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toothfa-1-ry · 5 months

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METAMORPHOSIS -finnick odair

The capital has a way of messing up with your head. Finnick saw it happen to him, he saw it happen to Peeta and worst of all, he had to see it happen to you too

GENRE: Angst

PAIRING: Finnick Odair x gn reader,

WARNING: PTSD, mental illness and abuse, suicidal thoughts, self harm on Finnick's part, reader want through a lot of psychological abuse and physical abuse, Finnick has panic attacks basically very hunger games coated abuses

A/N: back in for a hot minute with the new release of a the ballad of songbirds and snakes! I seem to be pulled back into the hunger games lol however since it's been a pretty long time since I've read or watch the movies this fic is probably not going to be accurate at all! Also I have no idea how to end this fic so I just did it in a hurry. I don't rlly like how it came out but oh well!

You weren't supposed to get taken away

You weren't supposed to fall back down behind, you weren't supposed to be left behind while Finnick was distracted talking to Katniss.

Finnick wasn't supposed to leave you behind, he was supposed to stay by your side just like he promised. He wasn't supposed to let you be taken away and yet your there stuck in the capitol while he lies with wounds all over his body in the 13 district

It should have been him, he thinks, that maybe if he had switch places with you in that moment, that he was right next to you instead of ahead of you, that he would pulled you towards him, maybe..maybe you would be there next to him.

Maybe you would be lieing next to him, perhaps is bruises and wounds as bad as his but atleast the both of you would be safe in each others arms.

Finnick knows that he should get out of his room. The plain cold room with grey walls seem to surround him on all four sides and yet his grief seems to swallow him as a whole

The ringing sound in his ears continue relentlessly and the tremble in his hands refuse to go. He'd find himself picking his scabbed scars and almost healed wounds and waking up in the dead of night screaming. He finds himself scarring his once golden skin which now seemed rusted with red and all of his old wounds once which was kissed by you being reopened at the dead of night.

He screamed screamed for you, every night and even while he was awake he seemed to be mumbling your name over and over again under his breath. As if believing that if he did so that maybe you'd appear infront of him and tell him it's just a bad dream

Sometimes he'd be forced out of his room, sometimes it's by Haymitch or some other person. He couldn't care less, however he was also a beacon of hope for the people maybe not flaming as bright as Katniss the girl on fire but rather hope like the beach waves hitting the shore

But you were different. You were a different kind of hope, not burning bright and flaming with fumes like Katniss or calm and majestic in all its glory like Finnick but you were like moon.

Hope like the moon in the dark night sky guiding travelers for the past million centuries, sailors, prophets and even kings and helping them find way back to their homes, to their solace. You were the light in the dark, a elegant beam of radiance showing way even to a poor man.

You were Finnick's light. The only thing that helped him see, the only time he felt truly like himself not like the capitols charming prince, or the victor from the 4th district but rather just like plain Finnick. The boy who had golden tan skin, hair dry with salty sea water, the boy who smelled like the sea ans the boy he once was before the capitol got a hold of him.

Like the moon's reflection on the ocean bed in the calm, you were a beam of radiance to him that helped him sleep in night, safe and sound..and loved.

He misses you more than he remembered you. And it scared Finnick.

Being forced out was now a usual thing for Finnick. Being forced to sit in a cafeteria with a plate of food which would go cold and remain uneaten.

He usually stayed alone still away from the others which was unlike him but his mind would be plagued with the last look you gave him, his ears repeating your mortifying scream

Sometimes he'd talk to Katniss. She understood him, after all her Peeta was taken away to just you were taken away. Both Finnick and Katniss blamed themselves more than they should have,

He thinks, at first that he is a little envious of Katniss and the way she looks strong. She holds herself in a way he doesn't. He thinks, how does she do it? How does Katniss remain like a fire burning torch when Peeta the person she adores the most is gone like how you were

But then he hears a familiar voice, he sees a all too familiar face across the tv screen and he is immediately filled with desperation and dread. He looks at Peeta's stoic and unmoving face on the tv screen and he feels the tremble beginning in his hands again.

The capitol couldn't have..could they? They wouldn't have- they couldn't have done it. They didn't kill Peeta but..they seemed to have done something even worser

Finnick's thoughts are left troubled when it was disturbed a loud sound of a metallic plate dropping and a cry of despair

He sees Katniss, her tears and the way her hands fly towards her mouth and try to cover her cry.

Thats when he notices the bags under her eyes and the cuts on her hand. He notices the way her heart sank just like his did and he notices the way Katniss called out Peeta's name. He remembers the way she held him in the games and the way she begged him to live

He thinks, maybe they aren't so different at all.

"he's alive..he's alive" Katniss whispers under her breath and Finnick's holds his, his eyes scan the tv screen scanning for your face whi- and he sees it.

Your face in the background, your hair combed and slicked backed tightly into a bun. Your faced filled with white powdery makeup making you look almost as if you were a corpse. Your eyes seemed scarily full and your lips dry.

But you weren't dead, but you didn't really seem alive either.

The fact that you were alive had a unsettling feeling in Finnick but right now he couldn't care, you were alive and breathing

"y/n" Finnick breaths out as he runs towards the screen with no hesitation. His mind is no longer on Katniss or Peeta or the capitol but at you and your face.

His trembling fingers slowly trace your face as he cries your name out repeatedly, he isn't listening to what Peeta is saying or all the commotion in the back

Your alive.

"they're back! Peeta, Johanna and y/n they- they're back"

Finnick runs faster than he has ever done in his entire life.

Faster than he did in the hunger games or faster than he did from the capitol people after they were done with their business with him in their bedrooms.

He throws down whatever he was holding in his hands, leaves whatever thought was occupying his head and runs faster than he ever did

He doesn't care about whether he hit someone or if he was making too much noise. He cried your name out as he ran calling you, searching for you before opening the door with a bang, his eyes red with tears and trembling body.

He sees you in a wheelchair lying lifelessly in the the chair which held your body.

He doesn't notice the way everyone else in the room looks at him, Haymitch, the doctors or nurses or even Johanna who was sitting in a similar wheelchair a few metres away from you. They way they all immediately stood up straight and their body tense, the way their faces were looking at him with pity

Finnick feels as if though he had stopped breathing, every single bone in his body moves automatically. The tears stream across his golden skin as his hands itch to touch you

All he needs is you. All he needs is your touch, your warmth

He runs towards you unaware of the way you tensed up when you saw him, he shouts your name as his hands stretch out to finally hold you, he begs for forgiveness again and again but finds you shaking instead

"Finnick don't go near her- wait Finnick don't" Beetee's immediate warning fails when you start thrashing against Finnick's touch

"y/n?- y/n my love? What's wrong?" Finnick panics as he tries to calm you down as you shout and scream

Just a few seconds ago you were silent and unmoving refusing to speak but here you were with Finnick, screaming and crying trying to get away from him like he was a monster

"my love please-" Finnick begs as his hands touches your face, the panic in his voice and the tears unhidden from anyone. The despair and regret dripping from his words and unhelpful touches which seem to drive you insane even more

"away! Get away from me! I- get away! away!" You try to push Finnick away but your not that strong. You seem to be repeating the same things again and again but you shake your head and scream even louder than before

"Finnick let go of her- don't Finnick!" Finnick's hears the others shouting at him but he can't let you go, not when you don't even recognise him

"it's me- it's me y/n. It's Finnick your sweetheart" his voice cracks at the nickname you gave him, his eyes search for a second of recognition or even love but your eyes are filled with terror and fear

"y/n it's me! I'm here now! I'm sorry I'm never going to let you go- please y/n..it's me" he begs and pleads you but you don't stop resisting against him even going lengths of hitting him with your hands helplessly

"Finnick let go!" Finnick hears Haymitch shout as he pulls him away from you "she isn't the same y/n you know- the capitol played with her mind"

Finnick feels his entire world go cold, his skin gone numb and his brain feels all muddy. There's a dark deep sinking feeling in his gut as he watches you look at him in complete fear, crawling away from him and into the corner of the room hugging yourself

Finnick takes a few steps towards you but is fiercely pushed away by a agitated Johanna "get the fuck away from her Finnick!"

Johanna glares at Finnick alongside with everyone in the room before she runs to the corner you were sobbing in and cradles you in her arms muttering "don't touch us, don't touch us" again and again.

"what- what do you mean? What's going on?" He turns and looks at the faces in the roomwhich was responded with a nervous glance. Finnick feels his blood boil and his anger consume him

"I said what do you mean" he shouts "what the hell happened" his eyebrows furrowed as he watches Betee struggled to form sentences

"we- we don't know exactly what happened" Betee says as he motions towards you and Johanna who was rocking you in her arms, shooting everyone in the room dirty looks still repeating the same words

"but-"

"but what? what...what happened to my y/n why.. why does she seem afraid of me? Why is she scared-" His voice cracks before he began to sob uncontrollably "why?"

The room goes silent and all that could be heard was Finnick's sobs and yours alongside with Johanna's muttering.

