#tw trauma/flashbacks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

Text

Day 11: Split

(Disclaimer: the characters here do not belong to me. Both Wilford Warfstache and William J. Barnum/The Colonel belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(Please note that the concept this story revolves around isn’t something I originally came up with. That honor goes to @ghiertor-the-gigapeen, who posted this amazing piece of art last October! Please check out their blog and show them some love!!!)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of body horror, blood/gore, fear/panic, trauma/flashbacks, pain and suffering, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 12 Day 13

“Say, have you ever tried your hand at writing?” Wilford casually inquires, titling his head and pressing his index finger against his temple.

You hum at the question, wracking your brain. “I’m. . .not sure, honestly. I mean, I probably have at some point, but all the conflicting timelines make it hard to tell.” There’s a generous amount of sarcasm in your voice. So much, in fact, that you have to concentrate on emphasizing the right words.

Of course, Wilford’s response is an overexaggerated quirk of his lips, his eyes as thoughtful as they are mischievous. “True, true, very true. Sometimes you wish those pesky timelines would just fit in your hands so you could organize them to your taste.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you reply, tone dry enough to make Death Valley look rather lush.

“BUT,” Wilford, never to not have the last word, continues. “If you could do that, then you wouldn’t really be able to have any more adventures. You wouldn’t get to be surprised or horrified! Things would go from challenging and unforgettable to. . .thoughtless and predictable. Sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to appreciate whatever comes to grip at your mind or heart!”

His hands are a blur as he throws out one dramatic gesture after another. His expressions follow suite, obviously. Even so, the conniving ember in his eyes never completely fades away. In fact, that ember seems to glow a bit brighter as he finally returns to sitting still and staring at you. “True beauty really lies in thrill, my friend. There’s just no two ways about it!”

You don’t bother trying to suppress an eye-roll. . .and yet a small, genuine smile still manages to fight its way onto your face. Wilford’s statement is partially undeniable. Sure, you’ve been through hell and back, but you saw so many things along the way. You’ve met all sorts of people. The scenarios you keep finding yourself in are literally anything and everything but boring.

Yes, your existence and abilities have proven to be a curse. . .but that curse has still shaped itself into a gift more times than you can count.

That’s why you rang that little call-bell: to be taken here to this studio in order to see this insane, frustrating, omnipotent journalist who you (somehow) still have a soft spot for.

“. . .Y’know, I can’t remember the last time you were so specific with your questions,” you point out, leaning back in your provided chair. “What made you bring up writing, of all things?”

Wilford tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsks at you, raising an eyebrow so high that it could potentially need a drug test. “Sounds like someone has forgotten who’s the interviewer and who’s the interviewee.”

You spread your arms in a small lame gesture, making sure that your eyes help your incredulousness to be palpable. “Hey, listen. One of these days, the roles are gonna be reversed. MARK my words. I’ll be damned if that doesn’t happen at least once.”

“You make a good argument; there’s a chance something like that has already happened,” Wilford admits. He drags out a conspiratory hum for about ten seconds or so, slipping off his pink afro and fidgeting with it. “Well, writers can be a bit of a rare breed nowadays. They’re plentiful if you’re exploring the right circles, but even then, many are still so shy about their work.”

“Can’t really blame them for that,” you reply. “Not with how unfair the industries have gotten.”

“Oh, don’t I know it!” Wilford huffs a mirthless laugh. “I used to write for the odd column and blog or two. The readers were lovely, but lemme tell you—”

“The higher-ups were not?” You guess with an empathetic smile, just barely noticing how he’s started to squirm in his seat.

Wilford groans in exasperation. “Don’t even get me started. They turned their noses up at so many things, you’d think they were each three tapirs in a trenchcoat! I remember thinking, ‘If they’re so desperate for cookie-cut stories to have complete control over, then why don’t they just write these goddamn stories themselves?!’’’

You don’t blink: partially because your eyes aren’t dry, and partially because, if you had, you would’ve missed the mixture of sadness and frustration that just flickered on Wilford’s face. It was a tiny amount, and it’s already been beaten into submission by his trademark coyness.

But it was genuine.

“. . .I can tell you why,” you declare. “Because writing requires patience and effort and thought. Heart, too. And in my experience, it’d be a miracle for an employer to have at least one of those things.”

Wilford’s eyes ever-so-slightly widen as your words sink in. Something warm and appreciative etches its way into the smile he’s wearing.

