turn to get to wear that smug, knowing smirk. She brought her other hand around to rest over the journal like a seat belt, just so he couldn’t snatch it while she talked.

“True…But you’re in Dipper’s body!” She reminded, to which he huffed, as if offended. What, did she think he forgot? For once, it was like she could read his mind, because she picked up for him. She lifted the hand that wasn’t protecting the journal, and wiggled her fingers.

“And I know all his weaknesses!~”

Bipper quirked a brow. In the split second between her final comment, and what she was going to do next, she could see the cogs visibly turning behind his eyes. He wasn’t used to not knowing what was about to happen. Typically, at a glance, he could look at a person and see right through to their mind, where he could pluck their thoughts and plans right out. Sometimes, he knew what someone was about to do before they did. Having to rationalize like a human made it so he had to manually run through his own mental database, for what she could possibly mean…It was such a broad assessment. He was human, for christs’ sake. What wasn’t a weakness to them, really? They couldn’t handle being stretched too far, or bleeding too much, and their limbs could only bend to a certain point. Humanity was so fragile! It was honestly a mystery how they survived so long. But he’d pinned her like this for a reason; how could she possibly hurt him?

“What do you mean his--?”

Before he could finish, Mabel lifted her wiggling fingers…and slipped her hand into his jacket, pressing them just underneath his arm.

Bipper felt as if his entire body seized. In the half-second that the sensation touched down, he was overcome with a surge of physical reactions he’d never experienced before. First, he shivered, goosebumps freckling over his skin. It was as if every nerve in his body ignited, with an odd, fluttery tingling. Worse, perhaps…was the way he vocally reacted.He gasped, and squeaked, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise leaping from his throat. The glare, which he’d taken pride in withstanding, was forcibly wiped from his expression, replaced by a shaky smile. It felt like his insides were bubbling. But when he opened his mouth to express that concern…he realized what it was.

“GaHhh--! AAAaahhahahahahaha!” It was the urge to laugh. Uncontrollable giggles poured out of him like bubbles to a heated cauldron. The heat he felt rush to his face only made that metaphor seem all the more accurate. Mabel and the audience might’ve heard Dipper’s voice, but he heard his own. The helplessness in his tone disgusted him. Out of his own control, his reflexes went haywire, demanding that he get anywhere as long as it was away. Robbed of the motor skills required for any complex movements, he found himself toppling backwards, pinning his arms to his sides. He’d hoped falling would be enough to put distance between him and his tormentor, but it seemed like the opposite had occurred. The moment he was down, she took advantage, by climbing on top of his waist, instead. She wriggled the fingers of both of her hands under each of his arms, ruthlessly scribbling for long enough for him to feel as if any attempts at fighting back would be futile. And then, she slid both hands down, grazing his ribs, before settling on his sides. The motion elicited another yelp, and another full-body shiver, before he settled back into the helpless giggling that had possessed him before.

It was unusual. It was unbearable. It…tickled.

“Tickle tickle!~” Mabel cooed, and for some reason, Bipper felt a heat rush to his cheeks. In fact, the burning sensation stretched all the way to the tips of his ears, making him feel compelled to wrench his eyes shut and turn his head away. The words-- or was it that voice?-- made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Somehow, it seemed like her touch only tickled more, the teasing worsening the odd hypersensitivity afflicting his nerves. His hands locked around her wrists, and he arched his back, shoving pitifully while he used his heels to kick at the ground. Whether it was due to the tickle-induced weakness, or the pose was just that effective, he didn’t get anywhere. Mabel smirked, baring her braces like fangs, like she could see just how much the comment worked on him. Dipper couldn’t stand that, either!

“Awww, whatsa matter?~ Does it tiiiickle?~ Are you too tiiicklish to handle it?~ Kitchy-kitchy-koo!~”

“S-StahahaAAahahahahahahap!” He hissed, scowling, cursing the stutter in his voice. Damn Pine Tree’s twitchy little body and his squeaky little voice! How did he live, being so sensitive?? He couldn’t bear to listen to another word of that teasing, bringing his hands up to cover his ears. And, in retaliation, Mabel’s nails skittered upwards again. They passed over his ribs, before again settling into a gentle scratch just under his arms. It got the exact same reaction the downward motion over the same spot had caused; a gasp, a yelp, and a full-body shiver, all before his arms snapped right back down again. Both of them seemed irritated by that last response.

“AAGhh-! Whyhyhyhyhyhyhyhy cahahahahahahahan’t I mohohohohove my ahahahahahahahaharms?!”

“Reflexes!” Mabel chimed in, instantly, as if it were obvious. To a human, it may have been, but for Bill, ‘reflexes’ were an entirely foreign concept. He’d never felt so…effortlessly disarmed. And that was coming from someone who spent a good chunk of his life in the second dimension, and, the rest of the time, was confined to the mindscape. He was already relatively harmless. But somehow, when he had a physical body to interpret reality with, being helpless was so much more torturous. He knew the human body was pathetic, but really, how had they survived this long as a species, if all it took were a few pokes to entirely collapse them?? Perhaps it was a combination of how unfamiliar the sensation was to him, and how sensitive Dipper’s body was, anyway…but he felt he reserved the right to mentally complain, anyway. He felt naturally more whiny. As if Mabel could tell, she grinned, and retracted a hand.

“Here, let me help you!”

Her now-free arm shifted backwards, so her hand could lock around his wrist…and force it upwards, pinning it to the ground beside his head. The other hand, that had been trapped in place, wriggled its way out. She crossed it over his body, and switched which side she was attacking, her claws now slipping into his jacket to scratch beneath the arm she’d pinned. It all happened so quickly, Bipper hardly had the chance to look horrified…before he fully squealed, his laughter ratcheting up another octave.

“EEEEeeehheheheheek!! ‘Hehehehehehehehehelp’?!” He echoed, offended, the bite of his tone lost in his giggling. He wanted to argue more thoroughly, but good god, that tickled so much more!! He arched his back, jerked at his elbow, and turned to one side, desperate for something-- anything-- to put distance between his skin and her nails. Talk about feeling disarmed! He thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, and yet, here he was.

“Yeah! Help! Now you don’t have to flail your arms around; you can just lay back and take it!” Mabel interjected, with an innocence that seemed far too natural for how cruel she was being. Bill saw some of himself in her, sometimes. With that kind smile, and flattery. So, sweetly deceptive. He had to hand it to her, she knew how to get ‘em! This girl was brimming with potential; the unicorns and butterflies and rainbows were just a thin blanket to mask the chaos that she was capable of. The little brat. Maybe he could use that someday. But now, it only aided in annoying him.

“You’re welcome!~”

He wasn’t an idiot. He saw what she was trying to do. But just in case he didn’t, she told him, anyway. Mabel leaned down, eyes narrowed, so they were practically nose-to-nose.

“Get outta Dipper’s body, or I’m gonna tickle you until you pass out!!”

He growled, trying to force the corners of his lips down into a frown. She wished it would be that easy! He may be weakened, and disarmed, but please! Who did she think he was? As if he suddenly realized he had control over his not-pinned hand, he reached over to try and grab at her wrist, to pry the hand attacking him away from the spot. It did work, partially, as the tugging would occasionally slide her hand downwards…but that only meant her wiggling fingers would graze his ribs, instead, and he’d be possessed by that yelp and full-body shiver that seemed to trigger every time. The reaction weakened him. As if he wasn’t weak enough!

“Nehehehehehehehever!” He insisted, with just enough bite in his words for him to feel a swell of pride. He was starting to get used to it! His smile suddenly seemed all the more smug, practically a smirk, despite the fact that it was hardly warranted, in his current state. He was still laughing, and squirming, his entire body leaned to one side to reflexively counteract the nails scratching away at him. Mabel huffed.

First, her eyes drifted to the stage. She wished she could see Dipper. To everyone else here, she was tormenting her innocent brother in front of an audience for no apparent reason. Worse, none of them, not even their most loved ones, would get an honest explanation. Whoops. She’d apologize to him later. In the meantime, she turned her head in the other direction.

Everyone out there seemed absolutely captivated. Well, for the most part, at least. Some seemed confused, others seemed shocked. A shocking amount seemed pretty flustered, while others sported the exact opposite mood. She could just barely see Candy and Grenda confusedly flipping through the script just off stage. But, generally, most of the crowd was enjoying this thrilling multi-media masterpiece. Even those from the Mystery Shack. In fact, maybe especially those three! Mabel couldn’t help but smile, as she met their eyes through the smearing, colorful stage lights.

Wendy was leaning back in her seat with her boots kicked up on the empty chair in front of her, an amused smirk on her face. Though she couldn’t hear anything coherent from the crowd from up here (and wouldn’t be able to, anyway, over Bipper’s high-pitched squealing), she could tell that Wendy snickered, as she elbowed Soos in the side. Soos was one of the members of the audience who seemed a little flustered over the whole endeavor. Even in the low lighting, Mabel could see just how red his face was. He was grinning nervously, and fanning himself with his cap, and flinched just a little too hard as he was nudged. It was all very sweet. Truthfully, she didn’t care if this ruined the show for most of the audience, because it wasn’t for them anymore. It was for Dipper! …But it did make her feel good, to see them enjoying themselves. And no one seemed to be enjoying himself more than Stan!

Earlier today, he seemed to be a little skeptical about coming. He was swayed incredibly easily though, which was rare for him. He was probably the most stubborn man the twins had ever met, and yet a good puppy-dog-eyed stare and a promise that the end would blow his mind was enough to convince him that maybe this memory was priceless. He’d even brought a camera to film it. Even with one of his eyes obscured by the pop-out window of the old recording device, she could see how widely he was grinning, the expression on his face one of fond amusement. He must have assumed that this was the ‘spectacular closing act’ that she’d been bragging about just a few hours earlier. It wasn’t, but if this went well, he’d never have to find that out! He caught her looking out upon the crowd, and tilted his head so more of his face was visible, his grin seeming all the more proud. He gave her a reassuring thumbs up, and she felt a new wave of confidence wash over her. She could do this.