Haymitch walks slowly to Finnick and holds him in the shoulder "I think..you should sit down somewhere while we talk about this" he says grimly as he turns around and gives looks at the rest of the people in the room to give them some space

Finnick's breathing is shallow as he listens to Betee. The more he listens the more he wishes that he were dead, that it was all fake. He wishes even more that it was him who was taken into the capitol and regret and anger fills him up

"the capitol obviously wasn't going to let it slide, I mean y/n she- she was the capital's sweetheart. She was one of their favourite victor and seeing her being a part of the uprising? Snow would have never let her or any of them for the fact go unscarred but, we never expected this much"

Betee continues in a whisper, he stops every 2 minutes and looks at Finnick to say something but Finnick would always remain silent and unmoving.

"Johanna she- she's developed this insane fear of water- she was drowned multiple times by the capital and Peeta he..he was also brainwashed. He has developed this insane hatred for Katniss."

"and y/n?" Finnick finally broke his silence "what did they do to her?" You could hear the desperation leaking from his voice, his voice at the verge of breaking

Betee seemed to be hesitant to say, often refusing to make eye contact with Finnick but he sighed and looked straight at him

"y/n was strapped. She was strapped into this machine and they kept on fiddling with her memories. She couldn't differentiate with what was real and what wasnt. They inserted this entire new plot into her head which she now believes some parts of it to be true"

Finnick breathing stopped, a chill ran down his spine as he internally begged that it was not what he was thinking of

Betee looks up to Finnick with sadness and guilt painted in his eyes, he didn't want to break it to Finnick this way. He knew how much it would hurt him

"Finnick" Haymitch says instead, choosing to be the one to break the news to Finnick "y/n, she's scared of you. Just like how Peeta has developed hate for Katniss, y/n has developed fear towards you."

A all too familiar feeling came over Finnick. He was where he was in the beginning. He was nothing but a monster, a killer, a damaged product before you came along and showed him a new path but he had to ruin everything. He had to break you too, he had to ruin you too, it was all his fault

Panic engulfed Finnick as it hit his very core, today was the day he got you back and yet today was also the day he seemed to have forever lost you

"but-" he trembles as he talks "but why- what did they show her? What did I do to her" his breathing becomes fast

"it's not your fault" Haymitch says as Betee nods his head "we're trying to figure that out right now"

"is it only me?" Finnick's blood shot eyes pierce Betee's "am I the only person she's scared of?"

"she's scared of everything and everyone except for Johanna. Johanna was the only one who was there to comfort her but Johanna herself isn't in the right mind right now either" Betee replies

"oh" Finnick's voice is empty and hollow, he doesn't want to ask the question but it seems inevitable "will she ever stop being scared of me?"

Finnick is scared of Betee's answer, his heart hammered agains his chest in panick "do you think..I can get her back?"

Betee purses his lips as he continues "it won't ever be the same Finnick. Y/n.. whatever they implanted in her head has been recognised as real to her now but if we keep on pressing on with the truth maybe" he looks hopefully at Finnick "maybe you could get a piece of her back, not fully but a fragment of her"

"I just..I just want her, I don't care if it's a piece of her or whatever. I just..I want her to be okay"

Betee just nods his head wordlessly as he watches Finnick break down. Right infront of him was probably the strongest person he ever knew, he watched him during his games, watched him become victor and knew everything he went through but he never saw Finnick this broken.

"I'm going to get her back" Finnick says "if that's the last thing I ever do I swear, she's going to be okay"

#hunger games x reader #the hunger games #finnick imagine #finnick odair #thg finnick #finnick x you #finnick x reader #finnick fics #hunger game x reader #hunger games #peeta mellark #thg peeta #thg series #thg fic #coriolanus snow #snow #district 4

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ohwhataniight · 3 days

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(Belated) Calm - @calaisreno

I've been craving to participate in the May Prompts thing but life has been absolutely hectic, so I decided to choose one prompt and write something instead of attempting to fill them everyday. Hope that's okay. I'm so grateful for everyone who has been gifting their gems to this beautiful fandom. The past week has been incredible, reading all your stunning works!

Calm - Andante, andante

It finally happens on their holiday. John has practically dragged Sherlock to the seaside with a plan to supervise his sleep schedule and meal intake, uninterrupted from cases or landladies for a long weekend. John had expected Sherlock to spend the biggest part of their trip sulking, but instead he spends the first day running around Rosie who’s learning to walk and keeps stumbling on the unforgiving sand. So far he has airplane-fed her three meals in a way that makes the process looks deceivingly effortless, and he has even kneeled by her side barefoot, in his white linen shirt end rolled-up trousers, and built ornate sand castles for her - he has even let her indulge in the scandalous pleasure of sitting flat on her diapered bum on them right after he’s finished, shrieking while reducing his elaborate creations into ruins. Hell, he even smiled and clapped throughout.

John has watched the two of them fondly through the day and interrupted them only for sunscreen and hydration breaks which, if he’s entirely honest with himself, proved to be entirely unnecessary. Sherlock is a diligent caretaker, and John’s cheeks are starting to hurt from all that smiling he can’t help but allow on his face.

It’s currently dark and they’re walking on the beach side by side, their feet leaving four parallel lines of marks on the sand. Rosie is sleeping soundly in her baby carrier that’s strapped on Sherlock’s chest, and John can’t help but feel just a tiny bit jealous of his daughter, rested peacefully like that in Sherlock’s arms, probably calmed by the sound of his heartbeat. The beach is empty aside from a group of Gen-Zers sitting far away around a bonfire, their laughter and songs distant and mingling with the music coming muffled from the hotel across the street. He recognizes some tacky ballads and an alarming amount of ABBA songs, but he doesn’t really mind. The soft, salty breeze is caressing their cheeks and the stars are shining brightly on the velvet blanket of the sky that is draped above them, the horizon too dark to be able to tell it apart from the sea.

John remembers a moment from years ago, when they had been in the middle of a case and Sherlock had casually commented on the beauty of the starlight as they were walking alongside each other in the grimy alleys of London. He can’t really fathom how they have arrived to this point, walking silently on the sand, electricity hovering between them, after everything they’ve been through, both together and apart. He recalls the moments that have filled their day, the meals they’ve shared, the peekaboos they’ve entertained Rosie with, the goofiness and the attention and the care. He recalls the angles of Sherlock’s pale body as he walked into the glistening sea, the litheness of his limbs, the wet locks of dark hair plastered on his head, dripping water on his freckled clavicles.

“If she’s getting too heavy for you you can hand her to me, y’know,” he says in a lowered voice, breaking the silence that was buzzing loudly in his ears.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock whispers with a grimace that’s illuminated by the pale moonlight that bathes his face from a flattering angle. “She’ll wake up if we move her, and we all know how hard it was to get her to sleep”.

John chuckles softly. “After seeing you lulling her to sleep with Despacito of all things, knowing that it’s her favourite song, I feel the urge to apologize for all the times I’ve called you a heartless git.”

“If you look in the past without the rose-tinted glasses that have clouded your vision today, John, I’ve been a heartless git.”

John stops walking, and Sherlock does too after a couple of steps, turning around and facing him. “Not anymore.”

“No,” a hint of a smile appears on the detective’s face. “Not anymore.”

Before being able to fully realize what he’s doing and stop himself from doing it, John has extended his hand and pull Sherlock’s bigger one into it. Sherlock suddenly looks breathless, flustered, and John takes the liberty of tentatively carressing the back of Sherlock’s hand, the heel, the knuckles with his thumb. “Thank you,” he mouths, himself surprised by how much he’s feeling. “For behaving. For taking care of Rosie. For... for everything.”

“Of course, John.” Sherlock squeezes his hand, then shifts their entangled fingers so that his index and middle finger are resting on John’s wrist. John feels his muscles tensing at the invasiveness - and the cliche nature - of the gesture, but then again, wasn’t it himself who took Sherlock’s hand into his own, who softly caressed the sun-kissed skin?

“Don’t,” he murmurs.

“Why?” Sherlock whispers back. Rosie is snoring softly, still rested against his chest, and John is feeling as if there is no one in the world other than them, nothing exists but their warm breaths intermingling, the calm rise and fall of the daughter-shaped bundle between them, and the flickering of falling stars above their heads.

“Because you don’t need to,” John exhales.

He can’t recall who leans in first, but their first kiss tastes of salt and the fruity rum-based cocktail they shared earlier at the beach bar, sipping with pink straws from inside a pineapple. He can finally taste Sherlock, and the sensation takes over his whole body, making his knees buckle. They soon break the kiss, breathless, given that the sleeping bundle of Rosie is standing between them. Still, everything about it feels chaste. John throws his arms around the two people he loves the most in his life, holding them close, never willing to let them go, feeling the symphony of heartbeats vibrate through their bodies. He presses his lips softly on his daughter’s forehead and Rosie shifts, only to immediately drift back to sleep, curled up in their embrace.

#sherlock holmes #johnlock #bbc sherlock #john watson #sherlock #johnlock fic #queer #johnlock fanfiction #fanfiction #mayprompts2024 #may prompts 2024 #sherlock x john

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paniniseller · 8 days

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**Tim and Anne's Nautical Romance**

In a harbor of dreams, where waves whispered tales,

Tim, the salty sailor, met Anne, who set sails.