“Words to live by,” he announces with a proud nod. “I don’t think I ever saw anything like that in my old head-honchos. It was always, ‘ThErE’s No WaY wE cAn PuBlIsH tHiS wItHoUt CeNsOrInG hAlF oF iT.’ ‘jUsT bEcAuSe ThE rEaDeRs LeAvE fEeDbAcK DoEsN’t MeAn YoU cAn InTeRaCt WiTh ThEm.’ ‘OuR sHaReHoLdErS wIlL bE oFfEnDeD bY tHiS.’ ‘rEaDeRs DoN’t NeEd To KnOw AbOuT tHaT.’ ‘wHeRe DiD yOu GeT tHaT kNiFe?’ ‘WhAt ThE hElL aRe YoU dOiNg?’ ‘I’m CaLlInG tHe PoLiCe YoU mAnIaC!’”

The droning pitch he’d put on falls away as he collapses into a fit of chuckling.

You, meanwhile, force out an awkward cough to try and hide the nervous grimace that has crawled into your features.

Even if Wilford is an old friend, even if his heart is sometimes in the right place, you can’t afford to forget that his brain is not. That it hasn’t been for a long time now. And it will probably never be anywhere near the right place again.

Not only that, but the longer you listen to Wilford’s giggling, the more you realize just how. . .off it sounds. As though Wilford’s voice is layered; like something else is trying to worm its way up through his bubbly tone.

“And those trials were just in the world of journalism,” Wilford continues once the hilarity finally dies down. “I can hardly imagine what writers in more creative circles have to go through.”

For seemingly no reason, that statement prompts a tidal wave of adrenaline to come rushing through you.

“Simply taking notes of things in reality can be so difficult. Just think about how long it’s taken for us to make some actual progress with this interview,” Wilford muses, gesturing to all the twinkling lights that decorate his studio. “But how could that struggle even compare to someone creating an entire world of their own? Birth is already one of the most traumatic things a person is capable of, and that’s just when it happens on the outside. So it’s astounding that anyone can survive birthing so many things inside their little head!”

Perhaps to drive the point home, he lightly raps his knuckles against his forehead as he returns his pink afro to its rightful place.

“Could’ve gone my whole life without hearing that analogy,” you blurt.

“No, I don’t think you could’ve,” Wilford whispers.

You glare at him as an uncomfortable, oily energy slithers along your ribcage. The fact that Wilford is now visibly shaking doesn’t help.

“Are. . .are you okay, Wil?” You wonder aloud, your irritation slowly but surely leaning toward paranoia.

“Peachy!” Wilford answers, gesturing toward his face with a flourish. “Why, does this not look like the face of someone who’s peachy?”

You attempt not to cringe too hard as you offer one of those nod-shrugs, gingerly poking the skin beneath your eyes.

Wilford’s expression contorts with confusion. He rises to stand on the seat of his chair, reaching up toward the ceiling. After producing a hand mirror from somewhere you can’t see, he sits back down and peers at his reflection.

Of course, he doesn’t react to the sight of blood oozing down his cheeks from his tear ducts like most people would. Instead of screaming or fainting or trying to pluck his eyes out in order to keep whatever curse they may or may not be harboring from infecting the rest of his body, Wilford casually tosses the mirror over his shoulder, not acknowledging the sound of glass shattering as he fishes a handkerchief from one of his pockets.

“Meh, it’s a wednesday. You know how wednesdays are,” Wilford mentions as he begins scrubbing at the small, dark red rivers.

“I’m not so sure I do,” you murmur.

You consider suggesting to pause the interview here with an oath to resume it some other day. . .but that consideration evaporates when you remember exactly what happened the last time this interview was interrupted. Gunshots echo between your ears, and your heart more or less threatens to start palpitating.

Hell, you’re already expecting this interview to be cut short sooner or later; it’s had to be delayed at least sixty-nine thousand, four-hundred-twenty times by now, if memory serves (though, let’s be honest, it probably doesn’t).

But despite everything you’ve gone through up until this point, you still trust your instincts.

Which are currently screaming at you to not be the thing that prompts the inevitable next raincheck.

Plus, while one part of you is worried for Wilford’s wellbeing, the other part of you knows that it doesn’t matter. This is Wilford Warfstache we’re talking about. Even if he got mauled by a hippopotamus fueled by copious amount of acid and maliciously-intended vibes, he’d still find a way to continue existing with a chipper, knowing smile.

“Now, where were we?” Wilford inquires. You don’t know why, because he immediately snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes! Writing!”

