asphodelus [ scaramouche x reader ]
1. prologue.
masterlist next
the truth is always worse than a lie.
warnings: violence, guns, bombs, abductions, death mentions, a bit of angst
a/n: starting off 2023 with a new fic! i'm pretty proud of this new series i'm making so i am really looking forward to continue on with the detective!kuni legacy hehe. do remember that this series is filled with so much angst so um, yeah. happy reading!
extra note: words that are in red are lies.
lies.
the word isn't uncommon for the people in teyvat.
lying is never a good trait, and is deemed as a sin.
telling the truth has always been a good thing, and everyone was taught to do so.
yet in teyvat, such cowards would still lie for their own greed.
of course, everyone can't see through the lies, not even the greatest and smartest people ever known would've seen through each and every lie that were told.
however, scaramouche can.
he had always been able to read through them.
it wasn't something he had learnt to do, no.
it's an ability he had already gotten from such an early age, and thus has always been able to tell if someone was lying ever since then.
at times, this ability of his had served great purpose. being a detective to protect the city that is snezhnaya, taught him that this eccentric power of his can help the people in need.
this ability was something that people wished they had.
and yet, there were times where scaramouche just wished he never knew.
because sometimes, the truth is always worse than a lie.
“drop your weapons and show your hands where we can see them!”
the criminal stopped a few feet away from scaramouche and his subordinates. turning back, he morphed out a sly smirk, raising the gun towards scaramouche's direction instead.
“come closer, and i am shooting each and every one of you here.”
scaramouche scoffed, yet the people beside him slightly trembled in fear, cocking their guns with wobbly feet.
he took a step forward, his feet crunching over the heavy snows of snezhnaya. the man ahead of him shouted.
“i am gonna shoot you if you come any closer! i have ammo in here!”
another step.
the person cocked his gun now, aiming for scaramouche's head.
the ravenette paid no mind as he strode closer towards the criminal, causing his subordinates to shake in fear.
“d–detective! stay back!” one of them shouted. “he has a gun pointed at you!” they continued.
scaramouche suddenly charged at him, which caused the criminal to panic before pulling the trigger.
click.
scaramouche swiftly knocked him to the ground, leaping over the criminal as he harshly knocked the empty gun away.
his subordinates paused, looking at one another. “the gun was empty?”
“how did detective balladeer know that?”
the criminal beneath scaramouche coughed from the impact as he was forcefully pushed down further. scaramouche made him turn around on the snowy ground, kneeling over the taller male.
his indigo eyes peered over his movements as he made quick work by cuffing the criminal's hands to his back, before tilting his head towards him.
“where is it.”
he spat. “what– what are you talking about!?”
“those kids. where are they?”
“i– i don't know!”
scaramouche tightened his grip on the criminal's head as he forcefully pushed him down to the rough surface of the road, his face smothered in the mixture of snow and dirt. “tell me where you fucking hid those kids you kidnapped, or else i won't show you mercy.”
“i told you– fuck– i don't know!” he lied once again, voice muffled.
“are they in the basement of your old restaurant?”
the criminal widened his eyes for a moment, twisting his head to look at scaramouche again before sputtering into a wreck. “n–no! do you think i'd be that stupid!?” he yelped as scaramouche tightened the handcuffs on him.
scaramouche merely sighed as he reached for the walkie-talkie on his duty belt. bringing it up to the front of his mouth, he spoke.
“balladeer speaking. barge into the restaurant, now.” he said as he looked down at the criminal.
a small smile suddenly creeped up his face.
scaramouche frowned.
“capitano speaking.” the other line replied soon after.
“...one of the kids’ got a bomb wrapped around their body.”
eyes wide, scaramouche stared at the walkie-talkie as the background of the other line slowly faded, the last he had heard was capitano shouting to call for the bomb squad.
he clicked his tongue in frustration. so that's why this fucker was grinning from cheek to cheek.
scaramouche stood up, dragging the criminal with him. “you're coming with me.”
“there are two wires.”
scaramouche averted his gaze to the criminal, who had his hands cuffed to his back as he sat on the dirty ground, forced by the ravenette.
his indigo eyes glared down to him. “which one is it?”
“what?”
“to defuse the bomb. which wire is it?”