Her eyes fell back to the demon pinned beneath her, who hadn’t stopped giggling and struggling since she shifted her attention a few moments ago. He’d probably been yelling insults she’d been too distracted to hear. She squinted at him suspiciously. If this were Dipper, she’d be jumping to his spot about now. Heck, that’s probably what she’d do when wrecking anyone! But…this wasn’t Dipper. It wasn’t ‘just anyone’. This was Bill! He already seemed to be getting the hang of this sensation, with how consistently now he was shoving at her hands, and how successful his thrashing was becoming. If she let up for even a second, he might even be able to wriggle away, or worse! She needed to not only tickle him to death, but she needed to make the session intense. What was something Dipper wouldn’t be able to stand…?

Her gaze flickered to the crowd again. And, suddenly…she stopped.

Her smirk returned. Her wiggling fingers ceased, and instead that hand grabbed Bipper’s opposite wrist, so she was now pinning both to the floor. The demon-possessed vessel gasped the moment he felt a moment of solace, obviously annoyed by the fact that his giggle-fit didn’t immediately die. Every time he inhaled, or exhaled, he found he couldn’t stop laughing, like the feeling was still there, under his skin. But he was too out of breath to do anything about it! He fought with this natural, human response, while Mabel sat up as straight as she could.

“For my next act, I’ll need a volunteer from the audience!” She announced, proudly, as if it made any logical sense. The poor crowd was going to be so confused. But she didn’t need most of their approval. She only needed it from one. She grinned, and shut one eye, so she could point directly at her grunkle.

“How about you, good sir? You look like you’d make a fine actor!”

Stan lifted his head away from the viewfinder, visibly startled. He glanced to either side of him, pointed to himself, and brightened when Mabel nodded in approval. He didn’t hesitate any longer than that, handing the camera over to Soos (who fumbled with it for a moment, before giving a reassuring thumbs up) and climbing out of his seat.

Bipper was only just starting to regain his composure, when he realized what was going on. He shook his head, and blinked open his eyes, squinting out at the crowd. Jesus, had the kid’s eyes always been this bad? He almost missed Sixer’s glasses. But, the very moment he processed that Mabel’s hands had released his wrists…thick, strong arms wrapped underneath his, scooping him up into a sitting position, pressed against someone’s chest. He felt like a cat being hoisted into the arms of their owner, unable to do anything but twist his shoulders and try to wriggle out of his grasp. Mabel was still sitting on his legs. He glared over his shoulder. The light reflected off of Stan’s glasses, obscuring his eyes, and for some reason that made him look intimidating. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was in such a small, wimpy body; anyone could look like a threat, when everyone towered over you. His hands balled into fists.

“Wh-What is this?!” He scowled, stammering, trying to roll his shoulder to free it from the old man’s grasp. But it seemed like every inch that he managed to unwind, Stan just pulled him back even tighter. It was so effortless, it was hard to feel anything other than pathetic. No wonder this kid was getting tickled constantly! Everyone in town had a leg up on him!

“Let go of me!”

“This is called a grand finale!” Mabel declared, straightening her back and cracking her knuckles. The smirk on her face was downright sinister. An evil that Bill couldn’t help but think rivaled his own. She was an expert at this, wasn’t she? She knew this would up the game, considering the strength difference between them. Even with her best efforts, she wasn’t strong enough to keep him fully still. And even if she could, she’d lose leverage by being unable to use both hands. But the addition of another person-- him, especially-- had immobilized him completely, without her ever having to lift a finger. Not to mention how calculated this whole trap with her ‘grunkle’ had been. She hadn’t even had to speak word to him, for him to understand exactly where his place was, in all of this. Maybe they were psychic. Or maybe they really just did this that frequently. Man, he’d almost pity Pine Tree, if he deserved it! But he hardly had time to dwell on something like that, anyway. Not as he watched Mabel lift her wiggling fingers threateningly.

“Last chance!”

She was bold, too. But so was he. And that would be his first mistake. Daringly-- challengingly-- he smirked.

“Pssh, yeah, right!” He chuckled, rolling his eyes. Mabel glared, as he turned up his nose, quirked a brow, and scoffed. Anyone who thought this was Dipper might almost see it as in-character behavior. He’d been similarly snarky, around this point in sessions. Stan even rolled his eyes right back, and tightened his grip, as if he’d found it predictable. But anyone who knew the truth, knew he wasn’t doing it for any reason other than to call her bluff. This was a pathetic excuse of a torture attempt. He thought smarting off would prove as much. When, actually…it did the exact opposite.

“Like I’d be convinced by a little tihihiiihihiHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHICKLING--!!”

Mabel’s wiggling fingers finally dug into his ribs. And it felt so distinctly different from the other spots, or even from how it felt when she was just grazing them earlier. It was like he’d been electrocuted, from the way his body jolted uncontrollably, and the way the sensation gripped him like a shock. The yelp of terror that jumped from his throat broke in the middle, fully replaced by helpless cackles.

…Okay. Maybe not his proudest moment.

Maybe he should’ve known better. Maybe being in this body too long was getting to him. Maybe the stupid, human impulses that he’d gotten so good at ignoring also included this vessel’s apparent desire to talk himself into corners just to get himself tickled. Whatever the case, the whole time this had been going on, the more he felt his resolve…slipping. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, like his body suddenly remembered that it hadn’t gotten proper sleep in over twenty-four hours. Every part of him was sore, not that pain could even begin to compete with the tickly jolts shooting through his ribs. He considered the pro’s and con’s of dislocating a shoulder just to weasel out of here, but he couldn’t properly think. He swore he could literally feel circuits shorting in his brain, glitching and sparking and stuttering where the neat rows of coherent thought used to be. It had been a beautiful process to watch, from the other side…but was miserably frustrating, when it was your plans getting thrown out of whack!

He wanted to growl. To kick, and scream, and either kill this vessel or one of the two holding him back. Whichever came first! But, all that came out was…

“SHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUT UHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUP!!”

…A very pathetic attempt at defiance. Enough that each of his attackers dared to snicker at him in amusement. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, thrashing and twisting in the restraints.

“W-WHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEN I GEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHET OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOUT OF THIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIIS, IHIHIHIHIHIHI’LL--! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’LL--!!”

Mabel couldn’t help but notice just how…not-evil he looked, like this. Bill’s base form had no mouth, and yet he somehow always seemed to be grinning. Earlier, she’d seen that condescending smirk in Bipper. But now it was gone, and she was seeing a face she’d never quite seen before. It wasn’t quite the flustered, giggly look she got from her brother, but it was far from the invisible, malevolent smile that Bill was always wearing. It was something in between. It might’ve fascinated her, if she was any less focused on the task at hand. Her nails, while dull, knew how to press just right, to tickle as much as possible without translating into physical pain. She scratched at the spaces between his ribs, and played the bones like a piano, watching in satisfied amusement as every motion elicited the same, predictable reaction. Cackles, squeaks and voice-cracks echoed through the auditorium, almost sounding musical against the backing-track of her rock-opera, that no one had bothered to turn off. If anything, Bill was even squirmier than her brother was, which was certainly saying something. This was usually the point in the session where Dipper gave up fighting, especially when Stan was helping, since he obviously didn’t have a chance. But Bill still had some fight in him!

“I don’t know what you did to deserve this, but clearly you’re gettin’ what’s coming to ya!” Stan accused, glancing over Bipper’s shoulder in an attempt to make eye contact. The kid was clearly avoiding it. But he still peeked up, for just a moment, if only to make a point to glare. Stan took advantage of his disorientation, knowing he was disarmed just long enough for him to be able to let go of his arms. Instead, he grabbed both wrists, and pulled them behind his back, like how a cop would while handcuffing you. But he didn’t need handcuffs, because his hands were big enough in comparison to grab both of the kid’s wrists in one of his palms while still having his fingers touch in the middle. And, with one hand free…he was able to pull out one last trick.

Fingers skittered up Bipper’s spine, spurring out an involuntary shiver that was so intense, Bill was a little surprised it didn’t jolt him out of this body entirely. He didn’t get to dwell on how scarily close that had been to breaking him, though. Because in a second, that single skittering turned into a consistent, unrelenting scribble, and any coherent thought that was left slipped out through his fingers.

“AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

Right. Almost all of the Pines’ were ticklish here. Maybe he should’ve seen that coming.

It was positively overwhelming. Every curl of his blunt nails against the spot had his nerves lighting up in a frenzy, activating the useless instinct that had him squealing and laughing like this whole ordeal was the most hilarious joke he’d ever been told. But no part of this was funny!! Not when it was him! It was humiliating, at best, and a total disgrace to his reputation at worst. He was glad the folks at home couldn’t see this, because they would never let him live it down.

“Ooh! Good call, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel praised, finally looking back up to meet his eyes with an approving smile on her face. She wished she could give him a thumbs up, but her hands were kinda busy. Bill couldn’t help but bristle at how unfair it was, that Stan could restrain him like this. He couldn’t lean forward even if he wanted to, and leaning backwards only pressed him further into that hand! And, somehow, despite the trap being objectively more simple, it was more confining! Now, he didn’t even have the privilege of flapping his hands, or making vaguely threatening gestures. And it all just tickled more! It was cruel, and unusual. He wrenched his eyes shut, and felt tears build in the corners. Crying had always been an annoying, uncontrollable thing his puppets did, but it felt especially humiliating in this context. Way to rub salt in the wound.

“MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAKE IT STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

Whether it be a blessing or a curse, neither of the two around him had a chance to respond to that miserable display of emotion. Because, somehow mockingly, his body turned against him. When he tried to catch his breath, he felt a hiccup of air in his chest…that caused a snort.

The two at either of his sides brightened. And the crowd aww’ed.

