The Balladeer Strives To Uphold The Illusion Of A Consensual And Healthy Relationship At Any Cost: No

The Balladeer strives to uphold the illusion of a consensual and healthy relationship at any cost: no traces of toxicity and abuse shall be left out in the open for everyone to see. It is not that the Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers himself cares about the opinions of his most untrustworthy colleagues or lowlifes under his command – you will be branded a fool for assuming that he is bothered by what others think. He just doesn’t want you to expect a knight in shining armor to come to the rescue once they see how badly he treats you; any hope to leave him by using the conveniently helping hand shall be extinguished akin to a firefly’s light.

Scaramouche is not against the idea of spilling the impudent insect’s blood (he is more than willing to slay thousands and thousands of them if he feels like it) – he is against the idea of you seriously contemplating someone would gift you a ticket out of this relationship. The risk is minimal, he knows it: among the ranks of Fatui, it’s very unlikely for an ordinary piece of meat such as yourself to catch the attention of both high-ranking members and their subordinates of humble might – yet he will still prefer to terminate any chance of luring in any noble intentions.

He is not afraid of confronting that rare and exceptional idiot who would be brave enough to try to snatch the “maiden” out of the “dragon”’s grasp, oh no – he is afraid of losing his control over you. He must remain the sole pillar of the crumbling temple that is your life; you must rely only on him because who else in this rotten world will waste their time on you? You must realize that while he is an utterly deplorable being, he is your one and only “safe option”; more so than the potential “nice guy” scumbag who will keep up appearances as long as there is a benefit in doing so until the need to stab you in the back arises. With Scaramouche, you will never taste deception and betrayal – he may slap your face hard enough to split your lower lip, but he is at least honest about his methods of silencing your lousy mouth… And he will comfort your injury right away, with just the right amount of tenderness so as to not pollute his “villain” status, and you will be – in a rather paradoxical way – deemed insane for declaring he is handling you roughly because there will be nothing to your skin to indicate there was a laceration in the first place.

You are not mistaken for presuming that he is no better than those he often accuses of hypocrisy. The Balladeer is just as obsessed with wiping out any evidence of what he is doing to you in private as his brainwashed agents are with covering up their clandestine activities in peaceful lands; he claims he is doing it to avoid unnecessary attention and insists that you will suffer much worse if others develop the idea that beating you is a fun and totally unpunishable thing to do – really, what else will those imbeciles get into their heads if they see their boss making a punching bag out of some peasant-looking woman? They will take the scene as an invitation to the banquet, of course!

By Scaramouche’s decree, therefore, everything about the twisted bond between the two of you must tell of the happiness of a dog kept on a leash by her master and demonstrate the elation of a toy that willingly sold itself to a puppet master. You must always smile and nod at his every statement; must always mind your manners and show no sign of artificiality – in other words, you must behave akin to a wind-up doll, additionally adopting a composure and obedience befitting a seasoned soldier (and definitely not a village wench). In this counterfeit theatre of his, there is no room for sabotage. You must be as perfect as the lead actor of the play and act accordingly, for should you try to dispose of the mask… Well, let’s just say that your extremely modest clothes were not chosen with the purpose of hiding your virtues.

Deliberately or not, though, The Balladeer misses the entire point. Given his cynicism, it’s probably the latter – he is not delusional, he is simply incapable of believing in the goodness and benevolence of people’s hearts. Be they Fatui or of as plain origins as you, his unpleasant experiences persuaded him of the ignorance and selfishness of humankind; in his flawed worldview, no one is going to steal you away from him because you have nothing valuable to give to them (even your body, irreparably scarred and marked by him, has long since lost its initial price). He refuses to acknowledge the presence of chivalry in certain individuals’ souls, for every single two-legged abomination populating this realm is here after the gain, after the thrill of seizing a treasure worthy of their ambitions, and that’s precisely why the “risk is minimal” and not nonexistent; that’s why the performance must go on and only end when you enter his chambers at night.

Because someone might want to obtain you under the pretense of saving you. Because someone might gift you false wings and then tear them off for shits and giggles. Because someone might ache for the opportunity to spite him, and you would be naïve enough to fall for any trick.

Suspicions will still be raised and doubts will still emerge, sure. There will be smart ones who shall silently question the masquerade and scrutinize your every move; there will be nosy ones who shall notice the stiffness of the rehearsed lines and catch the glimpse of uneasiness in your eyes, and there will be brazen ones who shall openly interfere with your relationship and pay with their life. Scaramouche doesn’t deny the possibility of this happening – he is too paranoid to be that offensively oblivious. What he does deny, however, is the existence of selfless motive because rectitude is not inherent to any living being.

It is the quality of the dead, after all. It would be in your best interest to trust Scaramouche and embrace his truth… The truth that no such color as “white” is present in Teyvat: it’s all black powder that poorly imitates the crystals of sugar, a chocolate house made of bitter bars. You must understand that if you don’t dance to The Balladeer’s tune, then you shall dance to someone else’s; ‘tis the fate of the cornered mouse who stubbornly chases after the piece of the invisible cheese. There is no escape out of the cats’ den, for no cat grants freedom to its prey – and luckily for you, he is the type of cat who favors his mouse safe and well-fed as long as she dispels his boredom and loneliness.

The final feast shall eventually come. But will you be able to survive the last yet desperate bite of his fangs?

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yan scara

Do Puppets Dream of Electric Sheep?

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mild not SFW implications. Word count: 2.1k.

“What am I to you?”

He stills. Your voice is as gentle as a mother crooning a lullaby to her newborn. Sweet, mild. Not intending to startle the sensitive creature who is unaccustomed to this world. It regurgitates memories of his progenitor. He can never clearly recall her countenance or the exact pitch of her voice, there are only formless blurs and warbled words that sounded far away.

It is a small mercy that he never made out the specifics of her face. For it allows him to envision her in whatever manner suits him best. She can be the scheming Niwa Hisahide who sought to manipulate him, the sickly child who left him behind, or the mendacious kitsune whose promises for aid went unkept. His mother is the locus of his rage that branches out and bears rotten fruit.

You cease your previous task of combing his hair from behind. Artificial heat burns his cheeks when your chest presses against his back, your arms coiling around his slender shoulders like tendrils. The hold is tight enough to almost hurt.

“Say, are you listening?” Your lips brush against his ear. He shivers. “Well, puppet?”

Furniture clatters in a cacophony of noise.

He stares at you, incredulous, his lips parting only to close again. He cycles through emotions and is unable to settle on one.

How do…? You shouldn’t know that!

You pay him no mind. You fix the victims of his outburst, setting the stool upright and straightening the vanity’s various implements. Then you sit where he sat, smoothing the wrinkles in your skirt as you do so. You face him instead of the mirror, which has cracked into three disjointed fragments.

The scene before him arouses confusion, then suspicion. His eyes eventually find their way to the mirror behind you. He barks a laugh at what he sees. The sound reverberates in the tiny room. Electro concentrates in his hands, crackling and ready to stain his surroundings crimson. He gives a malicious grin.

It reflects in the cracked mirror, whereas your form does not.

“A cheap parlor trick,” he muses. “I should’ve figured.”

You aren’t her, he thinks. And how grateful he is to realize it.

“I’m not?” You challenge, raising an eyebrow. What is this being capable of hearing his thoughts? The curve of your smile epitomizes everything you’ve never been: cruel and provocative. This ignis fatuus who dares to assume your form makes no attempt to flee from the attack writhing in his palms. “Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that. What you’re looking at now is what I am to become, not my present, corporeal self.”

He studies “you” carefully. The pigmentation of your eyes, your intonation, and your body language; it lines up uncannily well, but your word choice is peculiar. There’s a callousness begotten to those burdened by esoteric knowledge, an experience he’s intimately familiar with. This can’t be a poorly executed emulation devised by that medical charlatan excommunicated by his peers, or an experience that aligns with the continuity of Teyvat’s laws.

Is his conscious being tampered with by the gods?

“I’m afraid not. We both know that panopticon has no interest in you. No, discarded prototype, think back to your creation. When was it determined you’d be of no use to Beelzebul?”

He grits his teeth. That intrusive introspection is coming into play again. It’s as if his innermost sentiments have been printed out in large lettering for you to scrutinize.

“So you’ve finally realized, although you’re hesitant to think it. I can’t blame you, nothing good ever comes from your dreams. Since you don’t require sleep, you were able to avoid this for some time… in trying to play human with me in reality, you’ll be judged by me in the one state where you are utterly powerless.”

The energy gathering in his hand dissipates without him willing it. He tries in vain to summon it again, but the element no longer heeds his command. Clicking his tongue, he sits on the edge of the bed, then crosses his arms over his chest. He chastises himself for not noticing sooner. This room may appear to be an exact replica of the one you share, but the slightest details in its geometry betray the realm of possibility. Certain angles bend in inconceivable ways, the ceiling itself is drooping down like a viscous gel, the descent so slow, it’s near imperceptible.

Dreams, pesky as they may be, are always destined to end. He need only wait for this torment to run its course.

“If that’s the stance you’ve decided to take, why not answer my question?”

He feigns ignorance for a beat, despite knowing full well the inquiry you’re referring to. You allow him his temporary repose.

“What you are to me is a nuisance. A meaningless manifestation that I’ll forget about as soon as I wake,” he replies. How strange it is, taking this baleful tone toward an image of you. You are the sole individual he doesn’t regard with pure loathing, and as such, he treats you with a tenderness he thought himself previously incapable of. He can’t recall a time when contempt felt unnatural, like the first time he mimicked human breathing.

This veneer of nonchalance is forced and he knows it. The mirage taking on your comely likeness is seeping under his synthetic skin, spreading malaise and decay.

“Oh? That’s an awfully bold statement, but, nevertheless, let’s entertain it a while longer.”

You clap twice and the surroundings shift.

His limbs are dragged upward by an unrelenting force — red strings as formidable as piano wire. He struggles out of instinct. This futile act only serves to tighten the binds. Upon realizing this, he goes limp, noting that your presence is no longer visible.

He has an unobstructed view of the cracked mirror, its jagged edges displaying three different images.

To the left, he sees himself wearing the outfit he first awoke with, the golden feather dangling from his neck. The middlemost portion is accurate in its portrayal, unlike the others. It shows the glint of the mitsudomoe symbol upon his chest which he considers his birthright. The right fragment is nearly indiscernible, aside from hues of teal that swirl as if spurred on by the wind.

The mirror shatters.

Light footsteps circle around him. He wrenches his head in the direction of the ambient sounds, identifying no clear source.

“Even if you forget about me now, according to your designs, we’ll meet again. This “me” that’s been tainted and corrupted by your selfish intent. In trying to preserve me, you’ll be my ruin. You already know that though, don’t you? That your desperate clinging will drag us both down to unfathomable depths. It’s true, that by never letting me die, you’ll have an eternity with me…”

You materialize in front of him, standing with your hands behind your back. The casual stance is at odds with the venom you spew forth. Just as before, everything about your physical appearance is correct, save for a single, damning detail. Your eyes glow a luminescent violet — that of Inazuma’s reclusive deity, whose gnosis he intends to commandeer, even if he must tear it from her himself.

“But is that the eternity you truly wish for?”

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

What else was he to do?

Watch helplessly as your biological clock ticks on while the hands on his remain frozen in place? Witness your final until you breathe your last breath, then allow your husk to be buried in the cold, unfeeling ground? His is a life of apprehension. That by some cruel twist of fate, you’ll fall victim to the many pitfalls mortals are vulnerable to. Illness, injury, violence, the list goes on and on. His overactive imagination serves as a personal purgatory that churns out images of your downfall every moment he is not by your side.