“heh, to hell i'd tell you.”
scaramouche crouched down, grabbing onto the criminal's collar harshly. “red or blue. which one is it.” it wasn't a question, more so a demand.
“r–red.”
scaramouche let go of his collar. he reached for his walkie-talkie once again. “balladeer speaking.”
“cut the blue wire.”
the criminal widened his eyes at scaramouche's answer, speechless.
his underlings from behind quickly spoke. “h–hey! didn't he say it was red!?” one of them said.
“you're gonna activate the bomb!”
“do you have any idea how many lives you're risking here!?”
scaramouche snapped his head to look at them, eyes narrowing. “i know exactly what i'm doing.” he said, turning back to stare down to his walkie-talkie. his subordinates slightly flinched at the harsh tone of his voice.
“bomb unit speaking.” the other line replied. “are you sure it's blue?”
scaramouche took a few seconds to reply back, sighing. “...yes.”
his subordinates continued on shouting and scrambling about, scared of the possibilities of the bomb to explode as their detective had just told it was the opposite wire.
after a moment, the bomb squad came back to line. “bomb unit here... the bomb's been defused.”
the police officers shared a weird look, before twisting their heads to scaramouche.
the criminal beneath him still had his eyes wide in shock, sweating profusely.
“how… how did you…”
“you're simply the worst liar i've ever encountered.” was the only thing that scaramouche said before he stood up and away from the man on the ground, ordering his underlings to bring the criminal back to the station.
the precinct was, empty, to say the least.
it's past his shift now, yet scaramouche was busy finishing up his paperwork on the criminal he had just captured earlier. he thought everyone had left since it was well past six in the evening now, but the thought quickly dissipated when his colleague approached him.
well, he wouldn't call him a colleague, per se.
“and scaramouche has saved the day once again!” the person exclaimed, causing scaramouche to look up to the culprit who had just disturbed him from his work.
scaramouche quickly looked back to his desk, ignoring how the other person flailed their arms in the air at the lack of response.
“you're no fun.”
scaramouche groaned, pen scribbling on the paper. “go away, childe. i'm busy.”
the man, childe, clicked his tongue, before he slammed his hands on scaramouche's desk, causing the objects that were placed there to tumble down from the impact.
including scaramouche's cup of sugar free tea.
“you–!” scaramouche stopped himself from writing as he swiftly stood up, the drink already spilled all over his desk.
he was relieved that the beverage hadn't gotten to his paperwork, was what scaramouche had thought as he quickly tried cleaning everything up. if it had spilled on his piles of paper, archons knows what he'd do to childe.
childe merely brushed a hand over the skin of his neck. “whoops.”
scaramouche snapped his head to the taller male, eyes staring daggers. “what the fuck do you want!?” he asked with his usual cold tone, turning as he strode forward to grab something from the storage room to clean his desk, not far from where he stood.
childe trailed behind him, until he was at the same pace as scaramouche.
“just wanted to check up on my best friend.”
scaramouche opened the door to the storage room, rummaging through the small place as he tried finding for a clean cloth. “i wouldn't consider ‘trying to ruin my precious work’ as a way for you to check up on me.”
“i'm fine anyways. stop acting like you care.”
childe then pouted, which went unperceived by scaramouche as he finally found a cloth, making his way back to his desk.
“the criminal just now. he lied to you about the bomb, didn't he?”
at this, scaramouche halted in his tracks.
he took a few seconds to reply to the ginger. “innocent people don't deserve to go through hell because of that fucker.” he muttered, too busy to look back at childe as he continued on with his walk towards his desk.
“these innocent people, you say, they're kids, right?”
scaramouche suddenly slammed the cloth on his desk, the sound reverberating around the empty office. “you ask too many questions.” he mumbled, not even bothering to answer childe's question as he cleaned his drink that had spilled all over the desk, grimacing at how he'd have to clean it further to avoid his precious desk get ruined.
“those children reminded you of him again.” childe came to a quick conclusion, causing scaramouche to hastily look back at him.
scaramouche had an unreadable expression on his face as he stared at the taller male, before he scoffed, both in annoyance and, well, annoyance. nothing wrong with being annoyed twice at the same time. “if you think every kid in this nation reminds me of him, then you're one hell of a fucking idiot.”