He’d forgotten they were there. He was on a stage, and yet, the fact that there were more than four of them here had slipped his mind. Earlier, if he’d remembered, he would’ve shrugged it off. Whatever, who cared if they saw him like this? It wasn’t his reputation that was going to suffer for it. It was Pine Tree’s, who now had to go home and live the rest of his life knowing that most of this town had seen him get tickled on stage. And that was still, objectively, true! He knew that. He knew none of them would think twice about it. So why did the sudden realization have his face blushing hotter? Why did he feel this horrible, anxious fluttering in his stomach, like he was full of spiders? He didn’t know. But he knew it had to end.

He couldn’t take it. It wasn’t just his self-inflicted injuries that ached, now, it was others-- his sides, and his throat, and the corners of his lips, were all begging him to just stop laughing. Other than the ache, he was pretty sure he could feel this vessel overheating. Being put in this embarrassing position had struck a match inside of him that was slowly cooking him from the inside out. But more than that, he was tired. And that was hardly a feeling he even understood. Alas, the human urge to melt into a puddle and sleep for eight hours was, apparently, real. He was on the verge of uttering a genuine please, if this didn’t end soon, and he didn’t want to pull that card unless it was a life-or-death situation. So, apparently, he only had one choice left…

Damn it. It wasn’t fair! He’d let them have this win, but his fun wasn’t over. This plan was only the first of many tricks he had up his sleeve. He glanced up at Mabel one last time, eyes narrowing, as if he could glare at her very soul. But she only countered it with a smirk. She knew she couldn’t lose. She’d never lost a tickle fight against her brother!

Suddenly, the sound of his laughter began to taper off. It quieted into a fit of twitchy, broken coughs; it almost sounded like he was glitching. But then he slumped in his spot, quiet…and all four hands retracted. Dipper’s body melted into his Grunkle’s chest, eyes closed, as if he was out cold. Both attackers pulled back for a moment, visibly tense, and met eyes. Mabel, because she was testing to see if this was a good sign…and Stan, because he was genuinely startled. Jesus, he’d never passed out like that before! Usually he called it, when he knew he was getting to the end of his rope! Did they kill him on accident? There was a beat of silence that was just long enough to raise concern...and then, quick enough to be startling, Dipper sat up. He gasped, and clutched his chest, panting like he’d been awoken from a nightmare. And, well…he sort of had! Both of his family members jumped.

“Ahh!! He’s back!!” Mabel accused, lifting her clawed hands in preparation to strike again. She didn’t expect her brother to scream, flinching backwards in horror.

“AAHHhh, M-Mabel!! It’s mehehe, it’s me, it’s me!!” He pleaded, bringing up his arms to protect himself in a panic. The squeaky, nervous little voice sounded different than it had, just a moment ago. Less confident, less angry, and more…well, like her brother. If it was an act, it must’ve been a pretty convincing one, because she lowered her hands. Slowly, skeptically, Dipper lowered his, too…and she saw his round, brown eyes staring back. Her posture fully relaxed, and her grin returned to her face. It actually worked!! Tickling always worked.

#tickle fic #tickle art #tickling #my art #my fics #lee!bipper #ler!mabel #ler!stan #ive never been more nervous to post something in . my life #im just gonna hope and pray it reaches the right audience #sfw tickle community #sfw tickles #tickle community #gravity falls tickle

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merakiui · 4 months

Text

me & you, beyond a horizon so blue.

scaramouche/wanderer x (gender neutral) reader cw: slight angst, brief and vague mentions of scaramouche's past and the shouki no kami fight, you and wanderer have adopted a child together, this fic takes place before scara tries to erase himself in irminsul note - after he's defeated in a fight against the traveler, scaramouche wakes up in the distant future and learns a few things about an emotion he's always felt undeserving of.

It’s dark until he has the courage to force his eyes open.

Immediately, he wants to shut them. Near-blinding, the afternoon sun beams into his room through a part in the curtains. If he were human, it would have caused some sort of irreversible retinal damage. He’s not—though he isn’t spared the impending irritation—and so he’s able to adjust with relative quickness, his indigo eyes soon finding comfort in the brightness. It means a new day has dawned. He’s not dead—if that mortal concept can even apply to a puppet like him.

With a weak groan, Scaramouche drags a hand down his face and, like a sluggish, reanimated corpse, sits up in bed. The sheets are clean and soft, a soothing balm amidst the unrest that vibrates through him. It has been a long while since he’s slept through the night, preferring the shadows over the sun. Nocturnal like nature intended. A creature created in gloom can change and adapt, but it will always seek familiarity no matter what.

Intrinsically like a rooted habit.

It’s only natural he would be forced into sleep, considering the fall was not pleasant, nor was the inevitable impact. He brings his fingers to his cheek, presses against the area, and assesses for injury. Nothing is damaged.

But then nothing is fixed. Not internally.

Having expected the dreary interior of an infirmary, he’s struck with bewilderment when he makes note of the bedroom he’s currently confined to. It’s furnished like a typical residence, unlike that of any inn he’s ever known, and there is a strange sense about this space. As if he’s always known about it and has just recalled it, destined to wake here one day and submit himself to its simple charms.

This can’t be right.

He’s never seen this bedroom before, let alone slept in it. Until now, that is. Perhaps a part of him has subconsciously willed it into existence with all of his fruitless wishing, the result of some illusion weaved from the intricacies of hopeful dreams.

Scaramouche glances at the bedside table, his brow furrowed in the beginnings of a wary scowl. Something is so obviously, painfully not right. He knows it has something to do with this room and the fact that he’s alone and unguarded. Lesser Lord Kusanali is not a fool, no matter how much he’d like to comfort himself with that delusion, and so he knows there should be no reason why he’s here instead of where he’s meant to be.

And then he hears them—voices. Three of them, actually. One is high and giggly. It’s a little girl. Judging by the intonation of the other, an adult. Her guardian, to be more exact. He can’t place the third, especially since it’s one that sounds so grossly affectionate. He’s never heard anyone, human or not, speak with such tender warmth.

He’s never known such a thing. Not in a long while.

Scaramouche throws the covers off at once, stumbling from the bed in a panicked flurry. Watching it like it’s a threat, he clutches his chest. He doesn’t feel a heartbeat; rather, it’s the crackle of Electro deep within the core of his being that resounds, fizzling like snapped, angry circuitry. His fingers dig into wrinkled fabrics and he takes pause, realizing his actions.

To think something as mundane as a bed could startle him.

To think comfort would feel like a curse.

What a joke. Even here, I’m not allowed the peace of a lonesome parting.

He walks on intact legs, bidding the room a final glower before throwing the door open and stomping outside. Wherever he’s found himself, whether the mortal coil or a place beyond, he’s determined to get out. He pays no attention to the picture frames on the wall as he stalks down the hall, his mind working twice as fast to conjure a plan. If this place proves to be foul, there will be casualties. Three of them.

Bloodshed is nothing new.

What is new, though, is the scene he walks into when he approaches the kitchen, stepping through the threshold and immediately stopping short when he sees himself.

Only…he’s different.

“You’re in poor shape,” his other self comments, almost conversationally, as if this sort of talk is casual. He’s dressed in breezy colors: whites and blues, the prettiest of hues. It’s a color scheme he would never entertain at present, but it sings of free skies with fluffy cumulus. An unburdened soul, light as a feather.

Scaramouche opens his mouth to retort—so are you—and shuts it because that’s not true. His other self looks better than ever as he sits at the table. He looks healthy.

He looks happy.

“Whoa! There are two Papas?!”

He flinches, horribly rigid, every sense on high alert. His gaze pans over to the little girl peeking out from behind your legs. She looks at him like he’s a wonder to behold—like he’s someone worth adoring.

It’s different. It’s not the fondly fearful gaze of a devout follower, nor is it the clinical stare of a mournful creator or a deranged doctor. It’s something else.

It’s…

What is it? What is that emotion—the one that has evaded him for the entirety of his existence?

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. We were beginning to wonder when you’d wake up.”

He turns to look at you. A smile softens your features. Coupled with the glorious sunlight filtering in from the window, you are the most seraphic creature he’s ever seen. Horrified at the development of his thoughts, he hardens his face into a vicious glare and tamps down the weakness that rises to the surface.

“You were expecting me?” he asks, but it sounds like a demand. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Why don’t you take a seat? I can fetch you a cup of tea,” you offer, your voice gentle and coaxing. He glances at the little girl. Her gaze is worn down with worry.

“I will do no such thing,” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. “You have no authority over me. I’ll sit if I so please, and I do not please. So I will not sit, nor will I indulge in tea.”

His other self barks out a laugh. “To think I was like that… I was intolerable.”

“Still are,” you reply with a cheeky grin.

“You’re just as bad,” he snipes back, but there isn’t any heat to the remark. There’s that emotion again, reflected so clearly when he’s looking at you. His other self smiles—genuinely smiles—and then addresses him next. The smile tightens into something serious. “Relax. We’re not going to bite.”

“No, but I can and I will. Don’t think for a minute that just because you’re me I won’t—” He stops himself when the little girl tugs on his shorts, peering up at him with more wide-eyed concern. Rather awkwardly, he does his best to bring his attitude to a child-friendly level. “I… I’m fine.” He searches the silence for her name.

“Aaliya! Nice to meet you, Papa Number Two!”

Scaramouche nods mechanically, moves to bend down to her height, and then straightens again, thinking better of it. “What is all of this?” His hand sweeps across the room. “Just who are you?”

Like clockwork finely tuned, you and his other self exchange a furtive glance before nodding. It’s some unspoken language Scaramouche can’t decode. He frowns as he watches this interaction, even more suspicious than before.

“Aaliya, could you draw something for me?” you ask, guiding her from the kitchen towards the neighboring sitting room. Aaliya grabs a notebook and pencil from the countertop as she goes, humming her compliance. “We need another masterpiece to hang up, and you’re the best artist we’ve got.”