He wore a tricorn hat, she had a compass heart,

Their love charted courses on a celestial chart.

Tim's eyes were the color of stormy seas,

Anne's laughter danced like seagulls on a breeze.

They shared sea shanties under moon's silver glow,

Their love anchored deep, where tides ebb and flow.

Tim wrote her sonnets with ink made of brine,

Anne sang ballads of mermaids and moonshine.

They carved their initials on driftwood's embrace,

Their love sailed uncharted waters, a wild chase.

Anne gifted him a seashell bouquet at dawn,

Tim replied with a lighthouse, steadfast and drawn.

They danced on the deck, waltzing with moonbeams,

Their love weathered storms, like seasoned mariners' dreams.

In their ship of whimsy, they sailed toward the horizon,

Tim and Anne, two sailors, bound by love's verizon.

They vowed to navigate life's tempests, hand in hand,

Their love, a compass rose guiding them to distant land.

So here's to Tim and Anne, the salt-kissed pair,

May their love be as eternal as the ocean's stare.

Through squalls and calms, they'll steer their course,

Forever entwined in their nautical love's force.

```

Fair winds and following seas to Tim and Anne! ⚓🌊🌟

(Made with Bing Copilot AI)

#tim laurence #sir tim laurence #timothy laurence #sir timothy laurence #princess royal #princess anne

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south-park-polls · 23 days

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South Park Song Tournament: Round 2!

[make sure to follow @votemattrey for more south park related polls!]

Thank you all so much for the engagement you've shown with round one of my tournament! Round 2 will begin tomorrow!

The songs still in the tournament are as follows:

South Park Theme Song

I'm Gonna Make Love to You, Woman - Cartman Gets an Anal Probe (S1 E1)

The Lonely Jew on Christmas - Mr Hankey the Christmas Poo (S1 E9)

Chocolate Salty Balls - Chef's Chocolate Salty Balls (S2 E9)

Underpants Gnomes Work Song - Gnomes (S2 E17)

I Hate You Guys - Jakovasaurs (S3 E4)

Mr Hankey the Christmas Poo - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

Carol of the Bells - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

Christmas Time in Hell - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

Merry Fucking Christmas - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

O Holy Night - Mr Hankey's Christmas Classics (S3 E15)

Fingerbang - Something You Can Do With Your Finger (S4 E8)

Wendy's Audition Song - Something You Can Do With Your Finger (S4 E8)

It's Butters! - Butters' Very Own Episode (S5 E14)

Montage - Asspen (S6 E2)

Sea People and Me - The Simpsons Already Did It (S6 E7)

The Ballad of Lemmiwinks - The Death Camp of Tolerance (S6 E14)

Bleeding Heart Rock Protest Song vs. Pro War Country Song - I'm a Little Bit Country (S7 E4)

Taco Flavoured Kisses - Fat Butt and Pancake Head (S7 E5)

Faith + 1 Album - Christian Rock Hard (S7 E9)

Casa Bonita - Casa Bonita (S7 E11)

French Canada - It's Christmas in Canada (S7 E15)

Let's Fighting Love - Good Times with Weapons (S8 E1)

My Robot Friend - AWESOM-O (S8 E5)

I've Got Some Apples - Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset (S8 E12)

Make It Right - The Death of Eric Cartman (S9 E6)

Love Lost Long Ago - Follow That Egg! (S9 E10)

We Can Live Together - Ginger Kids (S9 E11)

I am the Dawg - Miss Teacher Bangs a Boy (S10 E10)

California Loves the Homeless - Night of the Living Homeless (S11 E7)

Imagination Song - Imaginationland (S11 E10-12)

Canada on Strike - Canada on Strike (S12 E4)

Super Fun Time - Super Fun Time (S12 E7)

You Gotta Do What You Wanna Do - Elementary School Musical

Gay Fish - Fishsticks (S13 E5)

Poker Face - Whale Whores (S13 E11)

Minorities at my Water Park - Pee (S13 E14)

You and Cthulhu - Mysterion Rises (S14 E12)

Work Mexican Work - The Last of the Meheecans (S15 E9)

I'm Not the Poorest Kid in School - The Poor Kid (S15 E4)

Make Bullying Kill Itself - Butterballs (S16 E5)

Jackin' it in San Diego - Butterballs (S16 E5)

I Swear - Cartman Finds Love (S16 E7)

Princess Kenny Theme - A Song of Ass and Fire (S17 E8)

My Bitch Ain't No Hobbit - The Hobbit (S17 E10)

Push (Feeling Good on a Wednesday) - The Cissy (S18 E3)

The Tale of Craig's Mom's Bush - The Magic Bush (S18 E5)

The Yelper Special (Boogers and Cum) - You're Not Yelping (S19 E4)

The Ballad of Tweek and Craig - Tweek x Craig (S19 E6)

Put It Down - Put It Down (S21 E2)

I Love You Social Distancing - The Pandemic Special

Mountain Town - South Park: Biggger, Longer & Uncut

Uncle Fucka - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

It's Easy Mmkay - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

Blame Canada - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

Kyle's Mom's a Bitch - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

What Would Brian Boitano Do - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

Up There - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

La Resistance - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

I Can Change - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

I'm Super - South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut

We Missed You Randy - South Park: The Streaming Wars

I Got Cred, Bitches - South Park (Not Suitable For Children)

#south park #south park songs #south park song tournament #polls #south park polls #tournament poll #sp fandom

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and-the-stars-collided · 1 year

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The First Elves as Aesthetics:

Finwë — grey skies, pine trees, stag's antlers, gritted teeth, piles of firewood, howling winds, lace table cloths, black ponds slick with ice, cautious, likes to plan, whispered confessions onto the autumn wind, the sharpness and cutting edge of a cold breeze, the glint of a metal blade, the bright teal of a midday ocean and the blackness of wild volcanic beaches, strong and independent, black hair, often staring into space, autumn mornings, braiding hair, love ballads, smiling fondly, lying by a small creek, falling in love when you shouldn't, starlit nights, regret, bittersweet kisses, being left wanting more.

Míriel — memories of past lovers, withering flowers, polished gravestones, being young and naive, gathering flowers and seeds, uncut gemstones, the gleam of a single tear falling, the silver reflection of the moon mirrored on the surface of a pond, an absence of sound, morning mist, hazy eyes, uncertain smiles, subtle exchanged glances, rich tapestries, tears streaming down their face, shattered promises, a not-quite persistent yearning, shaky breaths, moonlit rows, nimble hands, dancing to music playing softly in the distance, trusting the secrets of the night, waking up anew with determination.

Indis — warm tea, comfortable silence, soft eyes, messy hair, golden clouds, the sound of rain, a heart traced onto fogged up windows, yellow clothes on the days where the sun seems to have left forever, waking up to tear-stained sheets and feeling a little bit lighter, hopscotch in puddles, love at first sight, soft forehead kisses, secretly insecure, easily mistaken for the bad guy, wants the best for others, lost in thought, star gazing, always wearing some sort of shimmery nail polish, flowing dresses, wavy hair, the peace maker, the one to be called when something very specific is needed, butterflies, sparkling eyes, second chances.

Ingwë — bare feet on warm summer dirt, flower crowns slipping off heads after being flung back with laughter, mugs of too-sweet tea, sweet kisses, heart-wrenching poetry, pressed flowers, long hugs, warm and hazy afternoons, singing old songs, sunflowers, laughing till your chest hurts, bathing in sunlight, has the brightest smile ever seen, dried paint on their clothes, headbands and scrunches, fresh pancakes in the morning, stubborn but quick to learn, wanting to be on time and always a few minutes late, an artist's way of thinking, a journey of discovering one's passion.

Ilwen — the feeling of walking barefoot, inhaling the salty smell of the sea, forgetting about everything else but the fact that you are alive in that exact moment in the universe, grapes and oranges, the refreshing feeling of laying on the cold sand, complex architecture, busy markets filled with noises, the light swaying of a ship, sun-kissed skin, the smell of freshly baked bread at sunrise, drinking coffee under the warm morning sun, linen sheets, home-made jam, caring touches and warm smiles, looking for a shape in every cloud going by, simply enjoying the scenery, watches butterflies, drowsy days.

Ingwion — dark brown eyes, apple cider, thunder, creaking doors, owning up to rare losses, not accepting the path already created, confidently moving, staying in the deep end of a pool, reserved laughter, reckless, somehow manages to stumble into opportunities whenever they need them, quite the expert at falling out of love, will not worry unnecessarily, not taking the word of strangers seriously, seems warm but surprisingly coldblooded, deadpan jokes, sees everything but speaks rarely, dark under-eyes, loves stormy nights, punches and bruised knuckles, surprises and laughter, long empty hallways, tight hugs.

Thingol — regal, attempting to remain calm while in pain, silver moonlight, a thin pane of glass between you and society, luminescence, corrupted kings, forced smiles, too much ambition, protective of their family, falling through the sky, sharp collar bones, lip biting, purposeful words spoken with a sharp tongue, black coffee, dangerously flashing eyes, dripping false smiles, talking to people they have never met before aggressively, not held back by wanting to be in control, hoping for your demise, viciously smiling at others innocence, craving to turn the knife in the wound, perfectionism.

Olwë — begging to fly, pebbles thrown into the sea, rain falling against your face, not knowing if you are alive or dead, fingers tracing the petals of a wilting flower, rejoicing in storms, losing reality, staring at the horizon, deep conversations, knowing looks, rather standing shoulder to shoulder with one of their own than with an outsider, living a solitary life, sleeping on the ground, carving their name into rocks, crashed and wrecked boats, smoke signals, a fear of confrontation, bruised knuckles, patiently waiting for their enemies unhappy ending, pretty smile concealing a savage nature, bad manners sometimes.

Elmo — faded sunsets, running wild in the mountains and plains, kissing their lover in uninterrupted nature, dim lights, diving deep into the ocean, heartbeat pounding against your chest, flowers blooming slowly, feeling like you were made for another world, flowers growing in your heart, the accidental brush of fingers with your lover, nervously running one hand through your hair, red cheeks, tenderness, falling in love with someone you don't even know yet, pink clouds, nervous fiddling, notebook pages full of rambling, moonlight, rainy days, dreamy eyes, healing people you love, curiosity, old folklore.