Upon returning to your quaint little cottage on the outskirts of civilization, trepidation eats at him like maggots upon a corpse. If he can’t find you tending to your garden, baking in your kitchen, or lounging on the swing hanging from the old oak tree in your front yard, madness slithers at his heels, ready to pierce him with its fangs.

You may never forgive him, but he couldn’t forgive himself if he let the one thing he cherishes in this joke of a world leave him behind.

“I won't look at you the way I once did. The me who speaks your true name, spends days wondering when you’ll return from your traveling ‘job’, gladly welcomes you into her bed, granting you access to her most sacred body and soul; you will never see her again. She will exist in your memory alone.”

Your pointer finger hovers over his trembling lower lip, then descends, over his Adam’s apple and in between his collarbones.

“Having savored these pleasures once freely given, you’ll have no choice but to take them by force. You’ll defile me and insist it’s worship. Bitterness might whet your palate, but you’ll never have your fill. Can you call that love, poor puppet? Or will you rightfully refer to it as ownership?”

All verbal exchanges cease.

In this nightmare blurring the lines of what if, where he is but a spectator rather than an active participant, he laughs. It echoes in his hollow chest cavity where no fleshly heart beats. Your physiognomy goes blank in the face of such blatant malignity. He hangs here, a tossed-aside marionette, consumed by a paroxysm of emotion he once swore to wipe clean from his chest.

“If this is an attempt to appeal to my conscience, it won’t work,” his grin nearly splits his face in two. “Harass me every night, for all I care. I’ll accept it. I’ll accept anything. Every form of you… every possible iteration, no matter how unsightly, beautiful, indifferent, or anything in between, I want it. There isn’t a version of you that can deter me. The real you offered herself to me for a lifetime — who am I to turn down such an alluring offer?”

You pull away from him.

The absence of your touch is worse than any physical torture you could inflict. He’ll take your loving caresses, your hand ripping into his chest, so long as he can familiarize himself with your genuine warmth. Such is the resolve of a puppet who has endured the biting blizzard of loneliness. Destroy him and he’d rebuild. Ignore him and he’ll pry the words from your mouth. Attempt to leave him and he’ll ensnare you in a trap that neither of you can escape from.

This advocate for your future is washed away in a sea of ink, black as night, untouchable and ever-present as a shadow. The cascading wave swallows you whole.

You depart with a final threnody.

“Until we meet again, then.”

…

Something brushes over his cheek.

“... Kuni? Kunikuzushi? Ah, what do I do, you aren’t waking up…! Insults? Do I try insults? Uh, you’re of less than average height—”

“Quiet down, woman, you’re loud,” Scaramouche complains with a groan.

You’re hovering above him. It’s a heavenly sight — if he were a believer in such things — the upturning of your eyebrows, the flow of your hair tousled by interrupted sleep, and the temptation of your soft, parted lips. Warmth emanates from your body. He delights in it. Swears a silent oath to himself that he’ll never be without it.

“The insult worked,” you whisper, content with your quick thinking. Then, remembering the situation, you’re back to fussing over him. “Are you okay? You must’ve been having an awful nightmare.”

His lips form a thin line. “... Something like that.”

“What was it about?”

“You,” he forces an unperturbed tone. Although he’s still hazy from sleep, he’s used to bending the truth. Or in this case, covering the parts he doesn’t want you to see. “I have to deal with you in the realm of conscious and unconscious now. Terrifying, right?”

The sarcasm successfully draws your attention elsewhere.

“Absolutely. So terrifying, in fact, I better sleep elsewhere so as not to frighten my— oof!”

“Oh no you don’t,” he pulls you against his chest, preemptively ending your getaway, “You’re not going anywhere.”

You willingly collapse into his hold, laughing softly. Though you’re no longer trying to wriggle away, his grip is ironclad, his arms trembling. He interweaves himself into you with a tangle of limbs. Once he’s content, he presses his face against the thrumming pulse in your neck. This stream that maintains your life is temporary — a subpar placeholder until you’re imbued with immortality. Still, he cherishes it, this special rhythm that has sustained you long enough for your paths to interconnect.

He gives your pulse a chaste, reverent kiss.

Your paths are bound to never diverge, even if damnation is where they'll lead.

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yan scara

710 notes View Post

koyoim

1 year ago

for scara "am i bothering you, my lord? i just felt really lonely..." 🙏

notes: yandere, afab reader, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome

There’s a hand on your head before you know it. A firm presence that strokes, calming and possessive. You don’t have to look up from your position on the floor, carefully kneeling on a cushion next to his seat, to know what expression is is on his face. Possessive and pleased. A smile, though not exactly a nice one, even on his better days.

You lean into his touch and shift on the cushion, hoping to get more comfortable. If he hasn’t kicked you out already, it means he’s in a good enough mood. You might be able to coax him into a walk in the gardens later, if you play your cards right.

And you do so want to play your cards right with your husband.

You don’t know when exactly everything began to shift. When you stopped feeling like your stomach was constantly empty, being twisted and pulled in every direction. When your everyday activities morphed from anxiety-inducing expectations into simple habits.

When you stopped feeling like a captive and started feeling like a wife.

Was it when you felt ill, and he deigned to stay by you through the worst of it? Spooning broth into your mouth and wiping your face with cool, damp rags? A soft, affectionate move that had caught you by surprise. The gestures had seemed foreign on his face, and you wondered for ages whether or not one of your ladies or perhaps a servant had suggested it to him.

Was it when he offhandedly confessed that the thought of entertaining a particular traveling noble made him want to electrify his own eyes out, and the pair of you conspired to get the man drunk--and thus, off to bed and out of his hair--as quickly as possible? It was childish, silly even. You poured cup after cup and Scaramouche said nothing as his guest became absolutely sloshed. That night you even laughed about it together, snickering, warm under the covers of your shared bed.

Little moments, bit by bit, that paved over the reality of your situation and gave it something more palatable in your mind. Something you could work with and live with, possibly even enjoy.

And if you no longer shy away from his hands, if you call him husband without a bitter taste on your lips, if you do your best to keep him pleased and reap the results... can you be blamed?

You know it’s wrong. Deep down. You’re not stupid.

If you think about your situation for too long, you know what you’ll find. Underneath the layers of crafted moments, the shiny veneer that you’ve painted onto your heart.

You’ll find a different you that wants to positively scream and fight at every turn. A different you that wants to throw up at the thought of being around Scaramouche willingly, one that would never initiate affection... much less crave it from his hands. A different you that bore his punishments, his stings and shocks, grinding your teeth to avoid giving him the satisfaction of audible pain.

But you can’t live like that forever. You tried. You tried for as long as you could, rebelling against him, rebelling against the life he’d forced you into. You were tired of being pushed down, mentally and physically. Tired of being sad. Tired of feeling like you’d never escape.

So now? You don’t want to escape.

Now you want him to touch you, to praise you. To shower you with gifts, though he still holds them over your head if he finds you’re being too needy. What do you need to see your family for, when he’s just gifted you an expansion to the gardens or a much-coveted visit to a local festival?

Now you want to peel back the layers of Scaramouche, taking them off like marital robes, until you reach the Kunikuzushi underneath. Imperfect and clay-like. Unfinished. You want to see what makes him work and makes him stall and fill the gaps in him with something of yourself.

“My wife is lonely,” he murmurs, and his fingers still in your hair. “I’ll have to rectify that, won’t I?”

You look up, finally, and your stomach doesn’t twist at the sight of his lidded eyes gazing down at you. Instead, your heart feels lighter and you reach up with your own fingers to intertwine them in his.

“But you already have.”

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yan scara

1K notes View Post

koyoim

1 year ago

Summary: The Moment He Laid His Indigo Eyes On You Was The Moment Your Fate Was Sealed, He Would Have

Summary: The moment he laid his indigo eyes on you was the moment your fate was sealed, he would have you - no matter what and he would keep you to himself forever no matter how dirty his hands got in the process...

Pairings: Scaramouche/The Balladeer x reader

Notes/Warnings: Reader is completely gender neutral! Poc friendly! Angst! Kidnapping! Forced relationship! Unhealthy relationship! Threats! Isolation! Starvation! Death (not reader or Scara)! Choking!

The Balladeer was a cruel and selfish man who cared about nothing but himself and his own goals. He didn't care who he had to use, what he had to do, no matter the consequences or the price to pay due to his actions. What he wanted was what he would get no matter what, like a spoiled child but far more dangerous...

It was hard to say what exactly made him take an interest in a nobody like you to the point he would claim you as his own... He was a difficult person to understand, perhaps even he himself couldn't fully understand his own heart. Not that he had one, he wasn't human and that's what made him infinitely more dangerous.

He had just returned to Snezhnaya and the sun hadn't even began rising yet when he met you. You were shivering admits the pure white snow and he was surprised to see you weren't dead yet considering the few layers clothing you were wearing... You looked up at him with eyes that looked so hopeless and dead, tear stains covered your cheeks and your eyes burned red from the tears you had shed.

Perhaps he had seen a part of his past self in you and that's what made him claim you as his own. You had nothing, you were no one with no one. You were the most pathetic thing he had ever seen and he just had to have you - not to save you or anything of the sort, but because he could and wanted to have you as his own. It's not like anyone would complain or try to stop him besides you and who cared what you thought?

All things considered he treated you well enough, at least better than what you thought someone who kidnapped you would treat you. He did have some rules like how you were to accompany him everywhere he went and stay silent unless otherwise told, you would sleep in the same bed as him every night and you were forbidden from talking to other people - especially the other Harbingers.

As long as these were followed you would be rewarded and treated like an actual person. He would punish you for disobeying of course, but not with violence like you would have originally thought. He would instead isolate and starve you until he was satisfied that you had learned your lesson... But as a human being it was incredibly difficult to follow them.

Your eyes had wandered for a split second out of curiosity because the new recruit just happened to stand out, yet it was enough for them and him to notice. The foolish recruit likely hadn't been warned before hand about you so their fate was sealed the moment they acknowledged your existence. They smiled brightly before heading towards you...

You wanted to scream at them to back away - to run away while they still could! You wanted to cry as you knew what was going to happen next, you knew it all too well... The horrified expression on your face made the recruit pause with worry, they didn't know what to do or say. But it didn't matter, nothing they did now could save them from what was to come next.

Your body refused to obey your mind. You wanted to run away and not have to witness what was about to happen, but you were completely frozen in place. Only thing you could do was stand there shaking with tears in your eyes, you turned your head the other way. You didn't want to witness this again. Please, not again...

You felt yourself dissociating from your surroundings, from the entire world. Next thing you knew you were in your shared bedroom with him watching over you. His expression was like one you'd see in nightmares. You knew better than to think he would kill you, but it didn't much make you feel better about any of it. Looking down his hands were still covered in blood... How sickening.

“You'd better beg for forgiveness.” He said in a tone that sent shivers down your spine.

You quietly sat up before getting of off the bed and standing before him, face to face. “Scaramouche...”

You were quickly interrupted by his hand that latched onto your throat, he held on so tight you were unable to speak. “I thought I had made myself clear.”

“How many do I need to dispose of for you to finally understand that you're mine? Or maybe, you actually like it when I kill them?” He smirked.

Something inside you snapped and the tears that had threatened to fall suddenly dissapeared. You were filled with rage, absolute rage in a way you had never felt before. Your hands shook and you glared at him with so much hatred that even he was left speechless. You gripped his hand so hard that he loosened his grip enough for you to speak.