She giggles. “You can count on me!”

The sound calms him. He almost allows his shoulders to drop. Almost.

Scaramouche watches from the doorway, observing the way you interact with the girl. It’s parental and adoring. You care for this child, and she cares for you.

Just what is that elusive emotion? Why can’t he place it?

Once Aaliya has been successfully distracted with the allure of art, you return to take your seat beside his other self. Scaramouche stares between the both of you, utterly lost.

“You don’t have to sit—not like I could get you to after you’ve made up your mind—but, at the very least, let’s talk.”

Scaramouche’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”

“So entitled…” His other self sighs. “I shouldn’t expect anything less. I am you, after all.”

“Was,” he corrects astutely. “This isn’t the present day, and it can’t possibly be a dream.” He scrutinizes his surroundings, slowly fitting the pieces together. “It’s gone on for much too long.”

His other self tilts his head, playful. “Are you sure you’re not just stuck under Buer’s thumb?”

Right. Dreams. Lesser Lord Kusanali can poke her nose in and out of dreams as she pleases.

“Plausible, yes. But this is too detailed. And you—” he gestures to Blue Scaramouche— “are different. I wouldn’t dream of something so inane. Something like…this.”

Something so carefree and content, he almost tacks on as an afterthought, but he refrains. Weakness.

“Oh, but of course. You’re too good for good things,” his other self jeers, sardonic in a way that incites violence. He pushes that urge away. There’s a child nearby. “For what it’s worth, we’re still the same person.”

“Do not compare me to a weakling like you.”

“Hah? You think I’m the weak one? I’ll show you—”

“Wawan, relax,” you say, moving your body to obstruct his view.

Both look on, horrified.

“Wawan?” Scaramouche ventures, brows furrowed.

“You…” He turns away with a huff.

“What? It’s cute! You like it!” You smile and nudge him.

Scaramouche is in awe, nearly slack-jawed from witnessing such a bold display. If anyone were to do that to him—to the fearsome Lord Harbinger Scaramouche—they would not get away unscathed. In fact, he’d subject them to a death so brutal they’d beg for release even in the afterlife. No one lays a finger on him unless they’re actively seeking a bloody finale. More importantly, no one reduces his being to such flowery nicknames.

Disgusting.

His other self—this Wawan fool—recovers from his flustered state and clears his throat. “Wanderer,” he says, hurrying the syllables before you can make any more comments. “The name I go by. You should know it because you’ll use it one day.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Wanderer’s expression softens at that—out of sympathy, he realizes. Uncharacteristic, Scaramouche thinks. I do not soften, nor do I sympathize.

“You lost, Balladeer. There is no future for the god you hoped to become because he doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

He bristles, suddenly defensive. “And who’s to say I haven’t already achieved godhood? Your claims are as useful as a corpse. You have no valid proof.”

“But I do. I’m you.”

“Even so, you’re woefully uninformed if you can so carelessly prattle on about—”

Wanderer sighs again, and this time you offer your hand. He hesitates, looking between Scaramouche and you, before his hand slips into yours, holding tight. Scaramouche’s face twists.

Foul.

“You failed, and this is the result of that—the future neither of us could have foreseen.”

“Failure is a strong word,” you chime in, running your thumb over the top of his hand. You look at Scaramouche next. “You didn’t succeed, yes, but you can learn from your mistakes and grow.”

“And grow I so apparently did,” he mutters, bitter and resentful. “Into a weakling who…” He pauses, his tongue heavy in his mouth, eloquence escaping him. “A weakling who… Who shackles himself to idyllic nonsense with nothing but…” His fingers curl into tight fists. “Nothing but filthy weaknesses to show for it.”

Nonplussed, Wanderer submits to temporary silence, to the comforts you provide. There’s a feeling sprouting between the both of you. Neither of you says anything, but you understand regardless. It’s a silent sort of communication, an undeniable connection. An understanding fostered from that despicable emotion.

With an offended scoff, Scaramouche turns swiftly on his heel and freezes when he finds Aaliya standing there. She peers up at him, studies his poker face, and presents him with her drawing.

“Papa tells me love is hard, but it comes easy when you’re with the right people. You need to be willing and accepting. When you are, love will find you and you’ll find love.”

She presses the parchment into his hands. Shakily, he beholds it. It’s a poorly drawn family portrait, but Aaliya’s artistic talents mean nothing to him. It’s the first time he’s ever been willingly included in a portrait. A family portrait. The only time someone has bothered to document a side of him that isn’t the vindictive, villainous, ever-raging tempest he’s known for. The one time he’s ever known what it means to be loved.

Ah. There’s that emotion. That temperamental, difficult, stormy emotion. It’s love.

In this future, he is treasured and cherished. He has a family. He has love, and he feels it and it’s reciprocated. Or Wanderer feels it, that is. But Scaramouche can see it: the quiet intricacies of your relationship—it’s all the result of love. You love him. Him—a being who was never created for the sake of loving. A being who has always been undeserving, unfit for the burden of divine admiration and reverence. You love him, and he loves you. Godhood and power and control—none of these things matter when compared to love itself.

Scaramouche stares at Aaliya next. He folds the drawing into a neat square, clutches it in a trembling fist, and—

And he cries.

Silently. His shoulders do not shudder. He does not gasp and wail like a newborn. It is entirely soundless, a reaction delayed by years. Tear trails streak down his porcelain cheeks in steady streams. His lip wobbles.

And he cries.

He cries as he brushes past Aaliya, ignoring her protests and your mumble of, “Let him go. He needs space,” while he flees, beelining for the bedroom. He cries when he unfurls his fingers to cradle the folded square in his palm. He cries when he thinks of the life he’s lived—the suffering and the lies and the tragedy and the backstabbing and the manipulation. He cries because he can’t hold back anymore. Because he failed. Because he will never be a god. Because he is inadequate in the eyes of the divine—as unsubstantial as a common pest.

He cries because he’s loved. Because someone has found something within his fractured being that’s worth loving.

He cries into the night, curled in on himself to protect what’s left of his exposed weakness.

It’s dark when he closes his eyes, and unlike before they remain shut. Because if he opens them—if he doesn’t patch up the damaged floodgates—he will cry.

And it hurts to cry.

And Scaramouche, for all of the pain he’s dealt, has never enjoyed being on the receiving end of agony, self-inflicted or otherwise.

It is a long, sleepless night punctuated with the soft pitter-patter of rainfall.

He’s lying sprawled like a defeated starfish when the first few rays of sunshine poke through the window. Groaning, he slides his arm over his eyes. He knows himself, even if Wanderer is a version of himself he has not yet experienced, and so he doesn’t expect to be checked on. The silence is both a comfort and a curse, smoothing his nerves and chewing through to the core of his being.

He thinks I’ll come to him first. How utterly foolish.

Scaramouche turns his back towards the sun and presses his face further into the sheets, drained of energy even though he’s just woken up. His ears prick at the sound of a girlish giggle and he lifts his head slightly, his eyes sliding towards the window. Aaliya skips down the pathway, carrying a basket in one hand and holding another girl’s hand with her other.

A friend, Scaramouche observes, watching the girls until they’re out of sight. He hears you call out to them even though they’re already long gone: “Be back before dinner and don’t get into any trouble!”

He peers at his own hand and flexes his fingers experimentally. Is everyone this feeble in the future, or am I just too strong?

There’s a knock on his door next. He intends to lie back down and block the world out, but instead he sits up and stares.

“Balladeer, I’ve put a pot of tea on. You’re more than welcome to have some if you’d like.”

He won’t dignify you with a reply. Or that’s what he initially thinks, but then he’s covering the distance to the door before he can stop himself. He yanks it open, much to your surprise.

“I—” he starts, his scowl mellowing into a reflection of the cold and cruel Fatuus he’s known to be. “I…will have a cup,” he finishes, oddly subdued.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk. You can glare at us if it makes you feel better. Just make sure to take care of yourself, okay? We’re here for you if you need anything.”

He scoffs, straightens his posture into something regal, and pushes past you. “I was feeling much better until you opened your mouth and spat that irritating dross.”

You exhale through your nose, tentatively stepping into his path. For a minute he considers sweeping past you, but deep down he knows that he—the one he supposedly becomes in the future—would regret it. He would hate to push you away when you’re making an effort to be close—an emotional proximity he’s so clearly avoiding.

“You’re always welcome here.”

“Considering the circumstances, you have no choice but to be hospitable. It’s pointless to feign sincerity just because I’m here. I’m not fragile. Do not treat me as such.”

“You’re right. You��re far from fragile.”

He opens his mouth to argue that point and then pauses, absorbing your words with a dubious frown.

“You may not believe me, but you’re very resilient and so strong. I should know because I wake next to him every morning, and his existence is enough to remind me that he’s come a very long way.”

Smiling, you continue onwards. Scaramouche stalls, wondering what that could possibly mean. A very long way from what?

He’s not sure he wants the answer to that.

As if it matters.

“Without spoiling too much, I’ll say you’re in for a world of development,” Wanderer says once Scaramouche has graced the kitchen with his arrival. He’s sitting at the table, which is set for three people and adorned with the usual Sumerian snacks. The scent of tea hangs in the air, fragrant like perfume. “Lots of fun things.”

“Fun,” Scaramouche parrots, his nose scrunching. “What an unconventional way to refer to countless days and nights of agony.”

“I never said it’d be easy.”

“You never said it’d be difficult either.”

“Both of you,” you cut in—vocally and physically, you’re standing between the two of them— “no fighting at the table.”

Wanderer takes your hands in his when you lower into the seat beside him, his thumbs tracing delicate patterns into your skin. “Do you see how troublesome he is? Did you really have to put up with him all those years ago?”

“He’s part of you, Wawan.”

He scoffs. “No part I particularly care for anymore.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest so the couple in front of him won’t pick up on his discomfort. “I’m not asking to be cared for or coddled. Hate me all you want. I don’t intend to like either of you.”