“hey, i know it's not easy for you to get over it, but–”
“childe–” scaramouche cut him off sharply, groaning as he shut his eyes, turning back to his work. “i don't want to talk about this.” he harshly spoke.
childe looked at him worryingly. “...you'll find him, one day.”
thr truth in his words made scaramouche still in his movements. the ravenette waited for childe to continue, his hands slightly trembling from the mention of the person he had been looking for all this time.
“i know others don't believe that he's still alive, but i do. and i'll help you in any way to find him, even if it takes me to the grave.”
scaramouche tried letting out an offended chuckle, that only turned to be a quick hitch of his breath. “i don't need your help.” he stood up properly after that, sauntering away from his colleague.
he hated that each and every word childe had spoken weren't lies. not even an ounce of lie came out of the taller male's mouth.
the ginger couldn't help but stayed there, staring at the ravenette's back as he walked away, this time not bothering to follow along.
he sighed, bringing up a hand to rake through his hair.
it's nearly been... what? fifteen years now?
it has been a decade and a half since the abduction tragedy, yet the case remains unsolved.
scaramouche was only a kid when he had lost one of his only friends to a kidnap, and ever since then, he had never seen him. it was as if he had completely vanished from scaramouche's life, without a single trace left behind.
childe and scaramouche had long been friends, even way back from when they were children. and as people would say, they were... childhood friends. he had always been with the most insufferable guy that is scaramouche, for archons know how long since then. they basically grew up with each other.
so ultimately, it was only natural for childe to know of scaramouche's friend. and soon enough after knowing him, childe had already become friends with the said friend, along with scaramouche, of course, and gradually, all three of them became close to one another.
the tragedy still felt recent to him, even if time had passed, so long ago.
the abduction grew to become one of the biggest tragedies that has ever happened in teyvat, and it was done by the one and only.
the fantomatique.
it's deemed to be a filthy criminal organization filled with deadly assassins. the fantomatique was built roughly a few months before the abduction occurred, and the tragedy was their first ever move to destroy teyvat.
worst of all, no one knows who the leader is.
the royal palace of snezhnaya had tried their very best to unveil who is behind everything that had happened in the tragedy, yet not a single clue can be found. not even a trace of evidence behind every move they made during the tragedy.
the only thing they knew is the one behind it was the fantomatique, as they had left a special message for the citizens of snezhnaya to read, signing it off with the intricate calligraphy of their newly found organisation name.
which abruptly caused the abduction to lead to a dead-end case, not even a year after the incident had occurred.
ever since then, no one was able to detect the fantomatique's next move, nor who these people in this organization were. the organisation became big, with assassins and messengers filling up left and right.
at this rate, scaramouche was sure there were more than 20% of the population in snezhnaya that are apart of the fantomatique now.
yet, no one knows who they are.
in fact, it could be anyone in this city.
they could be lurking anywhere without anyone knowing, except for the members of the fantomatique themselves.
scaramouche stopped in the empty hallway, leaning back against a wall as he tried recollecting himself.
the back of his head hit the wall as he stared at the white ceiling, before closing his eyes shut.
it's okay, he thought to himself. you've saved those kids, they're not gone. not like him.
scaramouche heaved out a sigh, slightly cracking as his lips quivered.
the tragedy is... a deep topic for him. sure, he thinks about it all the time. sure, he openly talks about it with childe as soon as he thinks he's got a lead. hell, he has a whole fucking board dedicated to the tragedy, with papers and red strings attached to the corkboard he had carefully hidden in his humble abode, far away from prying eyes.
scaramouche was always determined to find the leader, and overall end the organization, once and for all. they pose nothing but a threat to teyvat, and they won't stop until they're the ones to rule the world.
he desperately needed to see his friend again. and no matter what it takes, scaramouche would do anything to see him, at least for one last time. scaramouche was willing to go so far for this.
you could say this mission of his was his main priority, even. which was why he decided to become a detective in the first place, both to find his dear friend— and to also find the unknown leader and end them, ultimately. the cruel leader deserve nothing but a bloodbath of their own blood, and scaramouche won't stop until he's got what he's wanted.
the only thing is,
he never thought he'd have to team up with you to find the truth behind it all.
hope you're prepared for a series full of angst with very little fluff
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Prologue: The Moirai
An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader
1.5k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: modern setting retelling of Hades and Persephone
A strange dream, a strange visit.