“I am nothing like you.” Your words dripped of venom.

Despite your sudden change of character it wasn't long until he was back to his usual self and seemingly ignored what you previously said, this time he wrapped both of his hands around your throat and backed you against the wall. There was an obvious difference between your strength and his, he was the Sixth Harbinger, a creation made by the hands of an Archon and he wasn't human like you.

“I own you! How many times do I need to tell you this?” He shouted as he squeezed your throat tighter. “You're nothing without me!”

“You may own my body, but you'll never own my heart.” You managed to say back.

“Hahaha! Your heart? Why pray tell would I want something as stupid as your heart?” He mockingly laughed.

“Because you don't have your own.” Your words dug deep.

His hold became tighter and expression turned dark. He was seething, shaking almost from his anger. Never had you got him this angry, but you couldn't care less. The lack of air was making everything hazy, including your thoughts. Slowly you because limp in his hold and lost consiounse...

The Balladeer let go of your throat and instead wrapped his arms around you to prevent you from slamming against the hard floor. Humans were pathetically easy to break, a hit to the head and it was all over for most. Despite everything he still owned you and wouldn't let you break no matter how you pushed him. No matter how many times you tried to attack him or escape, you were his until you breathed your very last breath.

He laid you back down on your shared bed and pulled the covers over your body, he used the back of his hand to caress your cheek gently. He didn't wish to touch you with his still bloodstained fingertips, you needed to remain pure and bloodstainless. When in the comfort of his own chembers away from prying eyes he could let his more tender side out, in his own twisted way he did truly love you.

You didn't act out as much anymore but he did love the fire in your eyes when you did... Just like when you told him what you just did, no one dared to act that way towards him beside you. He wouldn't admit it but you were right - he didn't own your heart, not quite yet. There were moments in the past that he could see apart of you care for him despite everything, the human part of you that had a heart cared for him despite your brain telling you otherwise.

At night he would lay beside you and rest, but he couldn't dream like a human - instead he would see glimpses of his past, his memories. He was shaken awake by you and he could feel tears streaming down his face. He would have lashed out at you for seeing him like that, but the look on your face made him pause... You looked worried, genuinely worried about him.

“I'm fine. Go back to sleep.” He grumbled before turning on his side facing away from you.

Why did you make that face? He would have expected you to laugh and taunt him for being so vulnerable - so pathetic. But you didn't. You were actually worried. No matter how much you hated and despised him the human heart you had couldn't help, but care. He was glad he didn't have a heart, what a stupid thing to have. At least he tried convincing himself that he was glad...

His eyes widened and breath hitched loudly as you wrapped your arms around his body, your body pressed against his back with your face in his hair. He hated how much his face heated up and burned red from your breath hitting his neck, but your body was so warm and comforting against his that he couldn't complain.

You would forgive him soon enough and eventually your heart would give in, you would spent the rest of your life with him - there was no way you could resist him forever...

A/N: It was the picture above that fully influenced me to write this so.... Anyway likes, reblogs and or feedback are appreciated <3

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yan scara

316 notes View Post

koyoim

1 year ago

Why am I out of bed you ask? B-Because I was thirsty and didn't want to wake you my lord. (Scaramouche)

... Right. That’s what this is.

Humans and their basic, primitive bodily functions.

He notes how taut your body has gone — almost as stiff as a corpse. You stare at him, unblinkingly, eyes wide and glossy. Observing. Waiting. Biding your time to see what he’ll do next. He thinks that if he had a proper heart, it might be thumping away. But he has no heart. There are still murmurs of something in the general chest cavity area, whether it is phantom pain or not, he feels it. He feels it viscerally, and oh, does he loathe the miserable sensation.

Fear.

Not of you what you could physically do to him, no, that is a laughable thought. You pose no threat to his outer body. Yours is a unique poison targeted inward, to which he has found no antidote.

Fear of you disappearing, abandoning him while he rests, like that damnable creator of his. Scaramouche has found he loses the most while he sleeps. You will not be counted amongst those prized possessions that he has lost. Whether he has to tear Celestia itself from the sky, or reach into the Abyss’ stronghold beneath the ground below, he’ll do it without hesitation.

There’s a soft fabric in his hand, he realizes. The endings of your sleeve. After feeling you shift around to get up, he must’ve subconsciously reached out, holding you back before you could make it far.

Suddenly, he jerks back, retracting his hand as if he had made contact with hot coals. You lose your balance at the abrupt motion and take a moment to recompose yourself. This further sours Scaramouche’s mood — how could he have allowed his wellbeing to become so interwoven with a being as weak as yourself?

He’s past the point of berating himself for where his affections lie.

“Come back to bed,” he orders, leaving no room for argument. Then, remembering the reason for this predicament in the first place, adds, “I’ll go get you a glass of water. Just— just stay put.”

Your countenance morphs into confusion. For once, he can’t really blame you; a Harbinger offered to carry out the task of a common servant. Still, you raise no fuss and do as you’re bid. Scaramouche hurriedly ties his yukata into place and makes for the door, but not without sparing you a final glance.

Assuming he must want something, as he so often does, you offer up a quiet, “Thank you.”

He scoffs and turns on his heel, successfully hiding the pink hue on his porcelain-like skin.

There’s no denying it — you will be the death of him.

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yan scara

1K notes View Post

koyoim

1 year ago

When something (or someone) is stealing your attention.

characters: al haitham, kamisato ayato, raiden shogun (ei), scaramouche (wanderer)

cw(s): general yandere themes, dark themes, mentions of captivity, mention of gaslighting (once)

When Something (or Someone) Is Stealing Your Attention.

──⚝ al haitham

Probably doesn't even notice and if he does, sees no reason to get worked up over it.

Al Haitham practices control over his emotions — more so, the less rational ones, through assessment of the given situation. Sometimes, you can almost see apparitions of the cogs turning and twisting in his irises. So, when he sees your insistence on ignoring his existence, he merely sits down somewhere close and resumes where he left off on his own book. It's you who is concerned from his lack of acknowledgement, stealing glances to see him having his merry time. After all, those light novels can only occupy your attention for so long and after re-reading the same text for who-knows-how-many times, you'll be forced to come to him (yet again another disadvantage of being held captive). He'll have his revenge then.

──⚝ kamisato ayato

His time is precious, more so the time he gets to spend with you, so, not a chance.

Somewhere in his corpse of a heart, there is guilt for the position he has put you in. His pride wouldn't let him admit that though, it claws its way out and blends in some of his actions. Ayato loves you too much to ignore the obvious forlorn look etched on your visage for any longer, your eyes are loud in the demand for freedom and it's been proven that not even an estate full of servants and people are enough to satiate your loneliness. So, when he gifted you the caged canary, he thought he'd finally see you smile again. Instead, it bites back at him and steals the last scraps of your attention. Ayato is displeased, to say the least and he makes it quite clear. If you still insist on being ignorant although, he'd have to resort to crueller methods. Fear not, he wouldn't allow a scratch to appear on you but, he cannot quite say that for your bird friend. After all, he's not ignorant of your attachment towards it or, of the resemblance in situation it has to you. Let this be a warning.

──⚝ raiden shogun (ei)

She's not jealous. Pssh, only a child could get jealous over something like this. You're merely interacting with her pet. A teasing pet who whispers suggestive comments in your ears every three seconds and — is she touching you now?

Gaslights herself for as long as possible because Celestia forbid should she succumb to this feeling of jealousy, in front of this menace of a kitsune moreover, she'll not hear the end of it. In her pursuit of an unchanging eternity, she has triumphed over the trifling mortal emotions. So then, why is it that all of her carefully constructed euthymia crumbles when it comes to you? Without doubt, you're an impediment to that perfect eternity, a weakness and yet, she fails to let you go, refuses to let you go. The mischievous kitsune utilizes it to her fullest entertainment, revelling in both your flustered reactions and Ei's crumbling ataraxia. If Yae Miko does manage to snap the last straw (which she does), Ei will quickly rush her out of her realm to cackle over the victory somewhere else. Then, it's up to you to smother the blow.

(You'll be surprised at how soon she melts.)

──⚝ scaramouche (wanderer)

Depending on which time of his life you manage to win over his non-existent heart, the reaction varies.

Kabukimono does not even feel it at first. Though, as his admiration and observation of the humans deepens, he eventually manages to make out some semblance of the unpleasant feeling. He'll never blame you though. It's... uncomfortable for him as he's new to it but compared to his future selves, Kabukimono is far more forgiving.

Kunikuzushi, newly familiarized with the cruelty and ugliness of the world is not so soft. He's constantly on the edge, questioning your loyalty and anticipating a betrayal. You'll have to put in a lot of sweet talking and loving caresses for him to strengthen his trust in you. Once you've gained it whole, you'll have to be even more careful. I'd advise not adding to his number of betrayals.

The Balladeer's perception of the world is twisted, he simultaneously doesn't want to trust you and is ready to give you the highest position of his heart (whether you like it or not). He's much, much more expressive and violent than Kabukimono but narrows it down to you lesser than Kunikuzushi (that does not mean you're off the hook entirely though). If it's an item that has you ignore him then poof! It's gone, now pay attention to him. If it's a person...then, they're also gone :).

Wanderer (after regaining his memories) is levels above the pettiness of his previous selves, so much so, that he ascends to a whole new degree of it. Rest assured, you won't be on the receiving end of the creative ways in which he deals with the sources, just be prepared to deal with one clingy menace.

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yan scara

2K notes View Post

koyoim

1 year ago

Fatalism ⊱⊰ Scaramouche

✤ she/her ✤ words: 9.5k

The oh-so-great Balladeer was a puppet on strings. Despite this, he has a dream to fulfill, and he would do whatever it takes to achieve it—even if it meant forsaking his 'heart'. But pride always comes before the fall. He could never ever write over fatalism.

✤platonic angst :) ✤we're going to break him all over yall

“Awaken.” commanded the Electro Archon as the heavens growled.

The violet pool within the golden laver swirled, the entwined hands coruscating with a divine spark of Electro. Her command was obeyed, and two pairs of eyes opened at the same time.

His birth was most unorthodox. Disparate in the sense that he wasn’t born of flesh and blood, but of methods inexplicable to human comprehension—even to him.

It began with a tranquility like no other, enclosed in a spacious black void in which no other creature lived but his consciousness. But in that cloister of nothingness, he felt safe, he felt a closeness to something he couldn’t pinpoint. The contiguity would be ascertained soon after he heard an obdurate voice calling- ordering him to be roused from slumber.

So he did.

And he bore sight to his creator, his mother, the Electro Archon, as she regarded him with a countenance that spoke little of what she felt. Her hand upon his forehead was warm, but her eyes withheld an everlasting winter that bespoke of no potential summers.

She murmured something under her breath before withdrawing her hand and turning her back for a moment. An inauspicious action.

This churn of discomfort was set aside upon recognizing the same warmth somewhere on his limbs and he followed its origin. With a short incline of his head and a twist to the left, he blinked.

There were two sets of long tables, occupied by two figures, him included. His left arm was outstretched to the side, dipped into a gilded laver that contained a liquid tinted with violets that reminded him of his creator’s eyes. It shimmered and emitted a sense of divine power.

But what kept his hand warm in the cold pool was the hand of another.

Her gaze upon him was a mirror of his own upon hers. She spoke not with her tongue but her [c] eyes, and he too, did the same. They were parallel to one another, distant yet entwined by their fingers that had the same length, down to the fingertips.