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roughentumble · 8 days

Text

I Didn't Kiss You Right Before, Can I Try Again?

Tags: Fix-It, Time Travel, Blood and Gore, Body Horror(mild)

Words: 6,752

Description: Geralt is sent back in time to make different choices during key moments, unaware of how it happaned or what's going on. All he has to go on is the strange urge to keep moving, and the dizzying feeling this has all happened before.

Also on AO3

===========

Geralt wakes up in a daze.

There's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. He fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. His body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. He doesnt even recall falling asleep. He sees-- Jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. He could get angry about it, or-- or...

He places a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, and Jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. Jaskier starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but Geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "I think you were right. We should go to the coast."

Concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "You-- really? Actually, you'd want that? What caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" He waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before Geralt can interject. "Doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. I'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old Roach, and I can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because I am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just love the coast I'm certain of it! Fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! To die for, truly!"

Perhaps he did hit his head. There's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. It all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. He reaches out to take Jaskier's hand in his own, and Jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. That feels right, too. In the same way he cant put his finger on. He'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. For now he just pulls Jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

They leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

===========

He doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. Sand isnt great for poor Roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because Geralt of Rivia does not do being afraid. It's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. A certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

He likes Jaskier at the coast, though.

Happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. Fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

Foolish bard, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go. Out loud he says "I'm in love with you."

He watches closely the play of emotions across Jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. In the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab Geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. They kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

The incoming waves claim just one of Jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. Geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls Jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "You'll be compensating me for that, witcher," he warns, shaking his finger.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Geralt responds, breathless with joy, and Jaskier sinks into his grip.

========

"I want you to come with me. To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. It isnt an offer given lightly. Even in all their years of on-again off-again, Geralt never extended this particular invitation to Yennefer. Maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? She's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. She said no, and he found-- he found--

Years he's spent, dragging his feet. Years, and with Jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. He wants Jaskier with him, now and always. "This winter, the two of us. Up in the Blue Mountains."

Jaskier is nodding before Geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "I want that too, love. Gods, you know I'd follow you anywhere." And then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound Geralt's ever heard in his life. Jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and Geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. Inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

===========

They keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because Geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. Can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. He climbs the rocky outcropping while Jaskier waits by Roach, idle and bored. He wants to be wrong. Wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with Jaskier. He looks out over the path below.

He is not wrong.

A sea of black and gold. Cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

===========

He tells Jaskier to wait in the Cintran marketplace. If this works, Geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. If it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in Jaskier's path too. He's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by Calanthe's men-- he has no doubt Jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. He holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. Wishes that it didn't.

When they fall through the portal, dodging Calanthe's trap, Jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. Geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

He's led through bullshit and lies, attempts to buck fate, but he can feel the tightening noose of destiny and knows its all pointless. He'll walk away with his child surprise, it's just a matter of whether that leaves him with a target on his back.

Calanthe orders him gone, and Eist escorts him.

"I remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. What changed?" Geralt asks, needs to provoke something real out of one of them, desperately hopes for a chink in someone's armor.

"I had a granddaughter," Eist throws at him blithely.

"So protect her," Geralt says through gritted teeth. The conversation feels like one he's had a million times. "What if Calanthe's wrong? What if they come and Ciri is trapped?" He presses.

"I fight side by side with my Queen," Eist replies, unmoved.

"You put too much faith in that woman."

"Well, you weren't there. After Pavetta died, Calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken." Eist shakes his head, looking off in the distance as he relives the memory. Geralt's temples throb, lips ghosting over the words along with him, wondering why the hell it's so familiar. "Someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence 'till my final day."

Geralt wants to scream. It's not enough. It isnt enough. Why do their minds never change?

"I need your promise you won't come back." Eist says, and Geralt pauses in the entryway, weighs his options.

It's so godsdamned familiar. And yet, he can't say anything but the truth. "If I hear Ciri's in danger, you know I can't do that."

"I know."

The bars fall.

Jaskier was browsing nearby. He hears the clatter, and comes running. It's so like them-- somehow they always find each other.

He calls for Geralt, running up to place his palms on the bars, face screwed up in fear and outrage.

Guards close in, shouting at Jaskier to step away from the prisoner, and Geralt whips around to face Eist. "Don't hurt him." Geralt pleads.

"He's your companion. A weasly little thing, there when you claimed the law of surprise in the first place. How do I know he won't try to break you out? Or take the child surprise for you?" Eist asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"You're a reasonable man, Eist. I understand your commitment to Calanthe, but Jaskier hasnt done anything. He isn't bound to Ciri by destiny, he has no claim to her. Nilfgaard is nearly at the border, don't doom him by locking him in the dungeons when he's harmless." He grips the bars tighter, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip.

Eist looks considering, so Geralt presses on. "Please. As one old friend to another, he's just a bard. Don't punish him for my folly."

"We were never old friends," Eist disputes. "...but I don't see the harm one bard could cause." Relief hits Geralt like a tidal wave, and he lets out his breath in one big exhale. "I don't think I've ever seen you scared before." Eist cuts a look at him, and his eyes seem to pierce through Geralt. He steps closer to speak in a low tone. "Nearly at the border, you say?"

Geralt nods, trying to project just how seriously he means it. "I wouldn't lie about this."

Eist thinks for another moment, then says "I'll get him a guest room in the castle."

Geralt's knees nearly buckle with relief. A guest room he can move freely in, and the castle will be the most well-fortified place during the inevitable seige. Jaskier has a chance of survival. "No!" he hears for behind him, and he turns his head to stare at jaskier.

"No, Geralt, I won't leave you! They can't imprison you, you havent done anything!" He presses, tears of fury welling in his eyes. He knows what's coming as well as Geralt does, and he stinks of fear. Geralt walks to the other side of the small cell to grasp Jaskier's hands through the bars.

"Jaskier, it's alright. I'll be right where I need to be. It's destiny, remember? I just need to know you'll be safe while I do it." Jaskier looks unconviced, but Geralt squeezes his hands tighter. "Promise me you'll stay in your room. Promise you'll wait for me. Promise."

Jaskier blinks back tears. "I promise," he says, and Geralt lets out another sigh of relief. He leans forward as Jaskier does, foreheads as close to touching as the bars will let them.

"Alright. Let's go." Eist says, and a guard finally steps forward to place a hand on Jaskier's elbow. He looks Geralt in the eye, shoulders squared, a silent promise that they'll see each other again.

Geralt meets his gaze. And then he's taken away.

===========

+++++++++++

"This is Cirilla. Ciri, this is--"

"Ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, I get to say it so rarely, after all," he says, cutting Geralt off and turning to Ciri. His shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "My name is Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Graduate of Oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard Jaskier. At your service." He bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

There's a beat of silence. "...my partner." Geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. Ciri mostly just seems surprised. "Don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

Jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "You! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you great big oaf, I don't know why I put up with you!"

Ciri giggles nervously, then claps a hand over her mouth, a much needed moment of levity for the young girl. It can't last forever, though. Geralt says "We need to go to Sodden Hill."

"Why?" Ciri asks, dread filling her stomach at the thought of all that destruction, and Geralt places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I think Yen is there and I need to find her," he explains, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Always chasing the old witch," he says, with maybe an undercurrent of jealousy, insecurity. It's something Geralt will need to address, but not now. Not like this.

"Come on, bard," he says as he mounts roach and pulls Ciri up with him.

"Oh, left to walk as always while she gets the royal treatment? Just a simple, gruff 'come bard', like I'm some dog who'll heel for you, I see how it is. So much for partner," he says with a sniff, and Ciri giggles again, still a little uncertain. Geralt bites back a smile.

"You can walk the other way, if you please," he replies, and Jaskier sputters once more.

They quiet as they reach the battlefield, empty but for destruction and corpses. Jaskier holds his nose for the stench.

Geralt steps away from them to speak to the first person he sees, a woman in obvious shell-shock, looking around as if she's lost everything. Perhaps she has. She looks at and yet through Geralt as he speaks to her, seeing him without seeing him. Then she speaks, and all of Jaskier's disdain falls away with a gasp, hand flying to his chest.

"Yennefer is dead."

It hangs in the air, dampening sound, stilling the trees. Yennefer is dead. She is no more.

Geralt's heart pounds in his ears, and he has so much and so little that he wants to say. He opens his mouth, and then stops. Feels so faint, blinks away the fog in his mind, as certainty overcomes him.

"No, she isnt," he says, and Tissaia looks at him with such pity, like he's in shock. And he doesnt know why he said it, except that it feels true. He feels almost lightheaded, shaky on his feet, anchored only by his knowledge that Yen is alive.

"We are bound by fate. I would feel it if she were dead," he says, and he doesn't know if that's true, but he knows the certainty, and has no other explanation for it. It makes something like hope flicker across Tissaia's face, warring with the absolute desolation.

"It can't be," she says, unwilling to trust the words of a strange man she's never met, one who couldnt know.

"I'll find her," he says. "We'll meet again."

===========

"I'm sorry." Jaskier says, his voice so quiet. Ciri is uneasily asleep, and Jaskier and Geralt sit around a fire.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. We'll find her again." Geralt says, because it has to be true. It feels true. It must... it must...

Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt's arm, his voice soft and sympathetic. "Then I'm sorry she's missing," he says, even though he clearly doesnt believe it.

The jealousy and insecurity have bled away now that she's gone. Now that he thinks she's gone, anyway. "All our old fighting... it was all so petty. even up till the last--" he stops himself, changes tracks. "...it was all so pointless. I know I pulled you between two people you cared about very much. And I'm sorry for it."

"I never minded. Not really, not the little stuff. You and Yen wouldn't be yourselves if you didn't bicker." Geralt says, and Jaskier shoots him a wane smile. He leans in to kiss Geralt's cheek.

"Then I promise I'll find something to be catty about when we find her again," he says, tucking Geralt's hair behind his ear. "Just-- I know this insecurity is gauche, considering the circumstances of her... disappearance. But if we do see her again, you'll still pick me, right?"

"Yennefer means very much to me. But now that I have you, you're it for me, Jaskier. I promise." He leans in to kiss Jaskier on the mouth, short and quick and still so emotional. "She's my destiny, but you're my choice."

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, and pulls geralt in for another kiss.

===========

"Tell me, friend, who changed you."

Geralt smiles to himself as he considers his answer. "Yennefer. Ciri." He pauses, looking over at his companion, currently fiddling with a tchotchke on a shelf. "...Jaskier." Said man turns around when he hears his name, then freezes as if caught, item still in hand. When he meets Geralt's eyes, though, he smiles, and Geralt smiles back.

"Well, you've the girl and the bard. But where is this lovely lady Yennefer?" He asks, and Geralt's smile falls.

"...She's gone," he says, and Jaskier's mouth twists.

"Last we heard, she was dead." Jaskier says gently, and Geralt flinches. He still refuses to believe it.

"She isn't," Geralt insists, "but... wherever she is, she's still lost to me. Who knows where she's gone to lick her wounds."

There's silence for a moment, pity etched into Nivellen's eyes. "...I am sorry," he says, and Geralt nods. Let him think what he likes. Geralt knows better.

===========

+++++++++++

Eskel says that if he had a princess surprise he would fuck her, and Geralt feels blind rage rising in his chest, overpowering his mind as he thinks to Ciri, little Ciri, broken Ciri, his Ciri. A child.

Eskel would never say that, Geralt thinks to himself, the absolute wrongness of it all settling over him like a cloak. Something in his chest urges him forward. He wants to take Eskel aside and slap sense into him, wants to know what happened to his most trusted brother, his most beloved, his other half, but he feels that same faintness in his head. He's starting to notice it, but it doesnt want to be noticed, it leaves him foggy and confused.

A vague impression seats itself in his mind. it almost sounds like 'I should have...' but it's gone just as quickly. He moves as if in a dream, filling a tankard with white gull, dosing it with sedative hidden away from when they were boys, when they needed to subdue witchers for medical treatment in a full keep.

Eskel takes the mug and drinks it so fast, drinks like he's trying to outrun something, drinks like there's horror nipping at his heels. He falls asleep at the table, and Geralt volunteers to bring him back to his room. Vesemir offers to help, and he has no excuse to turn him down when carrying a full grown witcher's weight is such an ordeal, though he sweats under the collar when Eskel cant even drunkenly stumble between them, fully dead to the world. Vesemir must know something is wrong. He must.

They get him to his room with a lot of grumbling but no real issues, throw him down on the bed. "He drank himself into quite the stupor," Vesemir says with shrewd eyes, brow furrowed.

Geralt doesnt know what to say. "What's going on here, Geralt?" He asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"I have to-- I can't explain, I just have to--" he starts, struggling for the words. "Something is wrong. He's hurt." Vesemir sends him a look that screams 'duh'.

"So you drug him to work on him in secret? This isnt like you." Vesemir says, and Geralt gets the crazy urge to laugh, because it isn't like him, he doesnt know what the fuck he's doing, except that he must.

Witchers are allowed to lick their wounds in private, they're allowed to come home angry and changed. Geralt pushed them all away after Blaviken, and none of them held him down, forced him, none of them acted like the mages that made them. He feels sick.

"We have to. Vesemir, we--" he starts, grabbing Eskel's shirt and lifting it to look at the damage. Vesemir holds out a hand to stop him, and then they both fall still with a gasp. There, in his chest, right above his heart, is a piece of embedded wood.

It's big, not like a splinter, maybe the size of a fist, with spindly roots that anchor it, spreading out like veins under the surrounding skin. It pulses, just a bit, and embedded within the center of it is something else, a chunk of rock that almost looks like obsidian. Rock gives way to wood gives way to flesh.

"We have to get it out of him," Geralt says suddenly, going for the knife at his hip.

"We don't even know what it is," Vesemir says, though the disgust is plain on his face. "What if removing it kills him? It could be in too deep."

"And what, just let it grow? It's right above his heart, it'll kill him soon anyway. And it's moving." Geralt says, and Vesemir looks pained.

"...I'll keep him out using somne," Vesemir says, "we need to get it out fast but careful. Don't leave a single branch behind."

They nod to each other, and Geralt heats up the knife using igni, lets the flames lick the blade, then he gets to work.

Eskel screams in his sleep, fighting against the drugs, against Vesemir's hold, the first touch of heated metal enough to make his whole body tense. The wood contracts, roots tightening visibly beneath his skin, and Geralt grits his teeth. One by one he pries them out of his guildsman's flesh, the wood sizzling and popping when touched by the hot blade. Blood streams down Eskel's chest, and he screams again, whole body arching.

The roots convulse in the open air, trying to return to the safe haven of his veins, only to be cut off and thrown to the floor. A new root tries to grow in the old one's place and Geralt cauterizes the stump, pressing the flat of the knife to it to produce even louder sizzling. If the thing could scream it would be, and Eskel convulses once just like the thing in his chest.

Suddenly, footsteps. The others had heard his screams. Lambert bursts in, shouts "What the fuck's going on?!" and Geralt shakes his head, knowing what a strange scene they make, how threatening he looks holding a red knife.

"There's no time!" He says.

"Go get every healing potion in the keep, now!" Vesemir shouts, struggling not to break his own concentration. There's stillness, and then some of the gathered witchers run to do as told, while the rest watch in silent horror.

Geralt gets his nails under the edges of the thing and begins to lift, Eskel once more arching up to follow him. It moves agonizingly slow, tearing Eskel's flesh as the bark is dragged past his delicate muscle tissue. It seems to go on and on as Geralt pulls, and to his own horror, he realizes something. It isnt just growing out, it's growing down. Down into him, down towards his heart.

Sweat drips down Vesemir's forehead from holding the sign so firmly and so long. The root on the bottom extends down into Eskel's chest, down towards his heart. Geralt has to act fast and careful all at once.

His knife wasnt made for cutting wood, but he pushes it between the lump and Eskel's body anyway, carving away at the spot where the root connects to the whole. There's so much fucking blood, he can barely see, and he has to drag the knife back and forth to get even the tiniest bit of progress, utterly devoid of leverage or the proper teeth to dig into the plant's flesh. Then, finally, with a twist of his wrist, he snaps the wood chunk free from the root, cauterizes it, and throws it to the floor. Only one last step.