Seeing that his face is clean once again, he throws the now bloodstained handkerchief into the air, where it quickly flutters down to join the broken mirror somewhere on the floor behind his chair.

“Well, I’ve already rambled on about my adventures with that. Please, tell me more about your thoughts on writing. You know I’d love to hear them!”

“Is that why you booked me for this? And here I was, thinking you just wanted me to sit here and look handsome and/or beautiful!” You joke, hoping to distract yourself from the dread that’s just started festering in your stomach.

Wilford chortles at that. And although the sound almost unveils some happy memories, you can still tell that he’s acutely aware of aforementioned dread.

You chew your lip, thinking.

By the time you’re able to predict what that question could lead to, it’ll probably be too late.

Might as well be honest with your answer, then.

“I think writing is pretty incredible,” you pronounce. “Some people try to say it isn’t a real type of art, and I’ll never be able to understand why. Like you just said: it’s always so much harder and scarier to do than it’s given credit for. It takes the same amount of energy and care to write as it does to sculpt or paint or sew.”

The words seem to make Wilford grow more excited. “Speaking of which: don’t you just love it when different types of artists work together? I’m always seeing writers basing plot elements off of drawings and drafters sketching out scenes from stories. That camaraderie is one of the best kinds, I think. Reminds me of how wolves and crows help each other hunt.”

“Exactly!” You reply. “Writers and other artists do wonderful stuff like that all the time! Just because they can! And—”

You abruptly trail off, the chemicals in your brain rerouting themselves before they even have a chance to signal more happiness.

“And. . ?” Wilford prompts, watching you curiously.

“. . .And they barely get any appreciation,” you eventually resume, feeling your face drop. “It’s just so. . .depressing that creative people can’t rely on their craft. Don’t get me wrong, some of them get lucky, but most. . .no matter how hard they practice or research, no matter how much time they spend polishing their projects. . .they still end up having so little to show for it.”

“Such a damn shame,” Wilford agrees, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Your gaze wandered down to the floor during your little monologue, so you can’t help but flinch when Wilford pats you on the shoulder.

The gesture isn’t forceful—it’s not like he’s digging his nails through your shirt—but nothing could’ve prepared you for how hot the skin of his palm feels. Wilford’s hand retracts quickly enough, but the heat lingers, racing down your arm as though some invisible person accidentally spilled a translucent cup of fresh-outta-the-pot, wraithlike coffee onto you.

(I’ve read/heard plenty of symbolism that involves boiling blood, but this is ridiculous.)

A gasp catches in your throat as you return your attention to Wilford.

He almost resembles a celebrity who, thanks to the power of hubris and a little too much xanax, drowned in their backyard swimming pool. . .Well, really, that’s just because of his clothes; if he wasn’t dressed in a bowtie and button-down (which looks suspiciously like silk), he’d probably look like the average corpse that was just pulled out of a river. Minus the awful bloating that always comes with underwater decay, that is.

You’d only looked away from him for a moment.

How the hell could someone’s skin turn so sickly pale in such short time?

“If there are any artists watching tonight, I’m sure you’ve made them get a little misty,” Wilford reMARKs, reaching up to wipe a single tear from the corner of his left eye. “But that doesn’t mean they have to worry. One way or another, the arts will get more respect in the future.”

“. . .You think so?” You’re not exactly sure where that question came from, but you know better than to stay silent. Besides, you can’t be blamed for having let a mite of pessimism creep into your attitude over the years.

“I know so!” Wilford promises. “So long as a virtuoso shows off what they can do, there’ll always, always be a number of admirers in their corner.”

You nod without hesitation. It’s impossible to disagree with that sentiment. In fact, you almost start to wonder if whatever the hell has been happening to Wilford throughout this conversation is about to reverse itself. . .

“Though, I have to wonder,” Wilford maintains, glancing over at nothing in particular with a wry, thoughtful smirk. “Could what you just talked about be the reason for the current shift in creative circles?”

(Aaaaannnd that’s why you almost got hopeful.)

“‘Shift?’” You echo. “What do you mean by that?”

You already know, of course. But you also know that Wilford is nothing if not a theatrical bastard. You’ve already played along with whatever has been building up for the past few minutes, so why stop now?

“Well, it seems like the majority of artists celebrate Halloween all year ‘round,” Wilford explains. “Drawings and sculptures of monsters, stories full of insanity, the whole shebang. I’m certainly not complaining, and neither are all those admirers I mentioned. But. . .do you think an artist’s frustration is what causes them to serve muses on the darker side of the spectrum?”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the fact that someone out there is probably rolling their eyes and muttering, “i’M fOuRtEeN aNd ThIs Is DeEp.”