They were both without a name, without a defined personality. Canvases that were white and stark, hoping to be filled with color. Hoping to be a magnum opus.

He wouldn’t be able to utter anything in that moment, as they were then separated, whisked away by strangers that appeared to be of service to the Electro Archon. He would only see his mother and that girl he reckoned to be his twin sibling later in a privy room, where the tall woman would first come to his sibling, who dipped her head.

Her figure would close in on itself, glowing [c] until she became nothing but a small accessory floating upon their creator’s palm. It—his sister—had become tinier than his own hand.

“A pawn piece,” a voice came from the left, and a sly-looking woman with pink hair hummed. “How appropriate for you to liken her to one.”

“But of course,” responded his mother. “If the puppet is to hold the Gnosis, then I must first see if he can handle something in its likeness. She holds at least half of the power, and for that I see no reason not to shape her as a pawn. I surmise it is the only piece in the board untouched by the Heavenly Principles.”

The foxy woman smiled impishly as she concluded. “For though pawns are capable of attaining majesty, they are still expendable.”

“Precisely. Now..”

The Electro Archon came upon him, her violet gaze stormy and steely as she neared the floating ‘pawn piece’ closer to his chest. “May your being be emboldened by that which is meant to be your core; a prototype heart of power.”

Like congealed water, the piece disappeared through his clothes, into his skin, and into his very being. What previously was a mere accessory took a different shape in his consciousness, and he felt whole.

Complete. It was a feeling like no other.

Raiden Ei hummed, satisfied at the sight of the spark of life in the puppet’s eyes. “So it has worked.”

“A good thing, isn’t it?” Yae Miko questioned, her tail swaying leisurely at her back. “But her very case is a pseudo-power half of what is authentic, no?”

“Yes and no.” The little puppet did not understand what they were speaking of, there was only the innate kind of euphoria provided by the comfort of the pawn piece within him—his own heart. It was his twin sibling, his other source of power, if he managed to comprehend the conversation correctly.

He felt full, like when he first opened his eyes and saw his mother. Felt safe, when he saw that his birth was in synchronicity with his heart.

So when the hand plunged back into his chest like nothing to retrieve the small pawn, it felt as though he was engulfed in a banquet's inferno. His limbs lit with flames and it was difficult to get a grasp of his environment, mind befuddled, voice lost.

He could barely see the way the priestess scrutinized him as a different item was thrust into his chest.

It was bigger and weighed much more. It was a heart that thrummed with so much divinity and power that he turned statuesque in its glory. The difference was profound.

His little heart—his twin, rather—held a peace akin to a nest of comfort, but the heart his mother had newly provided was laden with somber wisdom. He sensed not the presence of the girl who bore only the slight likeness to him, but he felt that of a different one, kind and prudent, yet desolate with life. It was so much that it brought tears to his eyes.

And thus, with a sharp, narrowed look of his creator, the decision was set in stone.

Not even a fortnight—no, a fortnight was most generous. Not even a week, and they’ve been forsaken.

“I need not a vessel whose gaze was more scrupulous than callous. He isn’t fit for the purpose I built him for.”

Haunting words.

“And what of the nexus you built with him? Essentially, they are one.”

Sickening truths.

“... She is a prototype I am not disposed to confine, either.”

Vexing failures.

Reminders of the reason as to why he had pursued this path. Too many betrayals, too many faux promises, and too little mercy in a world that was filled with naught but the evil end of the spectrum.

The puppet clicked his tongue as he gazed upon the lacerations on his skin, his clothes torn and tattered, fringed off the hems with licking flames. He stared at the remnants, condemning the beasts inwardly with a series of curses only unfortunate peers ever had the tragedy of knowing.

“Closer,” he murmured as the mob dispersed, only for another horde to approach. “Closer, and closer..” to greatness.

The Abyss was even more ruthless than the surface world of Teyvat, yet he found the darkness within it reminiscent of the void that came before his creation. He ignored the sting of his injuries and opted to gird himself with the beckon of power.

“Don’t push yourself.” the warning was in his head, but it sounded as if the voice came from behind him, always in his shadow. “I can’t have the Doctor poking needles into you as though you’re a labrat again.”

Funny, isn’t that what he was to that man, anyway? Besides, that sort of event happened each time he returned from his expeditions and battles in the Abyss.

“Kunikuzushi.” the voice was stern.

“Fine.”

He always meant to go overboard, that was a metier fit only for someone of his constitution. Fragile and enervated humans couldn’t hold a candle to his sturdiness as a puppet, and it was primarily this facet of his existence that corroborated his mileage to the Fatui.

So, he welcomed it with open arms, for he knew this path, though toilsome and arduous, would pave the road to his fate as a god.

He had forgotten the exact length of his ‘tarry’ in the sinister Abyss, but the darkness was a close companion that he’d known for his whole life.

In the rare interludes in which there would be no scourge or cataclysm in his stygian ventures in the otherworldly realm, he would rest and allow the extent of his injuries to overwhelm him. Only then would there be an effulgent flicker in the suffocating coat of black, coming upon his will.

His twin sister embodied that light, as she was a creation more mystifying than he was in essence.

She was—as he recalled his creator called her—his heart, who awoke in his moment of sheer desperation when he tried to ask the Electro Archon for help many centuries ago, and who had been with him ever since.

Humans were born with one, and he was created with her in a similar aspect, and both their eyes opened at the same time.

A puppet with a heart.

Kabukimono and Nisemono.

Kunikuzushi and Kenkoroshi.

Names that undoubtedly would only stockpile on the other as they traversed this path to their shared dream.

His heart was his main source of power.

Yes, he was strong on his own, but his sister was created from the godly power of Raiden Ei, emboldened by the influence of the Gnosis—the piece that was meant to be his. It meant that his sister was essentially a lesser version of the Gnosis, a facsimile—an imitation.

It was a connotation that conjured a frown on her usually blank face, but one that was wiped off with ease whenever Kunikuzushi would remind her that he was a literal puppet created in the likeness of their creator. There was a peculiar comradery in their shared existence as imitations, but that did not void their identities as ‘creatures of their own’.

Kunikuzushi would receive word from one of Harbingers themselves to return to Snezhnaya sometime later when he would be in one of his seldomly taken respites. The puppet would wordlessly stare at his hand, which was in the grasp of his twin sister, who had taken up a corporeal form to accompany him in the physical realm.

He never failed to assert that it wasn’t needed—for he could literally hear her voice in his head—, but she also never failed to exhort that accompanying him physically was a different kind of company in itself. He disliked how it was a sound reason, so he relented every time.

This mutually indulgent quietude was infrequently broken by either two, but it was fractured by the ‘pawn’ the second they arrived in Snezhnaya. Personally escorted by a handful of Fatui soldiers upon the Jester’s management following the order to return from the Abyss, she tugged away at his sleeve.

“Something weighs the wind.”

During times like these, when she would speak in riddles and figures, the puppet would be less than enthused, yet he humored her. It was inexplicable, but his twin always seemed to have some kind of prescience.

“It doesn’t feel dangerous, though.” Ah, so that meant it was something good.

Kunikuzushi could not help the snark in his voice as he responded. “I’m disposed to believe that you’re lying in the face of our ‘life’s’ usual pessimism. When has anything remotely good ever come to stay?”

“This one will, perhaps.”

It was unnecessary to tone down their voices, even though their peers regarded them with puzzlement. Why should they? No one would understand the context of their conversation, anyway.

The factuality of Kenkoroshi’s presage would be ascertained in a castle bespeckled with the rigidity of snowflakes. Diamond flakes annealed with solemn ‘love’, sharpened as though to appear like icy dirks, yet refined as if they also symbolize frozen tears.

The loveless motherland of Snezhnaya was a wintery Kingdom he had only come to at least once or twice. Little did he know, as his twin retreated back into the pawn piece in his chest, that he’d later be acclimated to the snow that was as pale and bleak as his perspective of life.

“You are hereby appointed as the Sixth Harbinger, take upon a new name as Scaramouche, the Balladeer.”

Ah. So that was what the entourage was for.

The Tsaritsa was with the voice of a daemon, yet the undertone withheld the echo of a lamenting cherub. Time was scant to bother wondering over why—after all, it wasn’t like it was a responsibility or duty of his to answer to the Cryo Archon’s emotions. He was yet to even cross his own quagmires.

His inauguration as the Sixth Harbinger, the Balladeer, was well-received and esteemed within the Fatui, but he had no doubts that it was because it was mere pleasantries. The rest of the Harbingers could hardly be impressed, but that was his own personal conjecture, for they showed probable facades that probably belied their ennui.

The celebration lasted a week, and he came to admit the complication in adjusting to the sudden attention brought with the bestowment of a rank he had come to travail over.

On the eve of its final day, he was ‘alone’ in his personal quarters that were leagues above what he was used to. Or perhaps he should rephrase that and mention that it had been a long time since he had chambers he could call his own, one that supposedly matched the majesty of his identity.

The last time he had something of this splendor, he was still on the watch of the Electro Archon, and that lasted less than five days.

What an irritating reminder.

“Is this everything you sought for?” as always, Kenkoroshi’s hand was void of any kind of temperature–she was insipid in a literal fashion, and it wasn’t meant to vilify her existence as an imitation.

For a moment, Kunikuzushi—no, Scaramouche, was quiet.

It had been a long and exhausting week of celebration, no matter the novelty and pride it brought him to be able to reach such a monumental stone in his ‘life’.

He looked down at the hand on his own, finding [not admitting] the gesture comforting. It was a reticent gesture between them, to just hold hands whenever they were alone—it was homage to their ‘birth’, when they awoke to an unknown world.

They had nothing, no knowledge, just the hand of the other and their presence and existence split as two but deemed as one.

“No.” He answered later, “I wish for what was meant to be mine.”

The Gnosis.

In a fleeting moment, he sensed her slight tension before it was easily awashed with her usual nonchalance. “... Why do you covet it so much?”

He scoffed. That was a stupid question, why else would he want something that was his in all putative angles of logic and reason? He was solely created for it.

“My purpose—no, my destiny. It was mine, that power.”

“And my power is not enough for you?”

Snezhnayan winters were algid—bone-chilling. Albeit he was far too acclimated to such temperatures and was far from being bothered, he could feel its biting frost on his skin, still. It was something that a measly hearth in the far left of his chambers could ever hope to drub.

Yet the question that she asked sent a chill down his spine. She asked it with the same, monotonous delivery, but for some reason, it sounded much heavier in his conscience. He despised it.

“Adequate enough.” He deigned to respond, their hands motionlessly entwined, still. “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

There was no response. He despised that, as well.

For the first time that night, he turned to her—only to find her [c] gaze pointed towards the crackling flames of the hearth. He almost heard the crisp sound of burning wood and could almost smell the scent of burning flesh, but that was a memory in the crevices of his mind. Imageries and sounds that forego his mission to be divine.

“You’ll help me, won’t you, my dear twin.” there wasn’t exactly venom in his voice, just a poignant edge that prompted the [c]-haired pawn to look at him. When she said nothing again, he clicked his tongue.

“Kenkoroshi.” he admonished.

Finally, she answered.

“I will.” He could tell that it was genuine, it just took her some time to respond.

Good. With that, he turned away, and she did as well, though their hands remained connected. It wasn’t sooner when he spoke again, his tone carrying a sense of realization and pride altogether.

“We’ve to think of a new name for you. I’ve already taken up another. Any grand ideas?”