For months, you’ve had the same dream.
You’re wandering a valley, your valley, a lush, green collection of rolling peaks, sweet grass and clover nearly velvet beneath your bare feet. The sun, high in the sky, does not moisten your brow, or cause you distress. You do not thirst. You do not tire.
You only meander, feeding the earth snippets of power, growing flowers and vines, a plethora of life, amusing yourself, as you do every night.
You roam this meadow, until your eyes open at dawn, bullfrogs and crickets and the raw chirp of birds tapping against the windowpane, brightening you to the morning better than any alarm clock ever could.
But tonight, the dream is different.
You’ve never seen so much Narcissus. It paints an idyllic picture, bright petals sparkling far and wide, blanketing the hills until they swoop low in the soft belly of the dream. They draw you in, pulling you down until you’re seated amongst a mass of blooms, Asphodelus scattered throughout, honeysuckle vine curling through the grasses, more fragrant than sea spray, filling the air with an intoxicating sweetness that you can taste, crystal like dew dripping with jasmine and vanilla.
It's beautiful.
A creek babbles nearby, crooning in its own language, rushing trickle drowning out your thoughts and feelings, twisting and tugging until it’s hard to remember you’re in a dream at all.
Is this not your meadow?
Is this not your own?
The Asphodelus shivers, rocking back and forth in a cool wind, the kind that chills your skin, whips around your shoulders and tousles the thin fabric of your shirt.
“Hello.” The greeting startles you, twists your torso in the waist deep flora. Rise. Instinct booms, like your mother’s chide ringing a shrill bell for you to obey.
A figure stands in the meadow behind you, tall beside the sun, rays of golden light casting long shadow across their features. You squint, but it’s of no use. You cannot make them out.
“Hello.” You mirror, palms forward, heels digging into the grass. There’s a sharp prick, a sting that bleeds, and you curse, lifting your hand for inspection. “Acantha.” You hiss at the goddess, as if she has anything to do with your dreams.
Gold runs from the wound like the creek, slicking your palm, coating your skin in ichor, your own lifeblood.
The lifeblood of the Golden ones.
Lest you forget.
The figure kneels in the grass before you, their head bowed, black gloved hands reaching, tugging your palm upwards, dragging a thumb through the mess of ethereal life.
“I’m fine, just a prick.” You assure in the silence. There is so much light, and yet none, nothing to illuminate the face or the features of whomever it is that occupies your dream.
A fragment of your mind, perhaps. A trick of your mother’s.
Or an interloper.
“You’re hurt.” The dark pitch of the figure’s voice is startling. It’s fathomless, beautiful like the coast of the Aegean, guttural like the shout of death. Raw ruby, not quite plucked from its sanctuary, not quite finished or ready to be seen, a secret gem, only for you. The meadow rustles, thousands of faces in the little flowers leering, scowling, blue sky dimming into grey. Thunder shatters the tranquility, clapping in the distance, a garish boom sending electric shocks through the clouds, all manner of rumbles rolling over the hill.
Rot. It fills your soul in a flood, current wrapping around your ankles and tugging, like a thousand Oceanids lay at your feet, crying. Screaming.
But your hand is warm. Your hand is warm and it is held, for a moment, a moment in which you feel dramatically unlike yourself, unlike the fledging goddess you claim to be, unlike the unloved one you’re known as, and then-
it is cold. Your hand. Your heart. You. The being, the figure, is gone.
And you are alone.
The Greenhouse is quiet. An easy peace, so easily disturbed by comings and goings, friends and patrons, all manner of beings and others, stopping in and out.
They say hello. They ask for help, advice, favor. Some things you cannot give, even to some visitors who you hold close. Dearly.
These moments alone, moments of solitude in the Greenhouse, and some that you love the most. Moments when you're alone with yourself, your power, your connection to the earth. When you can feel it the most, the worms in the dirt, the roots desperate for water, the blooms aching to flourish. You are all these things, when you're alone. A power unto yourself. A goddess of life, of fertility, of Spring. The essential reawakening. The circle of seasons.