“Well?” Wanderer raises a brow, a smirk lazily tugging at his lips. “Insufferable.”

“Bitter like your tea,” you agree, to which Wanderer and Scaramouche huff in unison.

They glance at one another, searching the other for an indication of mutual tolerance, before turning away.

“I suppose,” Scaramouche says after a beat of silence, “I shall indulge. Be grateful.” He steps closer towards the table, lifts his cup from its saucer, and brings it to his lips. It’s lukewarm and just as bitter as the tea he’s enjoyed in the past. “It would be a shame to let tea go to waste after your efforts to prepare it.”

He nods in your direction and you beam under his approval.

“Thank you, Balladeer.”

His brow raises, but he doesn’t ask. You fill in the blanks yourself.

“This is the current you. Right now, Wanderer and I, this entire home, the life we share, and even our dear Aaliya—none of it exists in your present. If anything, we’re just a dream to you. So who else are you if not The Balladeer?”

Who else…

“Obviously I’m no one in this…reality.” He frowns. “If I’ve become that, there’s no need for any of my current aliases.”

“Perhaps not, but you’ll see for yourself when you get there.”

“I’d rather not. I’ll simply shut my eyes.”

“Avoidance is a common symptom of unresolved trauma,” Wanderer oh-so-helpfully adds.

“Oh, you’re a comedian now, are you?” But he isn’t laughing.

“Just passing on a fact I learned. You’ll hear it for yourself one day. Why not share it in advance? Soften the blow a little.”

“And you’re so perfect?”

“I have no intention to be.”

“Sure.” Scaramouche sips his tea, swallowing the torrent of insults weighing heavy in his mind and on his tongue. “I suppose all of this just fell into your imperfect lap then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before they can continue their petulant bickering, you gaze sharply at Wanderer and then at Scaramouche. He’s never felt compelled to obey anyone; he’s never needed to heed those who have always sat below him on the hierarchical pyramid. But for some reason he shuts his mouth and lowers his gaze to the floor.

This is pointless. I must find my way out of here at the earliest convenience before he drives me into the ground with his irritating sentiments.

“Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. He’s our guest, first and foremost. We should treat him like one.”

“I guess it can’t be helped. If this truly is our reality for the next few days, there’s no point in living in denial and self-loathing,” Wanderer concedes with a huff.

“Which is precisely why we should welcome this opportunity. It might not come around again.”

“Let’s hope it never does,” Wanderer and Scaramouche admit at the same time.

That elicits a giggle from you, and they turn on you with disapproving glares. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not funny—I know. I just couldn’t help it. You’re the same person, yet so different. Even your stares hold different feelings.”

Scaramouche won’t acknowledge your observations with a response. Instead, he watches his reflection as it warps and wavers in the tea. And then he drinks.

This is by far the most excruciating dream I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

There is no pain or death in this dream. No power tantamount to that of a god. He may as well be an apparition without an apparent place in this world. But there is domestic bliss and that is by far the most torturous aspect of this dream.

To think anyone could look upon my visage with such tenderness… You must be out of your mind.

“It’s not like I particularly care, but you seem to lead a quaint life.” Scaramouche sets his empty cup down and leans against the wall, his arms folding impetuously. “Why?”

Wanderer, troublesome menace that he is, bats his eyes and pulls you against him in a possessive half-hug. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

Scaramouche wants to scowl, but he refrains. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“It’s mostly quaint,” you cut in, smooth as alabaster. “Life is always busier when you’re with your loved ones and there’s plenty to do—never a dull moment, as they say—but I don’t mind it. I like busy days.”

The delivery sounds rehearsed, but Scaramouche suspects it’s the truth. Your eyes soften and your smile mellows into something adoring when you nudge Wanderer. He almost retches outright when his other self nudges you back, discreetly reaching for your hand beneath the table. He won’t comment, but it prickles his skin with disgust when he watches this display. His other self fancies you so openly… The current Scaramouche would never.

Could never.

“Also, busy days prevent useless idling.”

“And keep boredom at bay,” Wanderer finishes. He assesses Scaramouche with a fleeting once-over. “You’ve always been a sad, lonesome existence. Your busy days were but minor distractions meant to fill a bottomless void that could never truly be filled.”

“What of it? I prefer solitude.”

He exhales a humorless breath. “Centuries of solitude and all it took was a single vase of flowers… Neither of us could have guessed.”

A vase of flowers? he wonders, bewildered, but too prideful to ask for an explanation. When will I ever receive flowers?

“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” you say, sipping at your tea with a cryptic smile. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘good things’ for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Even if you don’t think so, you’re deserving of good things. Everyone is, even if they’ve done something bad.”

He waits for the gutting punchline. It never comes.

He watches the world beyond the window: fluffy clouds, grass rustling in a breeze, a bird hopping about on the ground. His reflection frowns back at him. “I don’t agree.”

Wanderer shrugs. “If you say so.”

“That’s okay. If that’s what you think, who are we to judge your opinion?”

Briefly, Scaramouche wonders how you can have the patience to put up with him. With Wanderer, he thinks, even though he knows he’s just as troublesome, if not more.

He finishes the rest of his tea and then rises from his seat.

It’s not as if it matters. He doesn’t fit in this family portrait. He never will.

But he does in some distant future.

How peculiar…

Scaramouche wakes on his third day in a rather pleasant purgatory. As it happens, he’s still stuck in this unusual cottage with a bizarre doppelgänger.

So be it, he thinks, sitting up in bed. It occurs to him that he hasn’t been very resistant since he was plucked from his timeline and dropped here. But what is there to resist? You and his other self? This comfortable home? Family? Happiness? Love?

I should get back to my world as soon as possible. That’s my priority. Do not get distracted.

Ideally, he’d like to imagine that’s where he belongs, but he knows there’s no place in this world—or any other world and timeline—where he’s wanted and accepted. At the very least, there’s some semblance of home in his timeline. Even if it isn’t the most welcoming.

When he wanders into the kitchen, he finds you standing over the stovetop. Strips of meat sizzle in a pan. Sitting at the table, doodling on a blank page, is Aaliya. He hasn’t spoken much to her since his first day, and she hasn’t come to his room to pester him.

“Let him settle in,” you and Wanderer tell her whenever she stalks past the closed door.

Still, he feels the beginning of a smile pull at his lips as he watches her kick her legs to and fro to an imaginary tempo.

I’m looking after a child in this timeline. Me. A parent…

He struggles to fathom it.

“Oh, Papa’s back!”

“Already?” You whirl around, a greeting on your tongue. “Ah, no, honey, that’s our visitor. The Balladeer is his name. He does look like Papa, though, doesn’t he?”

“B-Balla… Ballaba… Babadeer?” She scrunches her face up, perplexed.

Scaramouche offers her a gentle, understanding smile. “You may call me ‘Baba’ if it’s easier to pronounce.”

She lights up immediately. “Okay! You’re Baba and Papa’s Papa!”

He finds that the term is more endearing than any alias he’s taken on in the span of his lengthy existence.

“Speaking of, where is he? I would assume he’d be smart enough not to leave me by my lonesome.”

“He’s out for the day. Won’t be back until later.” You lift the pan from the stove and proceed to distribute breakfast between two plates. He shakes his head at you when you attempt to fix him a plate. With a shrug, you add, “You slept in. How was it?”

“Acceptable,” he admits, lowering into the chair beside Aaliya. “I suppose it’s better than most places.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” You place a cup of tea in front of him. “Bitter. Just how you like it.”

Scaramouche eyes it like it’s poison. “Your hospitality is…appreciated.”

“What do you think?” Aaliya lifts her drawing, proudly showcasing the portrait she’s sketched of you.

Scaramouche is a critic of many things. Art is not one of them. Still, he takes the page in his hands and spends a moment admiring the shaky linework.

“Very wonderful,” he praises, and he means it. “You should become an artist.”

“I want to, but I also wanna be like Papa. He’s really smart.”

“Is he now?”

“Mhm! He’s studying at the Akademiya. My friends told me only really smart people go there.”

I’m a scholar? Truly? He looks to you for confirmation. The proud smile on your face is answer enough. To think this is what becomes of me in a distant reality…

“A commendable occupation. You should always do your best in your studies. They’re very important. But most of all…” He hesitates. Thankfully, his other self isn’t here to listen to his encouraging words and ridicule him. He’s certain he’d never hear the end of it. “You should pursue what you enjoy.” He reaches out to pat her on the head. “Always dream, Aaliya.”

“I will! I promise.”

Scaramouche doesn’t do promises, but somehow he’s convinced by this one.

You sit across from him. “Time to eat, my dear. You can finish your pretty drawing later.”

She nods and pushes her pencils and crayons away in favor of focusing on her plate. Scaramouche watches, stiff and awkward. Family meals are not an unusual occurrence, but it’s been so long since he’s spent quality time with another living creature. With humans.

Am I really so foolish that I’d willingly indulge in a life with humans? Don’t I know better?

“Wawan told me your arrival might be linked to a faulty Ley Line. We’re not sure when you’ll return to your world—if that’s even a possibility—but until we know more you can stay here with us.”

“If I must. Although I assumed that was already established.”

You chuckle. “Is that right? Then it looks like you’ve gotten comfortable in the three days you’ve been here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your singular deeds are not enough to earn my veneration.”

“I’m not trying to.”

With a huff, he averts his eyes. An uncanny feeling crawls up his throat and settles on his cheeks. You hide your playful grin behind your utensils and eat alongside Aaliya in peaceful silence.

If only everyone could see him: a puppet now named Wanderer, who attends the Akademiya and has a family of his own. A puppet who seems complete when he surrounds himself with his loved ones. It’s impossible to live in denial when all of it is unfolding before his eyes like a fantastical tale in a storybook. He really can’t believe it.

“Tell me—am I fulfilled in this reality?”