(Then again, everything you and Wilford just said is completely valid, so that judgemental prick can just fuck off.)

“I guess it can, in a lot of cases,” you answer. “It’s amazing how many unique ways artists can go about symbolizing those struggles. Even so, a lot of artists focus on twisted aspects just because they see things in ways that other people might not. Just because of their individual personalities.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilford subscribes. “And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!”

A sharp, muffled pop called from somewhere in his chest. It’s followed by another. . .and another. . .and another, until a chorus of organic cracking and stretching and clicking threatens to drown out Wilford’s voice.

Wilford doesn’t seem unbothered perse, but to his credit, he doesn’t let the cacophony stop him.

“I suppose my instincts as a journalist drove that question,” Wilford muses. “I’ve found myself working with the whole ‘If it bleeds, it leads,’ shtick so many times. But only because. . .”

A violent twitch—the same type that so many people experience in their sleep, and the same type that would render those people unable to ever sleep again if they managed to see a recording of it—wracks his body.

“. . .it works. . .”

He barely had enough time to give you a wink before his eyes practically bulge from their sockets and roll into the back of his head, one after the other.

“. . .so damn well!”

The skin of his cheeks neatly tears as his smile stretches wider than humanly possible, to the point where he’s quite literally grinning from ear-to-ear.

A strange outline appears in his shirt, trying to push out from underneath the fabric.

Except, it’s not underneath the fabric.

You can do nothing but watch as the shape moves upward, causing Wilford’s neck to distend. His skin ripples in a way that reminds you of a sea krait swimming close to the surface without actually breaking it. As it gathers in Wilford’s head, the silhouette starts writhing. The movement is frantic. Desperate. Like an animal caught in some kind of trap.

All the while, Wilford’s new, eerie simper never falls away.

Not even when his features are forced to swell and quiver, as though his skull is tearing itself apart.

Plltk-Sssquiiwrrrlrlct!

One half of Wilford’s face pulls away from the other, like a seam running down the center has burst.

In a matter of seconds, the rift races down, splitting Wilford’s throat and torso open.

Gravity attempts to drag the fleshy fractions even farther apart, but by some odd miracle, both Wilford’s afro and bowtie staunchly refuse to be divided like the rest of him.

So, that means the two halves of Warfstache are hanging in place, only connected by thick, glistening strands of dark pink blood.

You jerk away so aggressively that it’s a wonder your chair doesn’t tip over. Your stomach roils in a painful way, and a shuddering, terrified cry slithers up your throat and out between your teeth. You automatically fight to close your gaping mouth for fear that something much more solid than a scream might spill out next.

Surprisingly enough, nothing like that happens.

But perhaps that’s because you haven’t seen the worst of this yet.

(Don’t hold your breath. You’re about to.)

As you stare and scream, you finally realize that. . .you can’t see through the gory chasm of Wilford.

There’s something caught between the awful ratios of Wilford.

. . .No, not something.

Someone.

Someone who’s dressed in a tan military uniform, along with a pair of spectacles that boast dual loupes on that right lens.

Someone whose screams make it clear that he speaks with an accent similar to Wilford’s.

Someone who you recognize. . .and, who seems to recognize you as well.

“H-Help me! PLEASE, HELP ME!” The Colonel wails, the fingers of his right hand curling around Wilford’s lower jaw, struggling for purpose. “I CAN’T GO BACK! DON’T MAKE ME GO BACK!”

You don’t respond.

How the hell could you respond?

It’s one thing to watch a friend’s body spontaneously split itself apart like their skeleton is a bloodsoaked butterfly emerging from a horrific meat-chrysalis.

It’s another thing entirely to watch a friend’s former self shriek and thrash and beg via an unnecessarily brutal rebirthing process for no actual reason.

“I-I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY!” The Colonel howls—if it wasn’t for his volume, the words would have leaked out in a choked sob. “I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT! I SWEAR—!”

Wilford, meanwhile, is still grinning that sly, too-wide grin. He isn’t showing any signs of pain. You can’t tell whether or not he’d known that this was going to happen.

The Colonel manages to free his left arm from its organic confines. He frantically claws at the air, obviously trying to reach out to you, pleading for you to take his hand and pull him out.

The way your eyes are burning nearly rivals the searing ache in your chest.

You want to help him.

The voices in your head are demanding that you help him.