Silence. He wasn’t surprised. He was the one that offered to establish themselves with new names each time they decided to leave a piece of unwanted tragedy behind, so it came to perspicuous reason that he was to do the honors again—

“[Name].” in awe, he turned to her. “I’ll go with [Name].”

The astonishment would’ve lasted had she worn an actual expression on her face. He did not give any sort of critique about her chosen name, however. He simply nodded, testing the name on his tongue.

“Good.” he squeezed her hand. “A new chapter burns bright. One step closer to the finale.”

Their work was cut out as a Harbinger, although, technically speaking—[Name] wasn’t the Harbinger. Missions for the Tsaritsa and her endeavors proceeded without fail, and under those zealous quests, she was aware that the Harbingers had personal assignments of their own.

It was ostensible in an organization like the Fatui, she knew, that people’s interactions were transactions in their own right. Her twin brother preferred to intuit it the same way, in contrast to her own beliefs. When she told him of this, that she thought that there needn’t be any ulterior motives to causeries, he rolled his eyes.

“I looked at the world similarly once.. Look where that landed us.” he had sardonically quipped, and the conversation ended there.

Still, even with the facts transfixed, the way she conceived things did not change. It was to the chagrin of her sibling, but he did little to dissuade her from thinking otherwise—for she knew that as long as it wasn’t an impediment to his goal, he’d let her do and think as she pleased.

He was bitter about it, though, later on mumbling that the ‘ginger-head war addict’ must’ve influenced her. He spoke of Tartaglia, the young soldier who somehow found and believed that there could be goodness in a league that founded morally questionable coups and schemes, the pawn noted.

Although she never truly met the youth who eventually came to be promoted as the Eleventh Harbinger face to face—her existence wasn’t broadcasted for the entire organization to know—maybe, she thought, maybe she was influenced a tad.

Or perhaps she always was just meant to be on the spectrum in opposition to her twin.

It had always been that way since the start of their lonesome ventures and idiosyncrasies about the nation of Inazuma.

When he had gotten jaded over the betrayals the world had thrown them in, he swore to scrub every trace of emotion that stained him until not even vestiges could be sensed. Yet, here he still was, the one who felt emotions the most. It was not to disregard the fact that she could also feel, but rather, he was just a feelings-kind of puppet and there was nothing wrong with that.

Scaramouche said that it was because he had her, his heart, so he could feel.

[Name], ever circumspect, was worried—but she knew it to be true. If he had no heart, if he just had power, then what would he be like? She didn’t want to imagine it.

What, exactly? Didn’t want to imagine him without a heart? Or didn’t want to imagine him with all the power he could ask for? She didn’t know, either, and that in itself was frightening.

He assured that he would not get rid of her, however, he always did—for they were twins, they were two beings as one. Kabukimono and Kunikuzushi said it himself, and she took comfort in that.

But a wise man knew better. Someone, a third party guided and led by pragmatism and reason, stated otherwise.

“While it is true that you were created as an expendable tool, even the most churlish will know that your power is valuable.”

[Name] merely shook her head, her legs swinging absently as she sat on a rather tall, metal table that surely must’ve felt cold to most humans. “I’m not interested in your spiel, sir. Spare me the talk.”

The Doctor was that wise man, Dottore, the Second Harbinger. From the start, he had been fascinated by their existence as one being split in two, and whether he was intrigued by which one if specificity was in context, well, she didn’t know.

He unnerved her; his wisdom, his tact, and his rationales.

“Come now, there’s no harm in being honest, is there? The Balladeer isn’t awake.”

She didn’t like how he somehow knew how to transfix ideas through her head, a feat none other than Kabukimono could do. The former was a formidable man, and she had forgotten how many times she expressed that to the puppet.

“I would not have furthered this level of strength without Dottore’s pricking needles,” he had told her before. “So just put up with it.”

Kabukimono was powerful with her, but the Doctor unsealed the hidden strength—that was a truth that she could not deny. So, as advised, she tolerated the Sumerian. Her patience was running thin, however.

The number of Dottore’s laboratories exceeded the amount of fingers a human had. Throughout her time in the Fatui, she had gone to visit them all, and aside from the location of each tool and table, the interior looked ever the same—not to mention the scent of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic. Nowadays, or ever since he had unlocked the full capacity of Kunikuzushi’s powers, it carried the scent of something inexplicable.

It might’ve come from the odd, violet substances she always saw him inject into her sibling.

“You may try to hide under that expressionless facade, but I know you are just as emotional. Not even he knows that, does he?”

The Doctor’s footsteps reverberated in the silent laboratory, coupled with the clinks and clanks of the tools in the metallic tray beside the equally metallic table.

She ignored him, opting to regard the place where Kunikuzushi laid to act as some kind of distraction. To Sandrone, it was an inventing table as much as it was a dissecting one. She mentioned that the names differ with purpose, so if she were to account that into the present, then was it something akin to an inventing table??

The Doctor stopped in front of her, and since her line of sight was pointed to the floor, she was staring at his neatly shined footwear. By then, with him up front, she knew there was no use in blocking out whatever he wished to blabber about.

“It’s precisely the reason why he exploits your power. Because someone who can’t ‘feel’ is therefore less apt to act out on sentimental grounds. They simply obey—like a tool.”

Ah, if he meant to incite something by means of depreciating—more like likening—her existence to her twin sibling, then it was unlikely to work. From the genesis of it all, she already knew who she was. What she was. It came with innate acceptance, so there was no way she’d ever think of herself as more than that; a tool.

“Because that is my purpose for living, to be used as his source of power.”

“Purpose for living or existing? There’s a difference.” Of course, the Doctor always had a rebuttal, and they were eloquent. “Are you truly alive?”

A good question to ruminate over; was she alive? She was, but was she living or existing?

The answer, albeit unsaid, was reticent between them. She was simply existing because she came to this world as such. Beyond the names and purposes she had been given, there was nothing of her own will. Or at least, nothing that extended beyond her will to serve as a means of power.

There was nothing wrong with that… she liked to believe.

It was like being a Vision to a Vision-holder.

The sight of the Doctor’s feet ambling away recaptured her attention, and so, she looked up for once. She glanced at him with his hands at his back, his steps taken leisurely as he wandered about the cold, sterile laboratory. She wished she hadn’t though, for it seemed like he knew whenever someone looked at him, for he tilted his head to meet her eyes with a small, sharp smile.

“You mention being more than fine with being used, but I doubt that it doesn’t bother you, not when you know of his objective.”

He turned to her and she stiffened.

“You don’t wish to see him be a god, am I correct, [Name]?”

The place grew even colder than it normally was.

She felt as though she was being adjured and criticized at the same time as the Doctor detoured to traipse back to her location upon the table next to the sleeping figure of the Balladeer. Subconsciously, she scooted closer to the latter, his presence her sanctuary, be it awake or not.

Her lacking response seemed only to serve as reason for him to continue and oh—

“Because once the Gnosis is fully in his hands, then he will have no use for you anymore. And you don’t want that, no?”

—how she hated it.

“Be quiet.” she mumbled.

He did not stop. “As far as I know, the Electro Archon created both of you at the same time; him, in the likeness of your mother, but to be a vessel. And you, in the likeness of a Gnosis, you are his heart…”

“Be quiet.” she demanded, this time transferring her gaze to her sleeping twin brother in dire hopes of the sight of him easing the turmoil in her chest. It was rare that she felt willful acrimony, as more often she was influenced by Kunikuzushi.

But now—now she felt its poignant swath within, which left no room to circumvent the intense emotion. The Doctor knew this, of course, he always knew when anyone’s buttons were pressed, it was in his repertoire of endless moxies.

“... A heart that he’ll willingly cast aside in favor of reclaiming true divinity.” he whispered close to her ear and she snapped.

“I said be quiet!”

Dottore retreated with a smile as he felt an invisible shockwave cleave through the atmosphere, distorting space itself. His laboratory, which was pristine and kempt a mere second ago was now in complete disarray. Broken test tubes and glass lay scattered, metallic tables and shelves were capsized, and charts and papers were either torn or a mess.

Tiny zips and zaps of electricity surrounded [Name], ensconced by the power that was created in imitation of a true Gnosis. It flickered and jolted like a shield, warning the Doctor not to take a step further—ah, she was an elaborate picture of power. Her [c] hair floated all around her figure, [c] eyes gone, replaced with stark white. It looked like she could float off the ground at any moment or launch things to her will.

He understood thoroughly her ability, despite being ‘faux’. It was the power the Balladeer often harnessed.

A power that still held hidden potential.

“Mother? Sister? There’s no such thing as familial bonds to a pawn and a puppet. It is as you said, you are just an expendable pawn.” he spoke, noticing how in spite of the destruction from her rare outburst, the table Scaramouche was laying on remained untouched.

Oh, how she cared for him. The Doctor grinned. Perfect.

“But I can make you greater than you are now.”

The gradual return of the pawn to her ‘docile’ state cemented his conjecture; he had her hook, line, and sinker.

“What do you mean?”

[Name] was seldom swayed by promises. Compared to Kunikuzushi, she had always been a tad more cynical, but the Second Harbinger was a man of his word despite his devious and unscrupulous manner of handling affairs. She knew he was genuine—and that was what made his offer so tempting that she could not resist asking him to elaborate.

And he gladly did.

“I’ve only tapped and tinkered with the gears of your ‘twin brother’, and have unlocked a myriad of possibilities. What if I were to do the same unto you—his main power reserve? In theory, you will become far better than what you are now.”

He was not vigilant, he was far too complacent as he trailed his steps back to her, his towering figure peering down from his mask.

He snapped his fingers. “You mentioned that taking up a physical form and consciousness demands power from your very being, no? This means that if you seal your consciousness and become a simple pawn piece as you were originally created, then he will be able to use your power as freely as he wishes. Without thresholds.”

Sacrifice her consciousness and physical form to be a raw core of power-?

“You will be enough.” he added. “Don’t you want that?”

She sucked in a breath. “I..”

It was everything she wanted; being enough. To her chagrin, she was reminded of the night of her twin’s inauguration as the Sixth, in those chilly, chilly quarters where she took up a new name. She recalled asking the question she dreaded the most.

“And my power is not enough for you?”

She did not have a heart of her own, but she could easily grasp the emotion she always felt whenever she was with him in the aftermath of his tragedies; dread. Fear.

“Adequate enough.” his voice was still clear in her mind, “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

That time, the world blanked out on her—she had so many things to say. So many things to ask.

When had he become so detached from their inherent bond to the point of saying without hesitance that he would disregard her as soon as his godly form was built? As soon as he was fit to centralize the Gnosis he had taken from their [mother] creator? They had been together for so long it was not even an exaggeration.

For centuries, through the names, there had been no one but her and him. And countless tragedies that shouldn’t be named.

Wasn’t it she that held him close when they awakened in the domain as he shuddered and cried when they realized that they were abandoned? Wasn’t it she that was with him through thick and thin, holding his delicate hand that refused to leave hers when Katsuragi and Niwa welcomed them in Tatarasuna? Wasn’t it she that accompanied him in the Abyss?

She, that promised that she would not let their story as twins be as tragic as the supposedly blessed encounters they had with humans.

[Name] had done her part, she had done exceedingly well, she knew. He even told her countless times. So why—why, why, why did he even begin to entertain the idea of casting her aside? It was unfair, it was unacceptable.

Ah! She was to blame.