You blink back at him, and suddenly he regrets asking. There’s vulnerability in a question like that. An open wound waiting to be exploited.

“Will knowing put you at ease?” Before he can snap back with a defensive reply, you add, “I suspect you’re already aware of the answer.”

He stares at the amber-colored tea in his cup. “I am,” he confesses quietly.

“And do you feel any better?”

“Am I supposed to feel that way?”

“I can’t tell you because there’s no right or wrong way when it comes to emotions. You just…feel them.”

Just feel them?

“I’m more conflicted than anything else. That Wanderer fool… He can’t truly be me. I would never allow myself to grow so weak. To surround myself with weaknesses… How utterly thoughtless.”

“What you see as weakness is his strength.”

Scaramouche’s gaze slides from the tea to you. “And he… And I… I’m happy here? This isn’t a grand farce?”

“As absurd as it seems, this is to be your reality. You’re not always going to be happy. Sometimes you’ll dwell on the past. Sometimes you’ll feel angry and upset. It’s all part of existing.”

“That sounds horrendous.”

“What does?”

“Existing. Isn’t it tiring? I’ve never understood how humans do it.”

“It’s tiring, yes. But it’s also very rewarding. To exist is to cherish happiness and weather hardship. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. Sometimes all you need is enough.”

What if I’ve never had enough? What if I’ve never had anything?

He shuts his mouth. So many questions flit around in his head, but he already knows the answers to most of them. He just doesn’t want to hear it from himself.

To have enough when you’ve never had anything—when you’ve never felt like anything substantial—he surmises Wanderer can sympathize.

The first few drops of rain patter dry earth. Like dolls moved with wire, you and Scaramouche turn towards the window to watch water beads pearl on verdant fronds.

“Oh, it’s raining!” Aaliya exclaims with a delighted giggle.

Scaramouche reaches to touch his cheek. A single tear wets his fingertip.

“Huh,” he mumbles. “So it is.”

Sitting on the stoop, watching worms wriggle in wet soil, Scaramouche sighs.

“Did you know the worms sometimes lose their way when it rains?”

“Is that right?” he murmurs, glancing at Aaliya who scoops one up from the stone path and places it in the grass. He smiles at her kind impartiality. “It’s very admirable of you to help them.”

“Mhm! Papa tells me even worms need homes, so it’s important to help them when the rain washes them away.”

He breathes a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “I really said that? That’s difficult to imagine.”

Ironic, too.

“If no one helps, how will they find their homes?”

“They’ll find their way. Everyone does eventually.”

“Even you?” She blinks at him from where she stands in the grass, worms held in her palms.

He exhales slowly and gazes skyward. The clouds have opened to let in the tiniest peek of sun. “If worms can find their way, then so, too, can I.”

He’s not sure he trusts it. Not now, at least. But it’s just as inevitable as the shifting seasons—an undeniable, irrefutable fact. He’s changing, if only slightly, and soon he’ll be in Wanderer’s shoes—a puppet with a home and a family. With all of life’s greatest joys and sorrows at his fingertips.

Aaliya sets the worms down in the grass before meandering over. She lowers to sit beside him, resting her head against his arm. “I believe in you, Baba.”

“Thank you.”

Soft as rain, subdued like a snuffed candle, his voice doesn’t waver. For the first time in a while, Scaramouche is defenseless. He’s not so sure he believes in himself. Wrapped in waning sun, listening to the hushed sway of grass, he tries on a smile. Albeit awkward, it fits.

He knows why his future self has become the wind, free and flowing, gentle and tumultuous all at once. Liberated from the past.

Even though he has his doubts, he knows he’ll get there soon.

The sky clears up just as Wanderer’s form comes into view. At first, he’s an insignificant pinprick against a blue sky. Aaliya jumps up from her spot on the stoop to run the rest of the way, calling out to him in an eager voice.

“Feeling any better?”

He keeps his eyes pinned stubbornly ahead. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“You’re our guest, silly. Of course I’m going to be concerned if you’re not comfortable during your stay. Ah, but I expect you’re coming up on the end of that, aren’t you?”

He blinks at his hands and realizes they’re transparent. “So it appears.”

“Does it?” you tease, patting him on the shoulder. Or you try to, at least. Your hand goes through him. “Guess it wasn’t very funny.”

“Not in the slightest,” he snaps with a scoff. He checks to make sure Wanderer isn’t within earshot. He’s kept occupied with Aaliya, who jumps around him like an energetic bunny. “But… Thank you…for everything. I’m aware I wasn’t the most grateful guest, nor the kindest.”

“You don’t have to be. As long as you felt safe and secure during your time here, despite everything that’s happened in your timeline, that’s all that matters.”

Scaramouche stares at you. I suppose it was a worthwhile escape. Unnecessary, but worthwhile.

“It wasn’t as hellish as I thought it’d be.”

“I’m glad. It was nice having you.”

Just then, Wanderer approaches. Aaliya sits proudly on his shoulders, her fists in his hair. “Glad to see everything’s still in one piece. No atrocities today?”

Suddenly, any sort of security Scaramouche might have been feeling evaporates. He’s reminded that it’s impossible to endure his other self for more than a few minutes. It’s actually impressive you’ve put up with him for this long.

Love is weird like that.

“Go back to the Akademiya and maybe you’ll learn a better sense of humor.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of joy?” Wanderer chuckles and levels him with a playful smile. His next words are tender and truthful. “Good luck on your journey. Have lots of fun.”

What sort of fun could possibly be found in pain? I don’t want or need your sardonic optimism.

“Oh? Baba’s leaving already?”

Scaramouche and Wanderer share a look. You smile behind your hand.

“Baba?”

“P-Pay it no mind!” He reaches for his hat in hopes of relieving everyone of his flustered expression and stops short. He’s not wearing his hat. He hasn’t had it this entire time. Refusing to admit he forgot such a crucial detail, he turns away and folds his arms over his chest. “It matters not.”

“Sure,” Wanderer concedes, but Scaramouche can tell he’s thinking something snarky. “We’ll go with that.”

“Thank you for visiting us,” you interject before the two of them can argue semantics. “Even though our time together was short, it wasn’t any less enjoyable.”

“I’ll miss you, Baba!” Aaliya extends her arm for a high-five.

“Careful now,” Wanderer warns, steadying her on his shoulders. “I suppose, though you’re more trouble than anything, it wasn’t so bad seeing my past self again.”

“You’re a welcoming lot,” he says with a curt nod. “It made this entire debacle slightly tolerable.”

“Only slightly?”

“Your presence didn’t add anything of substance. Don’t get it twisted.”

“Hmm. Perhaps not. At least I get to say I saw you once more.”

At that, he rolls his eyes. Am I supposed to feel flattered?

Wanderer smiles, but Scaramouche can’t place the authenticity. Maybe it’s there and he just doesn’t want to confront it.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know the feeling well enough.”

“And live every day one at a time. There’s no rush,” you advise, sweet like a real parent.

“I believe in you, Baba! You’ll find your way just like the worms.”

Wanderer raises a curious brow, but instead of ridiculing him he takes your hand in his and squeezes. Aaliya giggles and pats Wanderer’s head. The three of you make a family. Togetherness. Love. It’s everything he’s never had.

Now he understands. When Wanderer is with you and Aaliya, he’s whole. He’s happy. Free. He’s turned a new leaf. There are still so many apertures and questions—so much he’s missing from a puzzle not yet pictured to completion—but he isn’t worried. Equipped with this new information, he finds himself at peace with the present situation.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again in this timeline, but if we do let’s not dwell on the past.”

Scaramouche can feel his consciousness slipping from this realm, every sense pouring in like light through the gaps in trees. Just before he can make sense of it all, he notices the pendant glowing just above Wanderer’s chest.

Impossible… Is that what I think it is?

“You have a lot to look forward to, so next time let’s talk about the future.”

Suddenly, he’s not so sure he wants to leave. Scaramouche steps towards his other self, hand splayed, and wants to say something. Anything. A million words and phrases stick to the roof of his mouth.

I’d like that, he thinks just as the rest of his corporeal form vanishes in a blip.

Scaramouche comes to in the infirmary. He lifts his arm towards the ceiling, observing shattered fingers and broken joints. Thin cracks run along his arm—surface injuries as far as he’s concerned. They’ll be gone within the day, a testament to his self-sufficiency.

You’re very resilient and so strong. Someone once told him that. But who? And why does it warm him so?

“Oh, you’re up!”

He gazes sidelong at Lesser Lord Kusanali, the God of Wisdom, past the wellness bouquet on the bedside desk, and his features harden with antipathy. “Buer.”

“Did you have a nice dream?”

“Dream?” He scoffs. “I don’t dream. Not anymore.”

But it feels like I’ve been asleep for ages… Just what have I been doing all this time?

“Everyone dreams—even when they’re awake. Dreams are what give us hope.”

“Not me.” He turns on his side and shuts his eyes to block her out. “I have no need for childish dreams and misguided hope.”

What does it matter? I have nothing. I am nothing. There’s nothing for me in this rotten world.

Her hum of acknowledgment reaches his ears. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Scaramouche scowls. Stop poking around in my head. You have no authority over my thoughts, Buer. Get lost.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m here to give you a second chance.”

“I don’t want it. It’s pointless to put me on the path to redemption. Inane, even.”

“Redemption starts with recognition. If you realize that what you’ve done is wrong and are willing to change, redemption will find its way to you.”

He inhales a long, weary breath. “What more is left for me?”

Scaramouche, despite his grandiose title, feels small lying here and contemplating the worth of his existence.

“Plenty of things—good and bad—that you’ve yet to experience.”

He tries to envision what these things could be and turns up blank.

Strange. I was so certain… He sits up in bed, clutching the space where his heart would be if he was human. I could have sworn there was something…

He gazes at his palms next. What happened while I was unconscious?

Surely he witnessed a joyous scene. Otherwise why would he wake feeling so…hopeful?