But you can’t.

To put it simply, what’s done is done. Even Wilford’s bizarre powers are incapable of reversing what happened in that godforsaken manor all those years ago.

The Colonel does not exist anymore.

You know that. . .

He knows that. . .

. . .And Wilford knows that.

Still grinning, Wilford raises his arms. With a loud criIiIiIck, they grow. In a manner of seconds, they boast a similar appearance to long, narrow tree branches. Each of his fingers follow suite—now it’s difficult to see them as anything other than talons.

Wilford’s left hand is a blur as it snatches The Colonel’s wrist in a vice-like grip. His right hand reaches around to clamp down on The Colonel’s head.

Understandably, The Colonel isn’t having it. He writhes with twice as much panic as before. “DAMIEN! CELINE! WHERE ARE THEY?! I NEED TO FIND THEM!”

Wilford’s grin spasms. His knuckles turn white as he digs his nails into The Colonel’s scalp. When that doesn’t seem to work, he does what he does best: up the ante with no regard for anything.

It’s hard to believe that you can hear the sound of glass splintering through The Colonel’s shouting, as Wilford’s index finger jabs through the left lens of his spectacles.

In comparison, the squelching noise The Colonel’s eye makes as Wilford’s finger is driven into it is almost deafening.

The Colonel buckles under the new, white-hot pain he must be feeling. His screams reach a truly heart-stopping octave as blood oozes down his cheek.

Instinct seems to take over, seeing as The Colonel’s arm finally retracts, as he attempts to apply pressure to his punctured eye.

There’s really no point, though. It’s not like he has time to stop the bleeding.

To a chorus of snapping bones, Wilford shoves The Colonel down.

The Colonel’s torso as a whole seems to cave in.

All this time, Wilford’s hot-pink blood has been fountaining onto the floor—you’ve had to cross your legs on your chair to keep your shoes from getting drenched—but as you glance down, you notice that the puddle has stopped spreading. It stays still for a second or two. . .and then it starts rolling back in the direction it came. It glides up Wilford’s legs, and back into his chest, your eyes following it all the while.

And now the blood seems to be more than just a liquid. It’s coiling around The Colonel like a nest of snakes, binding his arms, encircling his neck. It drags him deeper, obscuring his form until you can barely see his face.

“NO! NO!” The Colonel screams. He can’t struggle anymore, but you know better than anyone just how much of a bitch adrenaline can be. “I CAN’T—!”

It looks like the two halves of Warfstache have finally worked out their differences, because they meet one another with a sickening Ssshlift-pop.

Wilford’s skin trembles.

The line running down the center of his face, his throat, his chest. . .it just. . .seals itself shut. As though it’s a new type of magnetic clay.

After a millisecond, that line itself disappears. It doesn’t even scar over.

It’s just gone.

Just like that, a whole Wilford Warfstache is sitting before you once again.

Like nothing even happened.

The next moment feels like several hours as you stare at Wilford, bracing yourself for something else to happen as hot, fat tears stream down your features.

Wilford’s eyes roll back into place, milky white scleras finally being replaced by his warm, dark brown irises.

That damn grin finally wavers as he blinks, shaking his head like he’s just woken up from a fever dream.

“Ah—I’m sorry,” Wilford announces, carefully kneading at his forehead. “I must’ve zoned out for a bit.” He glances at his wristwatch, raising an eyebrow. “Strange. . .the longer daydreams usually only happen on the thirteenth. Perhaps something else will be going on then? I know I had a lot of things lined up for the thirteenth in January, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I got around to them. . .unless I did, of course. In which case we might have a few problems.”

Wilford trails off as he finally notices that you’re still here.

“. . .Are we going to have to reschedule again? No offense, but you’re looking a bit green around the gills.”

You collapse against the back of your chair, not even registering how the world spins. Not that registering is an option; darkness is quick to swallow up everything within eyesight.

(Really? You’re fainting now?)

Somehow, you still manage to hear Wilford’s voice, which seems to echo as he concludes, “I’ll take that as a yes,” with a melodramatic sigh.