There was bliss in ignorance, and she chose to be willfully ignorant. Ever since the death of the child that succumbed to Tataragami, he burned and charred the ambitions he usually had. She remembered watching the little doll in his likeness turn into ash and couldn’t help but assimilate it to him.

For in a way, he and the little doll were one and the same.

Except, the little toy doll had no heart of silver, but Kunikuzushi had one; her.

She had refused to believe it then, but the moment he denounced emotions, he denounced her existence. Sure, it wasn’t her that directly influenced how he felt, because even without her in his chest he could still feel—but in essence, wasn’t that the ability of a heart?

To make one feel? So when he anathematized emotions, he condemned her willfully.

Shared dream?

No, it was but a mere bandaid to swathe over her insecurity.

It was only her dream because it was her twin’s. There was only one thing that they shared—the same fear of abandonment. Kunikuzushi had grown strong, he chose not to consort with humans any longer for they were the progenitors of their angst and pain. It would no longer hurt if he was the one to shut down and do the abandonment.

Where did that leave her?

The signs were all present ever since the Doctor and the Jester gave him a place in the Fatui organization, in a land of loveless frost. He was set on obtaining the Gnosis, set on becoming a power of pure and utter authentic divinity like he was meant to be.

And that path did not include her, because she was a simple imitation with a power that was only half the legitimacy of the Gnosis’ power.

He sought more, and that ‘more’ was something she could no longer provide—or so she thought.

“Well, [Name]?” she became aware of where she was at the moment and blinked.

For once, she was not doubtful nor fearful of the Doctor, she was hopeful. And it was a dangerous thing to feel around the guileful scholar, but at that very second, she did not care. In the face of a promise that would serialize and cement her future with her twin sibling, how could she start to care about anything else?

Power… she needed it to be enough.

If she was powerful enough, then he would not need to cast her away.

“I–”

There was shuffling from the other end of the room that prevented her from speaking further.

“What’s all the racket for?” Kunikuzushi was waking up with that permanent scowl on his face, his eyes briefly glimpsing the mess that was the laboratory. He looked confused, but not enough to warrant his actual concern. “What, an experiment gone wrong?”

“No. The doctor just got clumsy.” [Name] responded stiffly as she turned to walk over to the Sixth Harbinger.

The Doctor nodded, raising his hands. “My hands do get rather shaky sometimes.”

A stupid lie that was.

Obviously, it did not work on Kunikuzushi, but he remained indifferent. The pawn knew that as long as it had nothing to do with him, then it did not matter.

She held his arms to steady him as he swung his legs off the table, but he shrugged her off. It was rude at worst and nonchalant at best, but with the pitiful memories fresh in her mind and the fear throbbing in her, it affected her immensely. Her fingers twitched.

He did not notice as he gruffly said, “I can walk fine on my own.”

He could and he did. He was stronger. During the first line of experiments he was put through, he required her assistance to get by, but he didn’t now. Did he remember, or was she the only one who relived those times?

Who am I kidding? She thought with a lump in her throat as he passed by her without so much as a second glance. He dares not think about episodes that entail any of his weaknesses.

He had grown so much during the course of the centuries, and he had developed a zealous attitude that was admirable as it was intimidating. Intimidating and fearful on her side, because she knew she was shackled on borrowed time.

Wordlessly, she followed after the Sixth Harbinger, her head kept straight despite the weight she felt that tempted her to look down. As she passed by, Dottore’s words were quiet, serving to be heard by no one else but the one who had the need to hear it.

“Think about my offer, will you?”

She did think about it. In fact, nothing else had been in her mind except for the offer he proposed; a promise of power. Whilst accepting it may not vouch for her stay as her twin’s heart, it presented a chance.

And to her, a chance was all she needed.

“Kunikuzushi,” she called one day after he had overlooked the progress of building his godly form, Shouki no Kami. She had been in his mind when she spoke, and could not deny the sting of alarm when he regarded her with frustration, demanding what it was she required.

“Scaramouche.” he corrected.

She conceded. “Scaramouche.”

He had been rather perturbed the last few days because of the Traveler, but that aside, he was delighted. She could feel him agog with the idea of finally claiming the Gnosis, of finally being dubbed a rightful deity.

“Must you really seek the Gnosis?” she questioned without tact. No beating around the bush, just a direct question, which surprised him, she knew.

The puppet stopped in his tracks, the shadows cast by the sunset across the colonnade enshrouding him in its twilit curtain. Over the centuries he had been with his sibling, not once had she asked about their shared dream. He thought nothing of it, but he was oddly irked that she did—perhaps it was because of the Traveler that she did.

[Name] always was the most acquiescent between them. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Traveler’s spiel about morality had managed to dent her thinking process.

“What do you think?” he remarked, resuming his steps. “The Gnosis is my objective for the last hundred years. Do you think I’d replace it for anything else when I am one step closer to reaching my goal?”

There was silence in his head. For the last few days, [Name] had been quiet, there was nothing new to that, but her current muteness was unsettling.

The bitterness within him gyrated his thoughts and spun them negatively, but before he could speak, she already beat him to it.

“If I’m powerful enough,” he did not like where that phrase was going. “... if I’m powerful enough, will you not take the Gnosis?”

A look of incredulity arose from his expression as he proceeded to traipse towards the workshop, the towering gears and turning wheels welcoming his arrival.

“Do you realize how ridiculous that question is, [Name]? I’ve been created for the Gnosis, it was my destiny to seize.” his words were acerbic and factual, but why would that matter when it was the truth? Besides, [Name] was used to it. There was no need to worry.

“Besides,” he gruffly stated as the elevator took him up to the next level where his godly form awaited, powered by the Electro Gnosis. “We both know you’re a mere imitation of the Gnosis, your power is only ‘half of what is authentic’, a pseudo-power, if you will. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”

“I haven’t..” her voice was tiny, but it was firm.

“Good.”

He huffed as he was brought to the top floor, wherein he was greeted with the mighty mechanical form that he will soon occupy. The Sages that have turned from their pitiful Dendro Archon were already present, alongside the Doctor, who passed a small wave of formality.

Of course she wouldn’t forget that piece of crucial information, it was the very definition of her being; a tool used for empowerment.

He began to walk towards his future, but with each step he took, he found it heavy to press on. His eyebrows furrowed and his chest twisted. There was only one explanation for such sensations and he knew what it was and where it was coming from.

“Where will I go when you acquire the Gnosis?” her next question made it harder to walk forward. “What will happen to me, Kunikuzushi?”

“Don’t call me that.” he gritted his teeth.

The Sages and the Doctor were too preoccupied with whatever conversation they were having to notice his balking. Whatever—he preferred it that way.

His voice low, he proceeded to snap. “And how am I supposed to know? We may be twins, but we’re two different beings. I’m not in charge of delegating what you wish to concern yourself with after I become a god. Do whatever you want.”

His body felt cold.

“We’re not different,” she protested. “I’m your heart. I’m a part of you.”

“Then do you support me gaining a new Gnosis?” he asked. “If we are one and the same, then my ideals are yours and so are my dreams. Tell me, do you want me to be a god to fulfill that dream?”

Silence. The world was slow as he waited, unbreathing.

When the answer came, he was not surprised—not any longer.

“I still want to stand with you.”

It was not a direct answer to his question, but given that he had known her for so long, he knew the implication she endeavored to convey through those equivocal words. To this, he laughed sardonically, feeling his chest twist in some kind of bitter acquiescence.

“In other words,” he chuckled. “No, you don’t want me to be a god. You want me to remain shackled to your inadequate power when you know that I seek more?”

“I can be stronger!” her voice rose in his head and he faltered in genuine surprise. Not once had he ever heard her raise her voice. But that awe gave way for resentment.

Scaramouche balled his hands into fists, feeling his anger rise and bubble. There was no use in hiding it because this conversation was pointless! From the moment he burned that child’s house down and left everything in the ashes of time, he had made up his mind—he was resolute in becoming a true deity.

They both knew what that implied.

“Even if you can, you’re just a phony Gnosis.” the words cut and stung, he knew. He was not reviling her in any way because it was the cold, hard truth. “Why else would she create you in the likeness of a measly pawn piece in the chessboard?”

“Even pawns are capable of attaining majesty!” ah, yes, Guji Yae said that herself, that even pawn pieces could be Queens and any other stronger pieces upon reaching theend of the board, but this was no chess game.

It did not remove in essence, the fact that his twin’s power was not authentic. There was no ‘end of the board’ for her to reach—this was her limit and they both knew that.

Baring his teeth, the Balladeer trudged on despite the heaviness in his chest weighing him down. He refused to be swayed by a sentimental sibling. Zealous in his steps, he disregarded the growing feel of dread for he knew it was not his emotion, but his twin’s.

It was a sickening feeling and he despised it, so he forwarded with zero hesitation.

“Quit it. All I hear is my own twin sister refusing to let me achieve the dream I’ve always chased after.”

He had hoped they would be on the same page—after all, hadn’t it always been the world against them? Them against the world? It left a hollow feeling inside and he swore he felt his eyes burn, but he did not succumb to such a pathetic weakness. He wasn’t a human, nor did he want to be.

“Our dreams were meant to be shared.” he heard her voice falter. “We were meant to work together.”

He never thought her to be this sentimental. But he supposed that after that conversation they had a few days ago, she was more inclined to feeling emotions just as he was [forcibly].

The Doctor welcomed him as he stopped in front of them, his hat tipped down to obscure his expression from their prying eyes. He answered his twin sibling sullenly, in a mere whisper.

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

“Kabuki—”

The Balladeer thrust his hand in his chest, retrieving the pawn piece—his sister—from the spacious dimension within him. Immediately, her voice ceased to exist in his mind and all was silent. Withdrawing, he looked at the small item in his hand, glowing a faint [c], as if urging, insisting—begging him to return her where she belonged.

But he could no longer look at it with distant fondness. Now, there was only betrayal.

I thought so, too. He repeated his own defeated response in his head as the Doctor stepped forward.

“It’s time, Balladeer.” Dottore smiled.

The puppet looked up at him, then back at the pawn piece, which he gripped tightly in one hand, as if willing himself to shatter it into pieces—but he did not. He realized that, even with her gone, his chest was hollow. But that did not matter, for he would soon be filled with a power that could void the emptiness inside.

“I know.” he scowled, pocketing the faux Gnosis as the Sages adjusted the mechanical body, opening the cockpit which held a number of tubes and other small equipment.

He stepped into it as the familiar aura of the Electro Gnosis captured his attention, glimpsing it just in time before it was inserted in the center piece of the body that bore the insignia of Electro. He looked back as the Doctor spoke, though the latter’s line of sight seemed to be directed elsewhere on his person.

“We will begin the process. Are you prepared?” Dottore smiled placidly.

What a stupid question. It seemed like he was being bombarded with tons of it today, but no matter, for this coming dawn was to be a divine advent.

Scaramouche allowed his hand to fall beside him, subtly feeling the figure of the small piece of faux power in his pocket as he answered.

“Of course I am.”

He was awakened not as the perfidious Sixth Harbinger that had absconded his position, but as a newly born god. It was a dreamless sleep, filled with the thrum of divine power.

“Do you remember?” Cloaked from within the penumbra of a false sky, two beings stood—not quite human, yet capable of humanity, regardless.

One so refused to act on it, not any longer, at least. And the other remained in the grey.

The wind was howling with the nightly breeze of Sumeru, cold, and chilly, but it affected neither. A voice spoke, sounding blank. “I do not understand the need to tirelessly search for a heart… when you’re already capable of feeling, anyway.”