Inhaling a resolute breath, Scaramouche decides it doesn’t matter.

“Why don’t you take some time to think about it? I may not know the full extent of the turbulence in your mind, but I do know it’s not something to treat lightly.”

The void is both loud and quiet when she departs, and now he’s forced to come to terms with his reality. He lost. Even as a manufactured deity, he was still unfit for godhood. It was a moment so short-lived it was practically a blink—insignificant in the colossal tapestry of time.

“What a joke,” he spits, glaring at the wall ahead. “All of that for nothing…”

He sits back against the cushions and drowns in the silence. It doesn’t comfort him.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. Where has he heard that line before?

Perhaps it was just another delusion.

Scaramouche’s gaze is drawn to the bouquet next. The flowers are fresh and vibrant, each blossom a representation of good health and happiness. Someone placed these here. Someone went out of their way to assemble a bouquet in his honor and then send it over. He wonders if this is the work of Lesser Lord Kusanali.

Who else could muster the empathy for a sorry creature like him?

Will knowing put you at ease?

He thinks it might. At the very least, it would soothe a restless part of his being—the part that craves a connection and yearns to be wanted despite everything he’s done. He wants a heart and a home. He wants to feel the rays of the sun stinging his skin and bathe in the exhilaration of being alive and in the moment. He wants to finally know all of the sweetness he was deprived of in life. The sweetness that comes from love in all its many shapes and forms.

Scaramouche reaches for the bouquet and pauses. He could swipe it off the table and watch rumpled petals scatter amidst shattered glass in a puddle. He could ignore it and pretend it’s not worth his time or attention.

He wants to act like it doesn’t matter, but something’s nagging at him.

For once, the feeling isn’t terrible. For once, he has something to look forward to—an anchor to cling to in this vast, wild sea.

And he isn’t going to let go.

#genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader

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vro0m · 2 months

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the whole thing around how drivers will race even when injured and/or sick for the sake of their teams and the championships rlly gives me the ick honestly, especially bc of the message it's sending to kids in junior series, which is that they should be willing to sacrifice their health and wellbeing if it means they go up in the standings or whatever. f1 historically being a dangerous sport probably hasn't helped this idea, esp taking into account the glorification of things like niki coming back after his accident in '76 to keep on fighting for the wdc and senna's death, but the fact that it's persisted this long honestly can have some really dangerous implications. yes, these injured drivers go onto win races and championships (niki only losing the wdc at the last race in '76, max winning races and eventually the wdc 2021 despite blurry vision following silverstone, lewis winning formula a with a broken wrist (at 15 too which is properly mind boggling honestly), lewis getting pole in german 2019 despite having a 40ºC fever, carlos winning australia after appendicitis, oscar winning hungary with a broken rib) but imo it's setting a borderline dangerous precedent for other drivers and kids coming up through the junior formulas.

What annoys me about it is that the athletes themselves can't say no, in this sport or any other. They can't and won't say no because they've been taught to not listen to their bodies and to push through and sometimes that they are weak if they need a break* and that the chance they have to be where they are is fleeting and they need to be on top all day every single day to not lose it. So they won't say no.

Remember Qatar 23? Some of these drivers reported losing vision in the corners due to the heat and the effort and they didn't stop. Ocon threw up in his helmet twice and he didn't stop. George said he almost passed out before the end of the race. He didn't stop. Only Sargeant stopped.

Noah Lyles ran the 200m with covid and he might or might not have permanent damage from doing so. And he still went.

What all of them and the ones you cited have in common, is that nobody around them said no for them. No one in Lyles entourage said man that's a bad idea. His girlfriend spent the night turning him around in his bed because of how much he coughed and she didn't say maybe you shouldn't go. No one said maybe it's a bad idea even though he had severe asthma in his childhood. Carlos was in horrible pain from appendicitis and no one told him maybe sit this one out. They gave him painkillers and sent him back out. Oscar had a broken rib and they sat him in the car all the same.

And sure these are adults, not puppets, not victims, they are responsible for themselves as adults and they do have some responsibility in these decisions. But truly even if they wanted to, which I'm not convinced they do, these people can't say no. The people around them should say no for them. They won't because they're greedy. The athletes don't see it because they've been primed not to see it and/or they also are greedy (for money or other things). No one is there to say no. I'm betting if people (doctors) are saying no, they are ignored. Someone needs to say no.

*btw remember that Lewis, who did not race in Qatar 23 because of the contact with George, said a whole thing about how that's just how it is and if the drivers suffered they had to train more because they weren't prepared enough. they are all part of this culture and very few seem to even notice it.

#vro0m's asks

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lookforsomeoneelse · 3 months

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New Simulated Universe Update (SAHSRAU btw)

Can you tell i made a d in english? because I didn’t. Sorry about that. Anyway, I had some brainrot about how busted our blessings would be in sahsrau SU, because, like, everybody and their mother in that au would basically throw everything they love out of the window for us to throw a single glance at them. Also, this takes inspo from other works. Yeah, yeah, I’m a plagiarist, I know.

Let’s say you play Honkai: Star Rail. You’re a big fan- you’ve been playing since launch, have an excellent team comp, and have cleared all of the story and side content.

However, the game’s been… in a content drought for a while, roughly about 3 months without a single update- not even a patch or bug fix! That’s odd. Hoyo would have normally announced at least a single character by now, wouldn’t they?

And, getting extremely bored, and with nothing else to do, you seriously consider taking a break from the game. After all, there’s nothing to do.

Except farm. And you’re getting tired of even that.

But just then, a miracle happens- or at least it’s a miracle to you. The game finally gets an update. You’re confused- they should have announced that in some shape or form, but you also get excited. What have they added this time?

And then you find out, much to your dissatisfaction and/or disappointment, that they just doubled down and just added in a new version of the Simulated Universe, called “Simulated Universe: New Game +” to “fix” the lack of content- they’re just making you do SU again- but hey, they also added another Aeon along with it, so that should count for lore!

So you go and wait for it to download and open it up.

When you do, you’re notified in game of a text message from Herta. Uncharacteristically, its tone is noticeably off from how she normally acts- practically begging you to please please please come to her office- because apparently, she’s dug up some info on this new Aeon that’s apparently been around for the longest time, and she’s finally managed to obtain enough data to create a simulated version of THEM- thirsty for something to do, you oblige, using a space anchor to reach her. Surprisingly, there’s only one available for your use.

Once you actually arrive, a cutscene plays, depicting Herta, once again very much out of character, grabbing on to the trailblazer’s arm and practically dragging them across the space station to her office, the widest grin on the puppet’s face. “Huh,” you think to yourself, “She must have struck gold if she’s acting all crazy like this.”

Once you actually make it inside- Herta finally gives you a complete explanation of what’s happening- she’s “finally” dug up enough information about this Aeon that you “should already know” and that you should also “start immediately.”

You do, and you’re met with a new path for blessings- Guidance, and holy cow, is-is that 300% break effect and 180% damage and 50% crit rate boost? What? That’s insane- what is the dev team doing with their game???

Obviously, you pick it- it’s the only option available, and even if there were other options, this one would likely be the best.

As you and your party traverse through the station, and obtain absolutely absurd blessings- all damage dealt will have the character gain a shield equal to half of that permanently, follow up attacks trigger twice, all characters gain a self-revive- it’s really bad balancing on Hoyoverse’s part, and it’s the greatest power trip you’ve had while playing this game so far. But it’s also getting boring. One shotting everything isn’t exactly the best thing to do on loop, and the game throws you a bone in the form of finally meeting the Aeon that Herta was talking about.

However, before that happens, Herta pulls you aside- and you can’t believe it, but she’s even more out of character now- hell, she’s fangirling, saying stuff like “I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since I was a baby” and urging you to give the Aeon the absolute utmost respect- and to never forget to do it.

As it turns out, the so-called “interaction” between you and THEM is just dialogue describing how you will always serve and praise them for all eternity- and you seriously take into consideration getting whatever the hell the writers have been smoking over the past couple months to put this down on paper and call it a good idea.

Weirded out by very strange design choices, you decide that it’s time for a break after all is said and done, and close the app.

If this is the legitimate road that Hoyoverse is going down, you’re worried about the future of the game.

You should really be more worried about your future, sweetie. After all, they’re all working so hard to bring you to them through that screen.

They love you. So so much.

#yeah this is very self indulgent #I suck at writing #sadge #but anyway the actual tags #sahsrau #self aware au #self aware hsr #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail

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ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral · 4 months

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It's time for today's Merlin au! This time featuring some Mergwenthur (mostly focused on Merthur today though, but I have some more prompts planned for Mergwenthur because I love their dynamic!) and Arthur's emotional trauma from growing up under Uther!

Also, the option that won the poll will be the post after this one!

I just want to say that this au idea is so random that I'm pretty sure it came to me in a fever dream, so bon appétit my friends! :D

In this au, set in season 5, a sorcerer working for Morgana sneaks into the castle and creates three dolls: one of Arthur, one of Gwen, and one of Merlin. We see in the show that puppets and dolls with a likeness to their target can be used in dark rituals, and that's what this sorcerer plans to do.

However, Camelot's guards manage to catch and apprehend the sorcerer (whose powers just mysteriously failed them when the guards attacked, and no one sees Merlin loitering in the servants' hallway nearby) before the sorcerer could bind the doll of Arthur to the king. So, the small dolls of Gwen and Merlin are bound to them, but Arthur's isn't.

After the sorcerer has been locked up, Arthur discovers the dolls in the sorcerer's belongings and has Gaius take a look at them. Gaius tells him that they can go ahead and destroy the doll of Arthur since it isn't bound to anyone, but they'll need to wait to destroy Gwen and Merlin's dolls, since they had already been bound with magic and now any damage done to the dolls would be done to either of them.