@sammys-magical-au

#the thirteen days of goretober 2023 #goretober 2023 #my writing #my stories #wilford warfstache #wkm the colonel #markiplier #mark fischbach #tw blood #tw gore #tw body horror #tw trauma/flashbacks #tw fear/panic

9 notes · View notes

witch-hazels-musings · 11 months

Text

reel me in

warning: angst -> comfort | fighter!reader and character are sparring but when reader gets pinned to the ground, they recall a traumatic event (non-specific, but hints at a near-death experience from past fight), and start to panic - the characters calm them down and bring them comfort (tw: pinned to the ground, feeling of being trapped, anxiety and difficulties breathing, sparring leads to panic)

character x gn reader | request | anthology

includes: childe, kaeya

Childe

“Is that all you’ve got?” You cried out through heaving breaths. Every muscle in your body was screaming from the onslaught of blows, but it made you feel alive. Fighting Childe was like wrestling the sun - and you were obsessed.

Childe straightened, turning back toward you with a grin so wide you knew your taunt would get him going. The way his eyes flashed in the sunlight, the shimmer of sweat on his shoulders, biceps made your heart flutter. It was so exciting - the heat of battle - no wonder Childe loved sparring so much.

“You want more?” He beamed, stalking toward you, slowly, meticulously, his eyes trained on you as if you were prey in the woods. “Then don’t hold back. Let me see it all!” He roared as he dashed your way. His water-blade crashing against your two daggers. Sending a shockwave through your arms. It hit your chest with so much force that you pushed against him, sliding on the dirt to reposition and get a better angle but he was ready with another swipe. You barely ducked out the way in time.

The match was heated, invigorating. The two of you lost yourselves in the midst of it all. Egging the other on, laughing at the thrill, pushing until something was certain to break. You just didn’t expect it to be like this ... didn’t expect it to be you.

With expert skill, you dodged away from his swing. Twisting your foot and leg leg so you could roll over his back and slip into the tiny opening he left, but when you landed on the other side of him, his leg swiped yours and you fell, hard, onto the dirt. The force knocked the wind out of you. A rock punched against your shoulder making your arm go numb for just a moment, but long enough that he could take full control.

His hands grabbed your wrists so you couldn’t swing at him. Faster than you could comprehend, he had you pinned. Disarmed with your hands under your arching back, he held you captive.

Shaking your head didn’t relieve the fog, struggling only made it worse. The sweat on your brow stung your eyes until you could barely make out his figure. Then, it all came flooding back.

“Now that was fun,” Childe panted above you, his hair clinging to his forehead, his cheek, but you could hardly see his familiar, comforting face. The past was crashing into you, and you couldn't’ breath.

“G --- et off ---”

“Don’t tell me you can’t overtake me. Hah, you’re better than that --” Childe teased but you weren’t having fun anymore. Panic started to set in, your heart was beating erratically, out of rhythm and control. You shook your head, thrashed just like you did once before - yet nothing changed, just like ... “... and we were just getting sta-”

“G-GET OFF!” You screamed. The words came out strangled, fearful. Childe let you go and you scrambled out from under him. Your nails digging through the dirt in a frantic escape. “get off. get off ...” You groaned, crawling free from him until there was enough distance for you to catch your breath.

“Woah, are you alr-” Childe’s words caught in his throat when you turned to sit on the ground, arms coiled around your legs, hands shaking as they hid your face from him. “Hey --” he called to you. Calmly, softly, but you didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. In your mind it was still happening, and you needed it to stop.

Everything was turned to maximum. Every sound, every smell, every sense in you stung. Your mind was on fire and you couldn’t calm it down. Something touched the fingers digging into your leg so you violently swatted it off until your hand came to a stop and your itching eyes found the reason.

Childe was kneeling in front of you, his expression twisted to one you’d never seen before. His common smile was turned into a deep frown, brows furrowed and eyes were searching you intently. His jaw clenched, the hand holding yours looked pale.

Still shaking, you wiped your eyes and he slowly came back into focus. This wasn’t your past, you weren’t about to die alone, beaten, bloodied - you were safe. You were safe.

In an instant, you twisted your hand to grip his wrist and held on so tightly that his arm began to shake.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, head shaking to return to your senses. The noise was starting to fade; you took a few more breaths to bring it back to normal.

“You went somewhere else on me ...”

“I know -- I’m sorry,” you apologized, swallowing to wet your dry throat. “I’m alright now.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I promise. It’s ... it’s nothing,” you pressed your fingers to your forehead and shook again, mostly to work out your nerves, but the action didn’t convince him you were okay.

The dirt around you crunched, grinded against itself as he moved toward you. When you glanced at him under your salty fingers, you noticed he was blocking you with his long legs. One at either side as if to be a human shield.