“Such outdated information, I don’t seek a heart any more.” Cut a voice so sharp the wind stopped. “I’m looking to crush these filthy emotions. You should, too.”

Silence. It wasn’t the uncomfortable kind, but it was tense with acquiescence, a muted clash of perspectives, ones demanding to be forced upon the other. The response came, sounding bland, if not defeated.

“No.”

That was the last proper conversation they had—it was annoying to recall such things, especially during a time when he was battling against the pesky Traveler who knew nothing but to scupper his plans.

He didn’t know why he would recall it now out of all times, as he heaved breath after breath, the power from the tubes slotted into the sockets of his back not enough to cement his victory.

“I don’t think I will.”

So annoying, so, so infuriating everything was. Everything be damned to hell.

He could almost see her stupid blank face in the back of his mind; he knew she would be disappointed, but when was she not? For someone who put emotions on such a pedestal, she knew only how to be dismayed by him. Well, good riddance.

“I quite like feeling.”

Good riddance, indeed, as the ginormous mechanical figure that housed a supposed god fell to its knees. What a weakling he was, putting himself above others who he deemed unfit for the world; humans who succumbed to desperation like a beggar to a coin.

Yet there he was, the same miserable picture of the puppet he swore to no longer be, hand outstretched towards a Gnosis meant to be his, but arbitrary fate deemed should never be.

The pain of hitting the ground was dull compared to the various other experiments he went through in all the years being a subject to the Doctor’s experiments—and though he thought his own consciousness would pity and leave him be, it did not.

Through the ringing of his ears, he heard Buer usher the damned Traveler elsewhere. And the fact that they did not once acknowledge his pitiful descent only went to show how he truly was a puppet strung along in the grand scheme of a play dolled up by the fate of this accursed world.

“Scaramouche.”

He could not move, no, he did not have the strength and will to move at the moment. His crushing defeat was like a torrent that swallowed him underwater, flooding his being and forcing him to think of nothing but it as he drowned further.

The Doctor’s figure as he hovered over him, like what a scientist would to a specimen, displayed the kind of hierarchy there currently was in the battlefield meant to be the location of his rise as a god.

A failed one.

“It may be difficult to see, what with your pitiful state right now, but you’re far from being average, are you not? So, you are still capable of response. Now tell me.” The man hovered something above his line of sight. “Is this familiar to you?”

He dared not to feel, he swore not to feel—yet he could not help the churn in his empty chest.

A pawn piece. Its homely [c] glow beckoned him to reach out to it, and he did so with a weak, trembling hand as he struggled against the lapse of his consciousness.

It was a reaction out of instinct—to grasp for something that was his, that belonged to him, that was a part of him.

But then it was whisked away and he swore it felt as though he crashed to the ground for the second time. He disliked the nagging trepidation in the back of his head as he shifted to adjust with all that he could, suddenly deeming the tubes that made him powerful a while ago now heavy, burdened with the reminder of his shameful defeat in a war that he began.

What on earth did that Harbinger planned to do? How was he able to take her?

He took her with him in his newly assembled form.

“Dottore…” his voice was weak and he hated it. “How..”

What was he going to do– what did he plan to-

The Doctor laughed as he stepped away with a flourish, gloved hand allowing the piece to float above his palm as he recounted a time of long ago.

“My word! But I thought you sought the bonafide power from an Archon and not from some prototype!” he grinned, “Didn’t you say… that you have no need for her? You fallen ‘god’?”

He wasn’t going to-

“Dottore-!”

“I’ve given you what you want, is it not only fair for me to take my share?” resumed the victor in this play.

And that measly reply was all that poor Scaramouche needed to understand what the Doctor intended to do.

The realization seized him like a serpent, and all of a sudden he loathed his nihilistic, pragmatic view that everything to the world was a simple transaction.

Yes, he wanted Dottore to make his dream a reality. But what did that spell in exchange?

[Name].

Hearing the puppet’s spasming breaths made Dottore huff. He initially had no plan to further taunt someone who was already so pitiful, but he could not resist the morbid pleasure it brought him; a puppet who was a puppet through and through.

Being a god was none other than a foolish position unfit for the latter in the first place.

The hand that shot to wrap around his ankle prevented him from taking another step, and instead of feeling irked, he was only amused.

“What desperation…” he commented.

Deciding to take things up a notch for his own entertainment, he bent on a knee over the piteous Scaramouche, the once great Balladeer, who was now in the shambles of his own mechanical body.

He had to commend him, for despite the obvious asthenia, the fire in those violet eyes were never snuffed out.

“You once wished to be a mortal with a heart, so enlighten me. Between the two of us, who is the closest thing to a weak human being now?” he allowed the piece to float closer to the loser, and he could see the natural effect it brought.

The Balladeer’s easing body, the slight serenity in his expression at the thought of being so close to the being he had with him from the very start…

… And the absolute desperation on his face when the Doctor pulled it away.

“Dottore!” ah, that scream of madness as he clawed the ground, breaths heaved between demands. “Do not… even think of laying a hand on her! She’s not yours! She’s—!”

“Yours, then?”

Dottore asked upon the shambled excuse of a god, the floating item in his possession that glowed a faint [c] and resembled a pawn piece in the chessboard being hidden into his coat.

Over his heart, where it throbbed the same color of [c], almost tauntingly.

“No…” he smiled, kicking off the clasp around his boot, and walking away. Leaving the puppet to the isolation he was so used to. “I don’t think you’ve any right to say that anymore.”

Truly, he wished to stay for a moment longer to watch the show of the desperate Balladeer, whose actions at the moment bespoke nothing of the menacing Harbinger he once was. But the desperation and agony of someone who was once just Kabukimono.

But alas! There were things to be done, and places he needed to go.

Agony—the ugly, distasteful twist of his chest was the sole reason for why he wanted to rid his emotions. To be a superior being incapable of it, for feelings were weak.

He no longer desired a heart, so he threw it away.

Yet at that moment, the godforsaken feeling of having let go brought about a pain and denial that no words could ever describe. He was helpless. Again. To the hands of fate and his own failure. Who was he to be mad, when he had been the one to forsake his heart?

It was beyond hypocritical if he were to ask for it back.

Oh, and where was he now? A measly bug on the cold stone floor.

On shaking arms, he attempted to push himself up. With nonexistent strength, he urged himself to move, but it was the very equipment engineered and produced by the Akademiya that reined him back like a literal puppet on strings—and he was soon crashing back to the floor. But he was nothing if not recalcitrant.

“No- no, don’t-” the consciousness he earlier begged to be taken away was doing its job, and he realized for certain that he would be rid of it.

To his utter desperation.

“Get back here, this isn’t what we agreed on… !”

Deep in the crevices of his mind there resounded the voice so raw with emotions he wished to burn. An ache—a defect in him that he could not, for the artificial life of him, destroy.

His chest hollowed as the Doctor went farther and farther away, carrying with him, the prototype heart he had replaced for the Gnosis.

Anything but her— no more- don’t take any more from me!

[How bastardous he was, to forsake her but in the end demand that she not be taken away from him? What irony.]

That time, he wanted nothing more but to curse everything and himself as he shook. With fear or anguish, he no longer knew.

The [c] glow he had been acclimated to over the centuries was vanishing, just like he wanted to, but now selfishly wanted to take back. Was it because he failed that he wanted her again? He didn’t know anymore—he was afraid to know.

Black spots bedecked his vision, the bile of emotions rising into his throat, threatening to spew in hysteria. Words died in his chest and his voice faded, but still, even with his fading consciousness, he dragged his body across the pavement, fixated on the Doctor’s back, who was now walking away.

Far.. far.. away.

Scaramouche, Kunikuzushi—Kabukimono raged and cried with a hand that could not reach for anything.

Not his goal of transcending into a deity.

Not his mother and creator, the Archon of Inazuma.

With the last of his consciousness and strength, he cried out. “[NAME]!!”

Not the heart he called his twin sister.

His hand fell and his consciousness left, leaving him in the swathe of familiar blackness. One that spoke without the company of the one who knew him most.

It wasn’t fair—this wasn’t fair.

But alas, perhaps fatalism had written that, even if he was far from being a powerfless human being, he could still do nothing to determine his own fate.

That of which included his desertion of his heart, his defeat, and the grand consequence to a dream he had ambitiously chased for himself.

a/n: boop. see you post-irminsul, boy.

also, mc's as "kenkoroshi" is made up of the kanji 剣 [ken/sword] and 殺し [koroshi/kill], so whilst kunikuzushi is literally country destroyer, i opted to have mc be named something that implies her nature as a weapon. 偽物 [nisemono], on the other hand, means 'fake'. or in fatalism context, she's a fake/imitation of a Gnosis.

This has been stewing in my mind for,, a year and a half? Finally out of the basement.

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plat scara

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koyoim

1 year ago

Sing for me, little Nightingale (Yan! Scaramouche x Reader)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56024689

Felines are deserving of their accolades. Merit embodies their nimble spines and ductile limbs; bodies like pliable sand, threading their way through knots, twists, cavities and labyrinths. The prince of the hunt flexes and swipes his talons and his prey are swift to falter, their necks wringed and their spines contorted in ways that are unnatural to their physicality.

“I’ve got you now.”

At times, though, even a cat doesn't remain undefeated.

“How stupid are you to think that a cheap disguise would work against me?” He almost sounds amused, his words an arctic hiss against your ear. Reaching up, Scaramouche claws at the thick cloak that veils your face and tears it to your shoulders. Your hair is quick to mime the departed elements, hanging in disarray across your face. A mantilla of unkempt tresses, veiling whatever thoughts sketch your visage.

The Balladeer regards the sight of your person with a sort of contemptuous delight. Forcefully knelt at his feet with your wrists bound behind you and your head drooped in defeat—or in pensiveness. It's a shame Zapolyarny is so devoid of windows. What light finds it's way into these all-too familiar stone chambers is too sparse to see what expression you're making.

“Well? Say something. Or have I rendered you incapable of speech?”

Tentatively—begrudgingly—you tip your head back, back, back until your irises lock with the hypnotic indigo tinctures belonging to the predator who leers dauntingly above you. Locks of such a hue that only you could wear part like the red sea, revealing a thin, perhaps solemn, ambiguous smile—the last expression the harbinger could anticipate. Or desire.

“Thwarted again, hm?” You chuckle and it sounds like frost, “and I even took extensive measures to conceal my tracks. No good?”

“Failures are bound to repeat themselves.” Scaramouche doesn't nuisance himself with that syrupy facade he wears to rope his targets right between his molars. Malice is a noisome stench in the air as he adds, “This is the seventh time I’ve had to retrieve you. I'd figure you’d have learned your lesson by now, but time after time you insist on making yourself a burden to fetch.”

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” You maintain that strange curve on your plush lips. It’s difficult to tell what you're thinking, or feeling.

“‘No harm’, yet you delude yourself into believing that a time would come when you could successfully evade me. I wonder how long it’ll take until those dreams of yours crumble and die.”

“You know, there’s a word for what you are,” you state after a thoughtful pause. “I think it’s called: overbearing.”

What a strange girl with a strange smile. Normally, Scaramouche would meet such defiance by smiting his poor victim to dust within the blink of an eye. In your displays of resolve, though, the invincible harbinger finds himself crouching to your level, trailing a slender hand against your windpipe. How easily he could squeeze the life from your throat until you begs for reprieve; choke you of your indignation. Instead, he allows it to linger there without purpose, applying no pressure, grasping nothing.