He pushes flesh aside and sees the root go down, wrapped firmly around a rib, and then...

His heart. Beating. Right out there in the open, skin and muscle shoved aside to make way for that thing. The root is wrapped around the heart, squeezing, causing his convusions, and geralt feels sick, but there's no time to stop or wait. Vesemir's control is slipping. Blood is flowing faster now.

His fingers slip through blood and fat and viscera and things meant to be kept inside as he tries to untwist the root from the shock-white of Eskel's rib bone. It snaps, apparently brittle now that it's disconnected from the whole, and Geralt throws another piece at his feet. His hands aren't clean, aren't washed, but there's no godsdamn time, so he slides a finger down beside his other half's very heart and hooks the back of the root. Pulls so slow, so careful.

It pops free with a spray of blood, and all falls still.

"G'r'lt?" comes slurred from the bed. "Did th't come outta' me?" Eskel asks, and then immediately falls unconcious once more.

Vesemir slumps against the wall. "Gwain, Coen," he says, panting just a bit, "the pig we were keeping for meat? Slaughter it. We need a skin graft, clean and quick. Everard, Merek, sutures and everything else we need to clean and bandage."

Only Lambert remains, pale and silent, staring at the floor where the pieces of now inert wood rest. Time seems less linear, suddenly, and nobody has much clue how much time passes. All they know is that Lambert cleans up the pieces of foreign blood-soaked thing into a jar for safekeeping, and the supplies filter in. Eskel gets healing daughts poured down his throat, and Geralt keeps working to stitch his chest together with pig skin, wont let anyone else touch him. They both breathe easier once the final stitch is in place, and Geralt steps back with shaking hands as the other witchers wipe down his skin, slather it in healing poultices, and cover him in bandages. Geralt falls asleep on the floor, trembling, without the sense in his head to clean away his brother's blood.

When Eskel wakes up, he thanks them. Tells them his head felt wrong, something whispering in it, ever since that leshen got one lucky shot. Says the leshen didnt look right, didnt act right, that he couldnt remember how to kill it once it embedded in his chest. "It's like it went to seed in him," Vesemir says in horror, and everyone shakes their heads, and they dont know what to do. But Eskel is there. He is weak, and he is bedridden, and he is there.

Finally, Kaer Morhen can rest.

===========

Vesemir doesn't think these flowers are the answer. He doesn't recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. Still, though, it doesn't sound right to his ear, even if he doesn't know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. He can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. He thinks back to Eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. He feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

The little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. And even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. The metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, chained in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. Like it's nothing. Like it isnt horrific.

But it's all he has. And it's what they needed.

His fingers curl around the paper. "How many other people know of this blossom? Would be likely to put two and two together?" He asks.

"Not many at all, I would imagine. Even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge, or enough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. And it's only a theory, anyway, I can't confirm it as of yet," she replies, watching him closely.

Their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. The continent is running out of monsters, but it hasn't run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and they're dwindling. And yet...

He flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. A little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "Can't let anyone know how we're made; sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. No telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. And... there will be no more boys."

He looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "I thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but I urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. And if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then I can only pray your approximations were wrong."

She had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

There will be no more potions. No more blood spilt for these old stones. And there will be no more boys. He never even mentions their clandestine conversation to Ciri. She deserves her choices, but she's a traumatized child, and he's an adult. He doesnt need to burden her with this.

===========

+++++++++++

"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Jaskier says in awe. Can't believe Geralt was right. Can't believe she's alive. "Should've known you wouldnt stay dead, rotting necrophage that you are," he says, catty and mean and a little breathless because she's alive. But then her arms are around him, and she's hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and he lets out a shocked grunt. "Uh? Hugging? You're hugging me, you do know you're hugging me, right?" He asks, mouth running faster in his confusion.

"Oh Jaskier," she says, "it's so good to see you."

"Good. To see me. Did you hit your head at Sodden? Is that where you've been all this time, wandering the countryside mindlessly?" He asks, and she snorts. Snorts! Like he's funny! Which he is, but she's never admitted it before.

"Oh how I miss when my problems were as small as a single sing-songy twit." She says fondly, taking him by the shoulders and leaning back to take a look at him.

"Now I'll never admit to having said this, I'll deny it if you ever try to tell... but I am very glad you're not dead, Yennefer." It comes out so damn soft, and for all their bickering it's hard not to be soft about someone you've known at least ten years. He cradles her arms in his palms, so they're both holding each other but at arm's length. "But I really must ask, where the hell have you been? We've been looking for you."

"It's a long story," she says evasively, and he narrows his eyes.

"Ah, well, if it's long then you certainly wouldnt want to tell it twice," he says, and leads her down the corridor, towards a closed door. "Here," he says gently as he pushes it open, "I figure if you're here, you'd like to see Geralt, too."

The room goes so still. "I knew," Geralt says. "I knew we'd find each other." And Yennefer runs into his open arms for a hug, stress melting away as she tucks her face into his neck. For the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Jaskier watches them fondly, shoulder resting against the doorway. They'll have time for questions and answers. For now they can just be happy the world has a touch less death in it.

===========

"Yen," he says gently. "I'm sorry for what I said. You would make an excellent mother."

Yen's face does something complicated. "Geralt--"

"Ciri will need one," He says, and Yen recoils in shock, to hear him offer it so plainly.

"So-- what, you want you and I to play house with your little orphan?" She asks, and it comes out harsh, but she doesnt take it back. Geralt shakes his head.

"It wouldnt be like that. I'm... I'm with Jaskier now." Geralt replies, and that makes Yen's eyebrows fly up in shock. "We wouldnt be... together like that. But we would be friends. Partners. Equals. I think it might be good for us, to take the heartache out of the equation. And Ciri needs a teacher, someone like you. I think you'd be good for each other." He pauses, and when Yen has nothing to say to that, he says "Think about it."

She steps through a portal with Ciri anyway. She sees him beg them not to leave, and she walks away anyway. But his offer rings in her head as loud as Voleth Meir's promises, and halfway to their destination Yennefer brings them to a stop. Ciri is so bright. So bright and beautiful, and with such great power, hair like Geralt's and a heart like Geralt's, so hurt and yet longing so deeply for love, and she looks at Yennefer with such trust. So much trust, and she's leading this doe-eyed girl astray, what could be hers, what should be hers, and Yennefer is tired of sacrificing and sacrificing and sacrificing. She loves hard and she loves vicious and she loves selfishly, and when Ciri demonstrates her powers Yen thinks My daughter did that. My. Mine.

She thinks You cannot have her, she thinks You will not take this from me, she thinks, I will no longer have no choice. I have a choice. I am making it.

And she turns on her heel and leads Ciri in an entirely different direction. She leads Ciri away from doom that Ciri never even knew was hanging over her head. Voleth Meir screams, and she walks away anyway, down a road where she knows an equally angry Geralt will find her. She only hopes she can talk him out of his rage before he sends her away.

===========

"I want to know where Yennefer of Vengerberg is going." Geralt says to Codringher and Fenn. They look at each other, and then back at him.

"And you think we know this? We don't keep track of every person on the continent, Geralt." Fenn replies

"I don't have time for games. I just need something, anything. Where was she recently. She has--... someone very dear to me. And I must find them." Geralt says, hands balled into fists.

They exchange a look. "We truly can't tell you her whereabouts. She hasnt been seen in quite a while. All that's known is that she was mumbling to herself last she was seen, before she vanished."

"What was she saying?" He presses, and Codringher looks thoughtful.

"Something like 'turn back to the forest, turn back to your mother'?" He says, scratching his chin.

"Turn your back to the forest, hut hut. turn your front to me, hut hut." Geralt says, understanding dawning on him.

"Could be. Our ears on the ground didn't hear it any clearer." Fenn says, seemingly annoyed that there's information she doesn't know.

"I know where she's going," he says, throws a bag on coins on the table, and leaves as quick as he came.

===========

Geralt has his sword drawn before they even see him, terror lancing through him at the idea of Ciri being taken, being given to that demon. Ciri shouts with joy when she spots him, then with fear as he presses his sword to Yen's throat. She lets him, no fight in her.

"I couldn't do it. I turned back. Back to you," she swears, and Geralt glances between the two of them, trying to assess if Ciri is alright.

"Geralt, what are you doing," she begs, looking so young and so frightened.