You sighed, and tried to get him to ease off, “I’m really okay -”

“A warrior must be ready to face any challenge,” he began, cutting you off as if you never said them, “In victories or in failures, the outcome is irrelevant - what matters,” he said as he tugged your arm and pushed against the hand blocking you from his sight. You moved them only enough so you could see his eyes, and he could see yours, “what matters is learning from the experience. You are here to fight again. You survived - no matter what it took to do so.”

Childe’s gaze was intense, his words pierced your heart making it difficult to breathe again but he was right. You survived. You were here and that’s what matters.

Your lips trembled, so you adjusted your grip on his wrist and held tightly.

“I survived,” you whispered.

“You survived.”

“I survived,” you repeated and covered your face while Childe shielded you from the rest of the world.

Day’s later you shared with him what had happened and he listened without judgement. You noticed how he incorporated some new moves into his training with you - ones to avoid the mistakes of your past and then, without prompting, on a warm summer night, he told you of his own and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel so alone.

Kaeya

“Pick it up!” you shouted to the knights as they ran through their drills. By this point they shouldn’t be so sloppy, but it seemed your expectations for them were too high.

Groaning, you turned the other way and began to clean up the training grounds. Practice swords, spears, and other equipment were left on the dirt and even though you weren’t the only one tasked with training the new recruits, you knew your partner wouldn’t be much help.

“How’s it going, teacher?” Kaeya’s silvery voice slipped through your annoyance like water passes through a fisherman's net. Unfortunately for him, you weren’t in the mood to hear it.

“Fine. Here,” you said and handed him the pile you’d managed to pick up while he was standing in the shade, “Take these back to the racks for me.”

“My, what a cold temper you have,” he teased. Even though you couldn’t see it, you knew he held a smirk on his lips. “And here I was coming over to congratulate you on all your hard work.”

“Ha,” you huffed. You were starting to wonder if Jean was mad at you. Why else would she ask you to work with this ... this ... slacker. He may be pretty, and you, stupidly, had a crush on him, but why was he always so ... aggravating. “If you’re not going to help me, at least don’t stand by sidelines watching. It creeps me out.”

Kaeya picked up the pace so he could match your strides. It was easy for him with his long legs and all. “I thought you loved when my eyes were on you?”

Luckily you were already so irritated. If you weren’t you probably would have been more affected by his comment, “Nope. Not me.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm. Ugh,” stopping suddenly, you shouted toward the recruits to come back but when you glanced back at Kaeya, he was just standing there, smiling. “Are you going to help me with the demonstration or not?”

“Why of course,” he beamed and you wanted to punch him.

“Good. Grab us some swords and meet me in the circle.” He gave you a playful confirmation before walking off toward the racks.

Why couldn’t you have fallen for someone else? You asked yourself as you headed toward the panting new knights to explain the next portion of their training. It wasn’t the first time you had them spar with each other, but this time you were going to be demonstrating several moves they needed to learn in order to stay alive. As much fun as being an aggressor is, if you didn’t learn how to block or dodge oncoming attacks - well, the research institute was working on some new mechanical prosthetics if they needed it.

Once Kaeya returned, you had him demonstrate several jabs so you could show them how to avoid. After that, you had them mimic you as you moved out f the way of Kaeya’s swings. It was almost like a dance, the two of you, and it was starting to draw an unnecessary crowd.

“Shall we show them in real time?” Kaeya inquired with a smile, “They are unlikely to fight slow moving assailants after all.”

You weren’t really planning on doing that, but he was right, so you relented. “Alright, but don’t throw out anything fancy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed, getting into his stance.

“Alright - watch us closely and count how many times I use the moves we just showed you. Got it?” The knights nodded so you got into position. “Let’s go.”

Lunging forward, you made the first contact and Kaeya deflected it easily. He reacted faster than you planned with a counter swing that you had to narrowly block with the edge of your wooden sword. The noise rang out across the training ground drawing an audible gasp from the crowd.

The two of you started simple but eventually lost yourself in the spar. Kaeya moved like a skater on ice and you danced along with him. The feeling of the wind rushing past your face as you dipped under his swings, when you swirled past him to get the advantage. It was a blast, and reminded you why you fell for him so hard.

Kaeya might be a slacker, but his swordplay was flawless.

You wanted to bring it back to focus but Kaeya was distracted and before you knew it, your guard was too far down to catch his next move. Like a flash of lightning, he was in front of you one second and behind you the next. Your weapon swung up to block a blow to your chest but you were off balance and fell backward as he had intended. Before you could taken in a breath, Kaeya was gripping your arm and twisting it behind your back while his play sword rested against your neck and his cheek pushed against the side of your head.