Arthur is, rightfully, horrified by this and, as gently as he could, placed the two dolls in a secret compartment hidden in a wall of his room. He locks the two dolls away, feeling relief that no magical harm could come to the two most important people in his life.

Meanwhile, Gaius tells Merlin and Gwen about the dolls and their temporary solution to lock them away. Merlin's kicking himself for not being able to stop the sorcerer sooner, but he soon gets to work helping Gaius look for a spell to break the bond between them and the dolls.

However, as the days go on and no solution comes up, the whole doll situation falls on the backburner as more magical situations happen that demand Gaius and Merlin's immediate attention, leaving the whole doll mess to fall to the wayside. They'd find a solution eventually, they reasoned, and their temporary solution of locking them away had worked perfectly so far, so they should focus on the more pressing matters at hand.

However, Arthur couldn't seem to quite get the dolls out of his head. The cursed objects that could take away the two most important people in his life were just sitting there! Arthur's fears about the dolls ran wild, so Arthur asked Gaius for information on those types of dolls. After all, they could more easily take precautions around the dolls if they knew more about them.

Gaius directs Arthur to a certain book in Geoffrey's library that he knew had several chapters dedicated to the magic dolls and their potential uses. Arthur thanked Gaius and, that night, dedicated himself to reading all about the dolls so he could better protect his loved ones.

Most of what Arthur read disgusted and terrified him, reading about horrifying methods of torture and execution using the dolls, which would transfer every sensation and emotion directed at them onto the person they were bound to. Eventually though, Arthur came to a shorter chapter about the positive uses of the dolls. He read about druids who had taken vows of silence using the dolls to convey their affections for their loved ones, and even powerful sorcerers using similar dolls to comfort their far-away families.

As much as Arthur tried to shove that idea violently from his mind, it became fixed in his thoughts like a fly in a spiderweb. A way for someone else to feel the full depths of his love without having to use words?

Arthur, for all of his faults, knew himself. He knew that he was not the best at conveying his emotions. Words, no matter how long he thought over them, always felt like pale reflections of the enormity of his emotions, especially in regards to his love for Gwen and Merlin. With Gwen, he often stumbled over his words, unsure of how to express the depths of his love for her, even three years into marriage. With Merlin, on the other hand, any of his attempts at affection inevitably devolved into banter and friendly name-calling, never being able to truly tell Merlin how much he meant to Arthur.

Could these dolls be the solution? Could he somehow use them to convey his feelings for his beloved Gwen and Merlin? Arthur found his eyes frequently drifting towards the secret compartment where he knew the dolls lay. Could he...

Eventually, the temptation became so strong that Arthur couldn't resist anymore. Surely, if he was gentle and careful, then everything would be fine, right? Either Merlin and Gwen would be able to feel Arthur love through the little dolls, or nothing would happen and Arthur would go about his day only slightly disappointed.

With his mind made up, Arthur checked the lock on his chamber's door to ensure that he would be alone, and made his way over to the secret compartment in his wall, unlocking it. Sitting inside, exactly where he left them, were the dolls of Merlin and Gwen.

Arthur quickly darted over to his window, where had a clear view of Merlin talking with Gwaine in the courtyard. If anything happened to Merlin because of the doll, he would know right away, and he could reassure himself that this little experiment of his wasn't doing any harm.

They were both small, with his hand being able to cover the entirety of either doll with the exception of its head. As carefully as Arthur could, he pulled each doll out of the wall and set them down gently on his desk, making sure to cushion the back of their heads as he set them down.

It wasn't until Arthur saw staring down at the dolls did he realize that the book never specified exactly how emotions were transferred. Sensations were easy enough, but it never said how to convey emotions themselves.

Well, Arthur reasoned with himself, it couldn't be that difficult. He gently picked up the doll that resembled Merlin (it even had a little jacket and a red scarf on it and everything) and held it in front of him. Arthur took a few moments to contemplate his next move, before landing on an acceptable strategy.

Willfully ignoring the voice in his head (which sounded remarkably similar to his father) that was berating Arthur for seeking comfort from these dolls like a little girl, Arthur brought the Merlin doll close to his chest and held it there, trying his best to simulate a hug. There, that was a good start!

Moving back over to the window, Arthur was relieved to see Merlin unharmed and still speaking with Gwaine with a large smile on his face, not showing any signs of pain or discomfort.

Emboldened and relieved with the knowledge that he wasn't causing any harm, Arthur next had to figure out if he was really sending his feeling through the doll, or if this was just a huge waste of Arthur's time.

Keeping his eyes trained on Merlin, Arthur brought the doll up to his face and pressed a gentle kiss onto its forehead. To his amazement, right as he had kissed the doll, Merlin suddenly stopped speaking looked rather confused, touching a hand to his forehead, as if trying to check to see if anything was there, while a blush rose on his cheeks.

Arthur could feel a huge grin break out on his face. It had worked! Merlin had felt the affection he had shown to the doll!

Arthur, cuddling the Merlin doll: Get cherished idiot! Get absolutely adored!

Merlin, wondering why the hell he feels someone hugging him: Huh, that's weird.

Over the course of the next week, Arthur experimented with different ways to convey his emotions to Gwen and Merlin through the dolls. He found that holding the dolls close and speaking to them, spilling out all of the words that he was so clumsy with when he was with Gwen or Merlin, worked the most effectively. However, just holding, cuddling, or kissing the dolls had much of the same effect.

Arthur could even see the different it made with Gwen and Merlin! Even though Arthur was too embarrassed to tell them about how he had taken to trying to express his feelings through the dolls, he could tell that both of them were happier and more affectionate with him!

Oh, it was all working out perfectly! Arthur could finally honestly express his love to Merlin and Gwen to its fullest extent, and they were happier in return (even if they didn't quite know why)!

And it was all well and good, up until Merlin was injured. Not by the doll, thank god, because Arthur would never forgive himself if something like that happened. No, it was during a routine hunt through the darkling woods, which of course had to be ruined by bandits.

Arthur had thought nothing of it at first, as it was a smaller and untrained group, but horror gripped him near the end of the fight as he turned around to see Merlin, coming out of hiding and totally unaware of the bandit's crossbow aimed at him. Arthur tries shouting for Merlin to move out of the way, but he's too late. Between one heartbeat and the next, there's suddenly a crossbow bolt sticking out of Merlin's back.

Arthur makes quick work of the four bandits standing between him and Merlin, and frantically starts trying to treat and bandage the wound on Merlin's back. The wound is deep, Arthur's panicking, and Merlin's already passed out. Luckily, the knight quickly finished off the rest of the bandits, and they ride as swiftly as they could back to Camelot so Merlin could be treated by Gaius.

Luckily, they were able to get Merlin to Gaius before Merlin lost too much blood or the wound became infected, so Gaius was able to treat Merlin's wound and give him a good prognosis. However, much to everyone's concern, Merlin still hadn't woken up, and Gaius couldn't guarantee when Merlin would wake up or fully recover.

While Gwen stayed by Merlin's side all night, Arthur couldn't bear the sight of Merlin, looking still and broken on a patient's cot. Perhaps that made Arthur weak, but he couldn't ever bear to see his loved ones in pain, knowing that there was nothing he could do to help.

Or... perhaps... there was something he could do to help. Merlin likely couldn't hear what was going on around him, but if he could feel it instead...

Arthur took Merlin's doll from its secret compartment as gently as his desperation would allow. Arthur was pretty sure that there were tears running down his face, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that at the moment.

With trembling hands, Arthur carefully held the doll to his chest, right over his heart. Arthur tries everything he can, from kissing the doll to just speaking to it, telling the little scrap of cloth and magic all of the things he adores about Merlin and how he cannot cope with the thought of losing him.

Everyone is relieved the next day when Merlin wakes up, still weak from his injury, but recovering nonetheless. But man, Merlin had some weird dreams while he was unconscious. He dreamed Arthur was a giant and was hugging him! Merlin tried to play it off for laughs to lighten the mood when Arthur visited him, but Arthur didn't seem to find it nearly as funny as Merlin and Gwen did. Instead, Arthur turned slightly pale at Merlin's words.

After Arthur left, Merlin and Gwen turn to each other and discuss why they think Arthur had reacted like that. They both agree that Arthur had been acting differently lately, but if anything, it was an improvement. Arthur had been more open to both giving and receiving affection with them, and he had been more open with sharing his emotions lately, being overall less of a complete prat.

So, this sudden closed off response was rather suspicious to both of them. After some discussion, they agree to search for an explanation for Arthur's strange shift in behavior. After some snooping around and looking between the gaps on the door to he servant's entrance to Arthur chambers, Merlin and Gwen saw something truly shocking.

Arthur had been removing the dolls that were bound to them to their hiding spot! Did he know how dangerous that was for the both of them! What was he even planning on doing with them?!

Many of their questions were answered, however, when Arthur started pressing kisses to the top of both doll's heads, and both Gwen and Merlin could feel the sensation of the kiss touching their heads. Oh. So that's what the whole doll situation was about, and why both of them were having sudden and unexplainable sensations and bursts of positive emotion.

It made a shocking amount of sense, especially considering how frustrated they knew Arthur could get at his lack of skills in communicating his feelings. Merlin and Gwen turned to each other, and decided to not confront Arthur about this just yet. They could let Arthur have this, and he'd tell them when he was ready.

For now, Arthur would have his peace.

And that's a wrap for this au! Honestly, this au idea was so unique that I don't even know where it came from, but there's a lot of different ways this au could go! One of my favorite ideas is that any injury the person gets is also reflected on the doll, so after Merlin or Gwen goes missing, Arthur obsessively checks the dolls to see if they're unhurt.

Anyways, I've got the au idea that won the poll (an au idea featuring Arthur being an idiot) planned for tomorrow or the next day, so I hope to see you all again soon!

And, as always, thank you for reading though my ramblings! :D

#merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #merlin au #merlin prompts #merthur #mergwen #arwen #mergwenthur

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