The secret weighs heavily.
But a goddess of Spring, is no mere goddess of Spring, your mother's voice echoes. A goddess of life, may as well wear a target on her back.
This morning, when the dew still refracts the light of the sun and birds are singing, no one comes. You sit alone, pruning, detangling, taming a pothos, encouraging its lovely green vine to live on its own. It protests, and you huff at it, conjuring slivers of magic, feeding it kernels as if you care for a child, trying to encourage it to eat.
“You must try, you know.” It curls around the back of your hand, lovely silver-white speckled leaves shimmering in the morning’s light. “You’re not staying here. The Greenhouse is full. I don’t have any more room.” The overcrowded shelves and carts agree, saplings and ivy and atropa belladonna all singing in unison, quivering voices rising in protest of the pothos’ weak effort. “See? You’ll make everyone unhappy.”
“You have a habit of talking to all your plants?” A musical voice chimes from the front door, and you jump from the stool, a book on your right clattering to the concrete.
“No, I…” Your voice fails, the woman in the doorway steps closer, allowing her mortal appearance to fall away, removing her Cloak and revealing her true identity.
The Moirai.
The Three who are One.
She turns her head to the east, a flash of the Maiden surveying your workbench, and then the Crone shines through, all faces eventually melding into one.
The Mother.
“Daughter of Demeter.” She inclines her head in greeting, and you blink rapidly.
“You...” What are they… is she, doing here? “You shouldn’t be here.” You swallow the fear that races in a cold rush under your skin. A frozen river runs in your bones, frigid rapids roaring, trapped beneath a thin sheet of ice, churning your power into a weapon of terror, an uncontrollable force that tries to build beneath the swell.
“Your mother is preoccupied.” She waves her hand; unease props the hair up on the back of your neck.
“What do you want?”
“To see you.” She strolls, careful, casual steps echoing off glass. “Finally, in the flesh.” The sh sound hisses, and your power pulses, pushing forward in preparation. “You are truly as lovely as they say, little Spring Goddess.”
“I’m not the Goddess of Spring.” You rebuke, and the resounding chuckle is dry wine, a tatter of bubbles that on her tongue that sours your stomach.
“You are not.” She nods. “No. You’re so much more now. You will be.” She steps closer, red lips perfectly lined and plump, pursed as she stares you down. “I’m satisfied.” She murmurs, and even though she looks right at you, it’s as if you’re not in the room.
Rain drops patter on glass panels.
“Pity.” She frowns, and then winks as a young woman, as an old one too, vanishing from sight with each step she takes to the door.
The clock ticks too loudly, and it feels like doom. Like a shattered mirror, shattered reflection, shattered life.
The Moirai have never visited you.
Why now?
Outside, a screech owl hoots, startling you backwards, a hand rocking down to the work bench in an effort to steady your trembling legs.
“Ouch!” you shriek, flipping your palm over, a pair of pruning shears dug into your skin, golden blood leaking out around their cool metallic points. “Fuck.” Your lips cover the puncture, tongue flicking against the rivulet of ichor.
The screech owl screams.
The throne room is silent. Darkness ebbs, inky webs slithering across the floor, shadowing the blood red stone that spills from the mouth of the dais, two identical, straight back chairs sitting proudly in the middle of the hall, dwarfed by columns stretching so tall Johnny swears they surpass the boundary of this realm. Their onyx marble shrouds Simon, who stands maskless, his hands clasped behind his back, peering into the pitch-black pool of liquid vibrating inside a silver bowl.
“Who is she?” There is a woman in the seeing glass. Beautiful, bright, an overflowing bouquet of narcissus, an endless melody of spring, the promise of early death. The greenhouse breathes in her presence, all nature of blooms and blossoms straining closer, desperate to be within fingertips reach. “A goddess?” He looks closer, and Simon’s amber laden eyes affix his, broad palm tenderly cupping Johnny’s cheek. His answer is a whisper, something unearthly and severe as they are: two Kings of the Underworld, two souls twisted together, two macabre fates made one. His words are a looming promise, a vow so ruinous Johnny knows the Moirai howl and the Lethe trembles.
“Our wife.”
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