“Got you,” he declared and pulled you closer to him. You were captured, and it distorted your reality.

It was like you fell into a deep pool. Your body went cold, your mind triggered every alarm it could as you wiggled against him to get free but he was having too much fun to notice that you were clearly not.

“Kae--”

“We certainly put on a show,” his voice drifted past you but you could hardly hear him. Waves crashed against your senses, deafening the world around you. It felt impossible to catch your breath, even when you gripped your shirt and pushed against Kaeya’s arm. Something hit your foot so you stumbled forward only to be reeled back in. “Leaving so soon?” He asked and you panicked.

“L-let me go - let me go - let! go!” Fear and violence overcame you until you were finally free from his grip. The edges of your vision were so dark that all you could see was the building in front of you, the confused expression on his face as you turned to face him, the bobbing blobs in the distance as you tried to call it for the day. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. All you could feel was a sense of dread and your nails biting into the flesh of your palm.

Kaeya dropped his weapon. You watched him turn to the crowd but couldn’t hear what he was saying. You just stood there, lost, back in that place you never wanted to visit again.

A cold hand grabbed your balled up fist and, like magic, you were in Kaeya’s office with no recollection of how you got there.

Someone called your name. Who was it?

Touch, the sensation of skin against your cheeks. Hands - someone's hands. Whose hands? WHOSE HANDS!?

You flailed your arms to push them away but they didn’t leave until you could hear the voice of Kaeya calling your name.

“... do you hear me?!” he shouted, and you did. You did. “You’re okay! - it’s me. It’s me.”

“... Kae...?”

Kaeya’s head dipped forward when you recognized him. “There you are.” His tone was tense. When he looked at you again it was like he had aged since you last saw him. He shook his head and moved his thumbs under your eyes.

“What happened?” you asked, confused and disoriented. One minute you were out on the training field and another you were in his office. Did you black out?

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I don’t -- I don’t know ...” looking down, you tried to assess what was happening. Your body felt worn, exhausted. Your fingers were curled in and stiff but they weren’t like that originally. Right? Why was there sweat running down your spine? Confusion was soon replaced by worry but Kaeya was there to catch you. “Kaeya - I don’t remember --”

“It’s alright,” he reassured you by grabbing your hands and holding them steady. You could tell he was contemplating what to do. You’d known Kaeya for so long. He was always so confident, so playful but right now he seemed afraid to even touch you. “It’s alright,” he said again and took a step closer, but not too close. He sighed and then explained what happened. Perhaps he hoped it would make you feel more in control or, perhaps, it would give you the knowledge you needed to understand why you vanished in front of his eyes.

He was right. As he explained the sparring match and what happened moments before you panicked, you knew exactly why it had happened.

In training, you are taught how to protect yourself and your fellow knight. You know the dangers of the job but you can never fully grasp the severity of it until you’re there - face to face with life and death. This was your hidden scar. One you didn’t intend to let others see.

It took a while, but you slowly started to share what had happened. Kaeya listened without questions, without jokes. He just listened, and when you were done he didn’t give you pity or tell you it was in the past. He simply offered his hand and vowed to leave it open for you whenever you needed it.

“You’ve always been around to lend me a hand. It’s due I return the favor. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here with you to carry on,” he affirmed and though he couldn’t heal the space left in your chest, his words made it a little lighter.

“Thank you, Kaeya,” you replied, squeezing his hand like he was yours. “I guess this means you’re stuck with me?” It was meant to be a joke to lighten the mood, to bring back his teasing but it seemed to backfire.

“Well that’s an odd way of proposing to me.”

“I wasn’t proposing --”

“You weren’t?”

“No ...”

“Ah, a shame then,” he lamented and let go of your hand to walk toward the door. You followed him, watching how he leaned against the closed door with a sorrowful expression on his face.

“W-wait, did you want ... me too?”

“We will never know now will we?” He threw up his arms into a deflated shrug but made sure to keep a sharp eye on you and your slowly rising embarrassment. “Best not keep them waiting, teacher,” he smirked before walking out of his office and leaving you, once again, flustered.

#hazels works #genshin impact #genshin impact x gn reader #genshin angst #genshin comfort #tw trauma flashback #tw trauma #tw anxiety #childe x gn reader #kaeya x gn reader #genshin childe #genshin kaeya #genshin impact x fighter!gnreader #fighter!gnreader #tw pinned #tw pinned down #tw blackout

302 notes · View notes