"What did she promise you? Money? Power?" Geralt asks, betrayal running deep, burning him up inside, because he'd trusted Yen, and first chance she got she ran off with his child. His. to sacrifice her to something old and foul.

Yen looks decimated. "...I can't be Ciri's teacher. My magic... it's gone." Yen says, answering his original offer and his most recent question all at once and geralt startles at that. Then she whispers, soft and broken and desperate, "Geralt, she's in my head."

Suddenly Geralt sees her for what she is. Someone very hurt, and very alone, who fought through the promises and manipulations of a demon to bring his daughter back to him. He slowly lowers his sword and pulls Yennefer into an embrace. "We'll fix it." Geralt promises.

===========

It doesnt get any easier to ignore Voleth Meir, but she looks around and sees Kaer Morhen, and the family that she's been welcomed into, and remembers that she's allowed to stay. That she has fought tooth and nail for every inch of her life until now, and she can keep fighting. That Ciri is hers.

She teaches magic anyway, without demonstrations. It's hard for Ciri, and it's hard for Yen, but she isn't as worthless as she feared she'd be powerless. Ciri looks up to her. Ciri hugs her. Ciri asks her hair be plaited for dinner. Ciri is her choice, and she makes it every morning.

Until one morning, it changes.

It starts small, just a creep, just a tickle. But she snaps her fingers, and a book by her bedside begins to float.

She'd burned herself out, ran her magic dry, scorched the channels it flowed through, but it healed. It came back with time. It was always going to come back with time.

She collapses to her knees and sobs, sobs like a child, for what has been returned to her.

And without her magic to tempt her, Voleth Meir loses her foothold in Yennefer's mind. The whispers quiet and fade until theyre nothing but a memory.

And finally, Yennefer is free.

===========

When Geralt lays down that night, he dreams.

"I've found a djinn," Dream Yen says,

and Geralt sees himself ask "Another one?"

"Except I won't try to tame this one," Yen says, insists that it could be the answer to their problems. "We could keep Ciri safe, teach her how to use her powers, if we phrase them just right the wishes could be the thing that saves us."

The scene changes. Once more, he has a seal in his hand. "I wish I had the hindsight not to get into these problems anymore," he says, because he never makes the right choice.

The dream falls away with the sunlight streaming in, bright on his face. He looks down around him, at the little family he's created; Jaskier by his side, Ciri's head in his lap and feet near his face, Yennefer asleep on a cot with her hand on Ciri's. And he decides that this time he did make the right choice. He decides that he's happy.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #writing tag #witcher #geraskier #time travel fix-it

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tokyosgarden · 1 year

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Monophobia pt. 2

"Rise and shine, [Y/N]! We got an honorary crew member, and it's important that we show her respect by meeting her!" [Y/N] rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and yawned. Sunlight seeped into her tiny bedroom on the Crux, casting a golden glow on her skin. Her bleary gaze was greeted with the sight of her brunette captain.

"M'kay. Just gimmie a sec and I'll be out." Her mouth opened for a yawn but instead, a cough came out in its place. Beidou's eyes rounded with worry.

"Is it getting worse? You can tell me if you need another day away from the wheel. I can give you another job or get Kazuha to check up on you," she suggested. [Y/N]'s grip on her mattress tightened as another set of painful coughs racked her body.

"[Y/N], please, I'm worried about you. You're my family, I don't want to see you in pain..." Beidou pleaded, softly. A wobbly smile tugged at [Y/N]'s lips.

"I'll be alright. I still have a few lucky stars to wish on." Beidou snorted.

"Well once those run out, I'll take you to Bubu Pharmacy." [Y/N] chuckled dryly as she watched the captain turn heel and walk out of her chamber.

The ocean breeze rolled over the deck in playful waves, washing them in its salty ethos. Boxes and crates were loaded onto the ship and a choir of grunts and yelling. At the center of it all was a mysterious blonde and her floating companion.

'That must be the honorary crew member Captain Beidou was talking about.' Many of [Y/N]'s crewmates greeted the traveler with enthusiasm. Kazuha was the sole exception. The wandering samurai sat on the ledge of the stern. He was reciting something to himself, perhaps a haiku he had been working on. To show her respect, [Y/N] waved at the traveler.

"Now, now, let's not overwhelm her. I get you guys are super excited to meet her, but we have to get these supplies to Inazuma before nightfall!" The crew answered Beidou's command with a unanimous "Yes captain!"

The wind conducted the orchestra that was the sea. It sent waves into crescendos' all through the ballad of the Crux's journey. The song of cheerful chatter and humming was the center piece of the beautifully composed music of their travel. Most of [Y/N]'s crewmates spent this time becoming acquainted with the blonde traveler, who's name she had found out was Lumine. Her admiration for Lumine was undeniable, but her fear had won her over and stopped her from approaching her. Instead, she turned to Kazuha.

"Hey, Kazu'. I was thinking about what you said about clouds yesterday, I still don't get it." Kazuha's lips curled into an amused smile.

"It's alright. Are you going to talk to Lumine?" [Y/N] shook her head.

"Nah, I'm scared she won't care much for me and think I'm a waste of time." She forced a chuckle out of her, to lighten the insecurities that had dropped heavily into her sentence. Kazuha got off the ledge and gave [Y/N] a gentle, reassuring tap on the shoulder.

"I'm sure she won't. I've spoken to her, and Lumine's a nice person. Plus, you're a dreamer. I'm sure she'll appreciate that." [Y/N] rolled her eyes. She rested her forearm on the ledge and gazed out at the endless glimmering denim.

"How reassuring." Kazuha chuckled.

"There's power in dreaming. Go ahead and give it a shot," he encouraged.

"Fine, but if I fail, I'll eat your heart out and not in the fun way."

[Y/N] coughed into her elbow as she walked over to Lumine. Currently, Yinxing was rambling on about her previous surgeries and how gruesome each one was.

"Hey, you must be Kazuha's friend." [Y/N] tipped her head to the side, curiosity rounding in her eyes.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Lumine leaned against the walls of the ship. The salty breeze blew through her strands of gold. She smiled.

"I saw you guys talking and you seemed pretty comfortable with him. So I just assumed. I'm Lumine, by the way." [Y/N] grinned from ear to ear. So far everything was going great! No snarky comments and no spitting.

"Your name is everywhere in Liyue! My name's [Y/N]." Lumine stood back upright and held her hand out to [Y/N].

"Nice to meet you, [Y/N]."

Lumine had accepted her and every inch of the starlight [Y/N] carried, much to the dreamer's surprise. Sunset blossomed upon the horizon, pressing fine orange rays onto the gentle sea that hugged the ship's walls. Through [Y/N]'s squinting eyes, she managed to see the faint image of a dock.

"Crew, prepare to anchor the ship! Inazuma is right ahead!" Beidou called. The crew gave their yells of acknowledgement and cooperation. Two men headed for the anchor and most reached for the crates.

Once the ship had been anchored at the dock, a friendly-looking, blonde man approached them. He greeted Beidou and Kazuha and gave a wave of greeting to Lumine and the rest of the crew. [Y/N] couldn't be bothered to listen to whatever business stuff they were talking about. It wasn't her business, so she wasn't going to interfere or try to understand. Instead, her business was with the stars. Flecks of ethereal, glowing, silver were freckled across evening's dark gown. They forced [Y/N] into a trance. She had memorized the patterns in the sky countless of times, but the patterns never stayed the same. Sadly, not everyone wanted to mind their own business. A certain harbinger took an interest in [Y/N]'s stars, or maybe it wasn't her stars he was interested in.

'I found the brightest star.'

pt. 1

#scaramouche angst #scaramouche fanfic #genshin scara #scara x reader #genshin x you #genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic

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nwr77 · 4 months

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ranking Sodor's couples (only those included in these two posts for now) by how similar their music tastes are! (most to least)

Salty/Porter, obviously. They're the only couple whose music tastes are completely unified - said unity being Irish Rovers and Blackmore's Night (kidding. it's sea shanties and folk (mostly British/Celtic/Gaelic) in general, not just those two)

Whiff/Scruff - they both enjoy noise music that makes most anyone else cover their ears. Where they differ though is that Scruff also enjoys techno while Whiff prefers rock

Emily/Caitlin - both listen to pretty basic music, although Caitlin leans more britpop while Emily doesn't care where the music is from at all. Biggest difference, though, is that Emily generally prefers solo acts and Caitlin groups.

Thomas/James - mostly this high because Thomas listens to anything. James is very into some kpop girl groups (mostly Red Velvet, but also Iz*One, Cherry Bullet, f(x) etc. - the ones that either have a red(ish) theme or referenced the colour in a well known song) and Thomas enjoys it just as much as anything else (- maybe ballads, but they're not James' style either)

Charlie/Rosie - Charlie, similarly to Thomas, will listen to pretty much anything, but the reason they're lower on the list is because Rosie's taste is basically just metal, highly stylised Japanese music (think Kyaru Pamyu Pamyu or Vocaloid) and uncanny valley-like stuff. And sorry but Charlie just can't do Poppy.

Daisy/Ryan - Daisy likes they girl pop icons like Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Lana del Rey, Rihanna, stuff like that, and listens mostly to specific artists. Ryan doesn't care about the artists, and listens mostly to ballads, but that does give them an overlap area in the way of ballads sung by the girl icons

Edward/Henry - they're both looking for different things in music; basically, Edward's looking to dance, they like lively music and don't put much thought into the lyrics, and Henry's looking to cry (both in the sad and happy way, more looking for emotions in general), and lyrics are the first thing he's paying attention to. There is some overlap of stuff they both like, but for the most part they just compromise by either a.) each listening to their own thing or b.) playing one song each out loud and going back and forth