“And there’s a word for what you are.” He nearly whispers. Difficult. Stubborn. Irrevocably his. “Irrational, when I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you, is to offer me your complete submission.”

“Even though I’d sooner offer my life than yield to you?” A new tone makes itself heard in your cadence. Such words, such simple, few words, reveal what lingers beneath your otherwise indifferent facade.

Sagacious. Provocative. Challenging.

Of course, you're testing the boundaries of Scaramouche's resolve, as he does with yours. Suddenly, the atmosphere is taut and palpable with tension for what may become of the future.

Sly, sly little songbird.

Something most unanticipated happens, and you reveal your hands, which you freed from their binds. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise Scaramouche, what with your prowess in the art of escape, but regardless your smile stretches in the presence of the astonishment that lifts his eyebrows and makes his eyes flash white, if only briefly. You take your time observing such a paltry display of rare, raw, emotion, how it shapes the contours of his features at the command of your actions. And gently, you take his hand that graces your throat and tenderly place it on your cheek.

"Ah... You've always been this way, haven't you, Kunikuzushi? Since the very day fate first connected your eyes to mine? " You slant your head into his cold hand with all the fragility of a shedding lotus petal descending into a reservoir, resting your cheek against his cold, liquid touch. Although, the action is far from affectionate. Rather, it's reminiscent of a sort of obstinacy, wearing the facade of love.

"You pine for my heart like you're starved for my flesh.” You take his hand and pass it through your cloak, poising it on your chest, right above your pumping heart.

"But... Perhaps I have no heart to offer you. What then? What will you do when you realize, there is no flesh to pick from my bones? No heart beneath my ribs?"

Scaramouche trudges through your words, running them across his mind. No plausible answer makes itself seen. He relinquishes his hand from your chest.

A cat may not have wings, but it is unrelenting.

“If you have no heart…” He murmurs, before smiling a bitter smile, “Then I’ll make you learn how to love.” how to love him. “I’ll create a heart in the shape of my love, and then I’ll take it. By force if I must.”

"You're willing to create something, just to seize and destroy it..." His words taste like blood upon your tongue. Strange. Carrying pleasantry and uncanniness in a sordid congruence. your lips falter from their smile.

"What a rotten soul you have... When will you realize that your avarice will be your demise?"

A wry, perhaps relenting chuckle emerges from your throat. Then you sigh.

"Perhaps we were made for each other." “

Then why do you run from me? Why do you fight, when you’re meant to be mine?” He asks, vehement, pertinacious.

"But that is where you're mistaken, Scaramouche. You see—” You direct your pointer finger to his chest, resting it in the junction between his collarbones.

“—You're tenacious in pursuing me. But I'm," You points at herself, "Tenacious in avoiding you. We are made for each other like the same ends of two magnets. The same, yet destined to be apart."

There it is, another one of your challenging remarks. The chirping nightingale wriggles free and unfurls it's wings, just as the cat thinks the bird is trapped beneath its paws. And oh, how infuriating, how exhilarating you are. Hatred is a simmering tempest that ignites the harbinger's temper. He despises how affixed he is to you, to the thought of trapping you beneath his claws, only for you to fly free and rejoice your liberation in song. It's petty. It's pathetic. It's irresistible. The Balladeer scoffs.

“Is this all just a game of push and pull to you? Just how long are you willing to avoid me?”

“How long are you willing to pursue me?”

“Until you submit to me.”

“Then, until you set me free.”

Scaramouche can only watch as you put on your hideous, inhuman, anomalistic smile. Fine, then. If nothing else, he’ll build you a gilded cage to lure you into a golden prison disguised as a paradise. He’ll rip your wings from your body, flesh and bone marrow hanging in loose tendrils, so to erase all notions of flying free from your unreadable mind that he tends to make his possession, until you’re bleeding so sweetly beneath his claws. His beautiful songbird, who sings in the shape of his love.

Because you were made for him. He, the heartless one, who wishes for a heart. For your heart, which you are't willing to offer. Which you wish you never had.

You’re the only one to believe he still has a soul. That he ever had one, rotten as it may be.

Scaramouche cannot let that go. Regardless of how many times you flee from his talons, he will find you and chase you to the very ends of this earth.

Fly away, little singing nightingale.

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koyoim

2 years ago

hi hi!

I love ur writing sm tbh, it’s just so heartwarming and FLOOFY

could I pls request headcanons of all the harbingers being the caretakers of kitsune child reader (platonic obviously)

like one day the tsaritsa just tells them they have to look after this fox child she found

just fluffy and soft stuff🥺

if there are too many characters, feel free to add less if you’d like, I honestly don’t mind

(they’re pretty similar to how miko looks and they can also turn into a tiny Fox)

sos if this is a confusing request

thanks in advance! have a wonderful day/noon/night <33

♡ 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 ♡

synopsis: The Tsaritsa orders her Harbingers to take care of a kitsune child she found. Fluff ensues as they all platonically grow fond of you.

includes: all eleven fatui harbingers w/ gn! child! reader

notes: Platonic stuff and found family is so cute! Thank you for this request and your words, it was so cute. I hope you like this!

All of them are initially cautious at first. Why would a kitsune be in Snezhnaya? Were you actually a spy and just pretending? But the Tsaritsa seemed to take a liking to you, so they were all required to do their part. (Little did they know they would all end up adopting you.)

Pierro:

At first, he keeps you around because of the Tsaritsa’s orders. But since you are naturally curious, you would follow him around at all times which would melt his heart and make him remember his own youth. Pierro would play chess with you. Kitsune are very intelligent and he would want to bring this out of you slowly. Would sometimes lose on purpose if you’re getting upset though. (He’s shocked if you call him an old man.)

The kind of caretaker who would sit you down on his lap and read you bedtime stories. He has a deep raspy voice that’s useful for when they need to put you to bed. I also think this man is very stressed and your fox form would make him feel a lot more relaxed.

Capitano:

I personally think he’d be really soft with animals and they love him in return. So he’d secretly love your fox form. Capitano takes elite care of your fur, ears, and hair. (Imagine you sleeping on top of his head or shoulders while he gives out orders and the Fatui soldiers are struggling to keep a straight face.)

He is your silent protector. Would trail behind you as you run around the Fatui headquarters. When you’re talking to any soldier, he would stand menacingly behind you as a warning to everyone else to not say anything inappropriate to you. Capitano would give you piggyback rides, lift you up into the air, let you hang off his arm, and do any other fun activities. He really treasures how you’re not scared of him at all, and would protect you at any cost.

Columbina + La Signora:

Columbina and La Signora would team up to do your hair. You would have matching rose buns like Signora by the end of it. The two of them would have the best and cutest clothes for you. The three of you probably have fashion shows and an actual runway. They have hats specially made to fit with your ears.

I just know Columbina knows the best spots for naps and scenery. She would take you to her favorite spots and hum a simple tune for you until both of you fall asleep. La Signora would take on a more motherly role. She wants to know about your day and what you learned while she combs out any knots.

Dottore:

To be honest, the other Harbingers endeavor to keep your time with him limited because of his past actions. Dottore doesn’t care much for kids anyway so this is fine to him. But if you continuously seek him out he’ll begrudgingly deal with your presence. Honestly the worst caretaker out of everyone because he has no idea what to do. What do kids like to do? What do they eat? Why are you crying all of a sudden? It’s making his head spin. Passes you off to his clones who research guides on how to deal with kids. They slowly adapt and teach him later.

Might allow you to attach one of his earrings to your ear, but you take it off rather quickly, complaining it’s too heavy for you. You would also copy his maniacal laugh so whenever Dottore laughs they have a mini you following after. Similar to Sandrone, he might teach you about invention and different kinds of science.

Pulcinella:

The best grandpa who knows every trick in the book. Whenever the Harbingers are at a loss on how to take care of you, they bring you to him and he’s got it under control in a matter of minutes. He wants to know who you are hanging out with and if they’re a bad influence on you. Pulcinella knows when to be strict and when not to. Gives the other Harbingers in-depth caretaking lessons whether they like it or not (especially Dottore.)

He would make sure you have memories of everyone you cherish. Kitsune live so much longer than a human and he doesn’t want you to forget anyone who raised you. Gives you a Kamera and helps you to make scrapbooks of everything you take pictures of.

Scaramouche:

There were always rumors that the Balladeer was soft around the children and elderly but no one quite believed it until they saw him interacting with you. Initially tried to avoid you because he didn’t want others to see an adorable kitsune child following him. Eventually gave in but kept the fake grumpy facade up so others wouldn’t get the wrong idea.

You probably remind him of Inazuma. Introduces you to Inazuman cuisine and wants to take you there someday. He probably knows kitsune folklore as well so he would retell it to you. He secretly finds it cute when you try on his hat but it covers you completely because you’re so tiny. Scaramouche’s temper is reduced while you’re around because he doesn’t want to make you upset. Whenever you ask him to do something he always acts like it’s a chore for a few seconds but immediately gets a Fatui agent on the job.

He’s a puppet who is probably going to live as long as you, so he silently vows to watch over you and protect you always.

Arlecchino:

Arlecchino is around children daily in her orphanage but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s great with them. After all, she’s raising them to be warriors and soldiers, not babysitting them. But that doesn’t mean she’s bad either. Arlecchino could pick up on your cues easily - she knows when you’re hungry or pretending to be sick, or when you’re actually tired. She’s still not the most in tune with emotions though so she leaves that up to the other Harbingers. Arlecchino would still be helpful with your health though.

She would let you play with the other orphans because it seems to brighten their days (hers as well.) She seems cold and a bit angry at times but your cheerfulness brightens her day.

Pantalone:

He knows what it’s like to be abandoned so he would feel for you. You would be utterly pampered by him. Bubble baths, rubber duckies, any toys you want, the most exquisite of shampoos and conditioners for your ears. He would make sure you receive a proper education and access to any activities you desire. Pantalone would make sure you never left wanting.

He would teach you how to manage money at a young age. You’ll probably never need it but he likes the idea of teaching you something he wished he knew as a child.

Sandrone:

She doesn’t care much at first. Sure, her interest is a bit peaked, but she’ll soon forget about you when she’s busy with her Automatons. That is, until she finds out you somehow snuck into her lab and curiously inspected some of her most dangerous robots. Immediately removes you from the premises.

She doesn’t want to involve you in the more cruel and deadly aspect of her work so instead, she’ll help you to create a small robot for yourself. She does most of the work but shows you some fundamental mechanical skills and secretly hopes you’ll take an interest in engineering.

Sews a kitsune doll for you so you can cuddle it to sleep. Sandrone has different robots created that teach you basic skills like reading, writing, math, etc. Even when she or any of the Harbingers are not around with you, you have her robots to play games with and keep you company.

Childe:

Probably the best caretaker besides Pulcinella. Childe already has multiple little siblings so he knows exactly what to do. However, he has little restraint when it comes to spoiling you which separates him from Pulcinella’s stricter attitude. Childe would cook your favorites with ease but also introduce you to his favorite Snezhnayan dishes. He would comb out your fluffy hair and ears while keeping you occupied with various Snezhnayan stories.

Childe would not want you to fight. He is the protector and defender of childhood dreams so he would encourage you to do what you find fun (and would fund anything you need.) Even though you already know he’s in the Fatui, he wouldn’t tell you anything else about his job because he wants to shield you from harm.

He would introduce you to Teucer and his family quickly. His siblings marvel over your appearance and would play with you often. Ajax understands quite well how it feels to be lonely so he would want you to have strong bonds. Would even allow you to live with his family full time or have sleepovers if you wished.

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