Luke/Victor - both of their favourites are folk music of their own culture, Celtic Irish and Latin American respectively, so similar in reasoning, vastly different in execution. Neither however minds the others music as one of the points they both love about each other is their love for their cultures, so they genuinely don't need to compromise (in the strict sense) on what they listen to together.

Douglas/Oliver - Oliver has quite a tame taste, some rock, some metal, some pop, that kinda stuff, but Douglas (along with Donald), in an act that nobody is quite sure whether it's real or just a joke gone too far, listens exclusively to bagpipes. They came to an agreement that neither plays their music out loud.

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galaxytastes · 2 years

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Broken Dreams

In which Scaramouche dreams. He dreams of what could have been.

Warnings: Parental trauma, very slight body horror, angst, hurt no comfort

Red.

The first thing Scaramouche notices as he blinks his eyes in confusion is the color. Red leaves, as vibrant as fire. Red, as intense as fresh blood spilled over snow. A pale hand reaches out to touch the leaves as his eyebrows furrow deeper, skewing his perfect features. Where in the world-

As his hand meets the warm leaf, a small bird flits into the boy's line of sight. Concerned eyes warm a bit as he watches the animal land softly on a dark sprawling branch. Sleepily, the harbinger tries to grasp his surroundings.

Sunset rays of light spill into the room, drowning the space in deep amber. Dancing in the light are dense maple tree branches, abundant in foliage. A distant sea breeze whispers through the leaves and tickles indigo hair against Scaramouche’s cheeks. The Balladeer glides his palm across a low branch, to the trunk of the tree, lost in the dreaminess of the scene. The air smells sweet and familiar… A small smile forms on Scaramouche’s lips as he tries to recall the scent.

“Lavender melon…” Scaramouche mutters to himself, deep in a misty haze. He inhales deeper, letting his chest fill up with the smell of the past, and he exhales with an even larger grin. Confusion melts to contentment as he pads around the eerily familiar space. White, powdered sand forms at the base of the maple trees, contrasting beautifully against the dark wooden floors. The entire room is so well manicured, the harbinger can’t help but wonder what the area was made for.

“I haven’t had a break in a while. Perhaps I could lounge here for a bit.” Scaramouche reaches to adjust his hat, quickly realizing nothing is there. He purses his lips and shakes his head.

Bright lavender eyes land on an electro symbol on the grand doors, causing his breath to catch in his chest. Slowly, he presses his hands to the large handles. Something stirs deep in his stomach as he watches the familiar symbol pulse with power. A warning? A memory?

Scaramouche swallows dryly and the door gives way, opening up to a larger room. The salty breeze picks up to a gale, swirling the loose white pants of his suikan around his knees. Wait, white-?!

“Get this shit off me!” The man shouts as his hands clench at the plum sleeves, tugging hard to remove the noble fabric. “What the fuck is this place?!”

A sound grabs the distraught Scaramouche’s attention and his eyes begin to dart from the unrolled long shades to the tatami mats to the beautifully decorated screen dividers. Anger and fear swirl like a dance in his torso, along with a shocking realization of his current reality.

“A dream. A fucking dream.” The puppet whispers aloud to himself as his gaze locks on a tall, slender shadow behind the divider. The anger numbs him as fear crawls up to claim his sensibility. The domain.

“Now, where did you run off to?” The voice of his creator calls out as her shadow moves closer. “My child, please let me see you. I have a gift.”

Scaramouche prided himself in his strength. In his ability to bring men twice his size to their knees from fear. In his ability to command an army’s number of people to do whatever he wishes. Scaramouche is the fear. He is the one who brings Fatui gunners to tears, begging for mercy.

But, under the divine gaze of his creator’s lilac stare, he is a stranger to the Balladeer.

He is a forgotten child once more.

“Stay away from me!” Scaramouche screams as the archon glides across the mats. Her violet hair is tied back in a majestic braid and it swings rhythmically as she walks. Intricate robes and accessories adorn her strong, slender body. Everything about her is familiar. Everything about her is her. All except one thing.

She's smiling.

Tears well in the doll’s eyes and begin to stream down his pale cheeks, flushing red with rage.

“How dare you call me yours!” The boy’s voice is broken. A lump sits in his throat and attempting to swallow away the pathetic sound only brings more tears. “I said stay away!”

“You don’t mean that. Please don’t say that, darling.” Beelzebub responds, melancholy softening her frightfully bright eyes. “You are my child…”

As if she’d punched him in the gut, the nameless puppet collapses to his knees.

“Fuck you.” He cries out as one hand wraps around the feather he wore on his neck. A symbol of the archon; one he’d worn long ago after being thrown away by his creator. Try as he might, the feather necklace did not tear. “I said stay away…”

A long, dark shadow casts over him and he dare not look up at her. There was no creator who wished to see him. The figure who towers over him is nothing but a figment from his childish memory.

Tender fingers wrap around his hand, urging him to stop struggling. Her touch is so warm and she feels so familiar. Scaramouche would have backhanded her across her face. Maybe he’d spit at her and curse her for touching him.

The puppet simply freezes.

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he did not mean it.

“I hate you. I hate you!” His thin hands cover his face, shielding himself from her intense watch. How deplorable. How utterly shameful it is, allowing himself to crumple as the god pulls herself flush to her doll. The self loathing thoughts only grow louder as Ei’s hand finds his cheek. As his eyes find his archon’s once more, he finds himself leaning into her touch, despite his venomous words.

Soft digits smooth back the dark bangs that stick to the puppet’s forehead. Delicate and strong, she strokes his hair away from his eyes and pulls him closer. The contact only urged his tears to pour faster. He folds himself inward, allowing her to wrap her muscular arms around him. She feels so close, it feels so real. Bile stings the boy’s mouth as he cries harder.

“Why do you cry, child?” Beelzebub’s voice is not her own. It is full of love and compassion; worry and comfort. It is not the voice of a creator or a ruler, but the voice of a mother. The Ei he knew did not care for the whys of the worthless puppets' tears. She cared for it to have never happened in the first place. “I told you, I brought a gift. Did you just miss me?”

“You are not real!” Wails the nameless doll once more. His feeble body shakes so vigorously, he fears he may pass out. “You’re not her, you bitch. This is a stupid dream. No- a nightmare!”

The archon’s brows turn inwards and she studies the boy’s face in confusion. It was unfair of his mind for creating such a perfect replica of the real Ei. From the electricity that sparked inside her irises to the kind refinement of her voice. It was his mother, just as he remembered her.

Sobs tear from his hollow chest as the mother calms her dreadful son. She presses cool kisses to his damp cheeks and whispers promises and apologies into the boy’s ear. Each word is like another slap to the face. Another crack to his ribs. He almost misses the real Beelzebub’s hand, striking the sword from his hands with hot thunder.

Gentle words from the wrong mouth are more painful than any insult.

With a soft nudge, Beelzebub coaxes the puppet to look at her once more, this time with her other hand outstretched. Inside her palm sits the gnosis, glowing the same shade of electric lilac as Ei’s hair. Her irises shine as she brings the gnosis closer and the boy screws his eyes closed, begging to wake up from this nightmare.

“Wake up! Stop touching me, you bastard!” His vacant chest rattles with want. Bone against bone, grinding together deep inside his torso, as if his trunk was opening up to accept the heart. He shakes his head wildly, but stays frozen in his creator’s compassionate hold. “You left me. You left me here, devil!”

“This belongs to you.” Ei whispers as she cradles the gnosis between them. Mother and son, shining brightly in shared celestial violet. Something the boy never even allowed himself to dream of. The puppet wept helplessly, sadly whimpering out one last rejection.

“This isn’t fair. This isn’t real.” His splintered throat mutters faintly. “Please. Stop this…”

Despite his pleading, the archon presses her loving hands to his hollow chest with a twinkling grin. Vibrant eyes burst wide as he cries out. He isn’t sure which hurts more; his throat from the screaming or the kind touch of a mother he will never have. She leans closer, letting the gnosis settle in the puppet. It sat perfect, as it was always meant to be before it was stolen from him. His entire being feels as if it was swallowed by a harmless flame and the world around them blurs. Ei, framed by red maples and honey colored sun rays, smiles down at her wretched child.

“I love you… I love you.” Her words are muddled beneath the heartbreaking roar of agony from the doll. His blank, broken stare looks past her to the roof of the domain where large chains decorate the ornate design. “You’ll always be my child. No one better to hold my heart than he who is my heart.”

The puppet wakes from his own howl, hands scratching at his bare chest like a wild animal. He groans as he sobs from the ache, pressing two hands to his mouth to muffle the sound. The ache of nothingness. Like a collapsed star, he folds into himself.

Empty.

Hollow.

Heartless.

For the rest of the night, the man does not sleep. For if he closes his eyes, he may allow himself to dream. He quietly attempts to wash the memory away and dresses himself in his Fatui garments in silence. As he adjusts his hat atop his head, he looks in the mirror. The inadequate doll stares back, trembling from fear, reaching out to be loved. Before he could even realize his own actions, Scaramouche welts his fist through the reflection, wearing his signature smirk.

With a flick of his wrist, the Balladeer brushes the glass shards from his fist as he leaves the room.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfic #scaramouche #scaramouche angst #hurt no comfort #ei #raiden ei #ei is scaras mother #scara drabble #scaramouche hurt fic #scaramouche headcanons #tumblr girls #genshin angst #genshin hurt #scaramouche backstory #nightmares #raiden family

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