Brainrot Ever Since That Harbingers Trailer Dropped.

do you have any hcs of what the yan genshin boys would b like when darlings on her period?

i'm gonna rank them from best to worst when it comes to dealing with this . let's see how they do.

best

zhongli is on top of his game. it's like he was born for the sole purpose of pampering you when you're under the weather. he'll insist on you taking it easy, drinking soothing teas, eating nutritious meals, and taking medication for whichever symptoms are the most prominent. if he seems oddly content, it's because he is. he won't state it outright, but he wants to leave the impression that him being in the position to care for you like this is worth the sacrifice of some... freedom. he knows of herbs and remedies to help make the experience as painless as possible.

kazuha already dotes on you as if you were royalty. while he leads a rather transient lifestyle, he puts your travels on pause to ensure you're properly cared for. he's sweet to a degree that'd be condescending from anyone else, but because it's kazuha and it's completely genuine, you can't call him out on it. he'll lay your head down on his lap and softly recite poetry until you doze off. he might not know much about periods specifically, but he treats it as if you were injured and need to be nursed back to health. he makes you your favorite meals from ingredients foraged locally. considers it a privilege on his part to be able to care for you. warmth blossoms in his chest whenever you have no choice but to ask him for something, your pride temporarily discarded.

albedo knows when your period is about to start before it even crosses your mind. he calculates every phase of your cycle and writes the important dates down in a calendar. he's all about preemptive care, he'll give you some concoctions of his own making the night before your period is due to start so you don't even have to worry about cramp pain. if you've been particularly troublesome lately, he might withhold this miracle elixir until you butter him up. he doesn't come outright and tell you this either, you have to do some trial and error to discern the specifics. as an alchemist, anything to do with the functions necessary to create life greatly fascinate him.

childe has sisters, so he's roughly familiar with how unpleasant periods are. he'll grin and reassure you that a little blood has never frightened him. thinks you're the cutest thing ever when you have to rely on him more. he's happy to oblige and is surprisingly intuitive about requests you never state verbally. he makes the tastiest soups, the kind that warm you from head to toe with every bite. there's no use trying to pretend you don't like it because he knows. he calms down on his tendency to tease you, since in his view, it's never his intent to actively make you feel distraught (unless you've acted out in a way that puts you in danger).

cyno means well (probably) but can come off as a little overbearing. he's literally breathing down your neck and constantly reminding you that if you need anything, just say the word. he's carrying you around, bringing you meals in bed, running all over town to get that one snack he knows you love; he's nothing if not dedicated. the thought of you being uncomfortable, much less in pain, is unbearable. when you do fall asleep, he's peeking into the room every five or ten minutes. every time you get your period, should any blood get on the sheets, he'll look you dead in the eye and ask if you've gotten in a fight lately. when you don't laugh, he starts explaining the joke, so it's better to force a chuckle.

diluc is just awkward about it. he refers to it as 'your time of the month' but even choking those words out is a struggle. he considers it to be a very private occurrence and thinks it'd be polite to tiptoe around the subject, as if it were taboo. the staff at dawn winery make further accommodations for you — everything you could ever want is a ring away. he's normally skeptical about you going outside, but since you're under the weather, he'll grant your request. if you're observant, you'll notice he's more inclined to give into your whims during this time. just don't get too carried away or he'll say he knows what you're doing at pointblank.

scaramouche is mostly annoyed that you're going to be more cranky for a while. your attention is essentially his lifeblood, but when you don't feel well, you're focusing on that instead of him. kind of inconsiderate tbh. once asked dottore if there's a way to prevent this, but dropped the idea when the harbinger said 'it only requires a few organs to be removed.' scaramouche would prefer your organs remain as is. he'll sigh and huff about how lucky you are to have him while spoon-feeding you, despite the fact he secretly enjoys it. his words are a whopping 10% nicer until you start to feel better, something he is frequently reminding you of. when your period is finished, he keeps staring in your general direction, fully expecting you to trip over yourself to thank him for his benevolence. if being delusional is a game, then he's winning.

when it comes to xiao, he's not awful per se, but this is likely his first encounter with menstruation, so you have to explain everything about it. he gets a bit freaked out the first time you wake up to bloody sheets, although you wouldn't be able to tell unless you closely observe his body language. he's somewhat at a loss when you explain what you need during your period and probably doesn't grab all the right things. he makes you eat these awfully bitter herbs that are supposed to help with pain. also makes some watery tea but gives you such a hopeful look, you don't have the heart to complain about the taste.

worst

A Chance Encounter.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Loosely based on this concept.

Warnings: Only light yandere themes since Reader doesn't know about Scara's Harbinger affiliation. Word count: 1.1k.

Scaramouche could succinctly describe this assignment as a pain.

Some whistleblower whose conscience got the better of her in retirement, realizing now that she’s living off a measly pension instead of a steady stream of income that perhaps experimentation on unwitting subjects is actually not so dandy. How convenient. Moral epiphanies have the best timing. Or in the Harbinger’s case, the worst timing, since this trip to Mondstadt was supposed to be for pleasure, not business. 

He occupies a space beneath a sizable canopy. Shadows swallow him, occasionally chased off by shy sunlight wriggling through interstices born from the steady wind. The weather is fair compared to the everlasting winter that wrings all life from Snezhnaya. This nation is perfectly idyllic, perfectly boring, save for a single inhabitant who is notably exempt from his criticism. 

If it weren’t for the invisible yet no less present Fatui agents slinking about, he’d give in to the urge to quirk his lips upward. 

At least when this is wrapped up, he can see you. 

The matter shouldn’t take much longer. In written correspondence with the would-be traitor, he played the role of a bleeding heart, successfully blindsiding her into thinking he shares her plight. Now all that remains is to meet up with her and discern if the supposedly damning documents hold any weight or not. The rest can be left to his lackeys, he’d rather not waste any more time when he could be engaging in far more enjoyable activities. 

This is about as cut and dry as it gets. 

Except… 

Rapid footsteps approach. 

Foliage crunches beneath the heel of an exuberant individual, smothering leaves and snapping twigs. 

“Kuuuuuniiiiiii!” A voice he knows very well calls out. 

There is but a single entity throughout all of Teyvat who actively runs toward him, not away from him, and this entity so happens to be you. The concept of shame is a foreign one, you’re far too concerned with utilizing various flourishes to capture his attention. The fanfare is without reason. The instant you enter the scene, Scaramouche scarcely remembers the rest of the world exists, it becomes as inconsequential as the ground he treads on. 

You are a fallen star streaming through the sky, an answer to a wish he never had the courage to make. 

Unfortunately, you’ve happened upon him at a tricky juncture. The Fatui swarming like sharks in the water are prepared to tear into you at his command. From their perspective, you are an unknown variable running full force at their Lord Harbinger. Never in their wildest dreams could they fathom the notoriously spiteful Balladeer has a sweet spot for you, this is by his design. He’s painstakingly taken measures to ensure his little ball of sunshine can’t be used by his many enemies. 

The wave he gives serves two purposes — to greet you and signal his men to stand down. 

As if he wasn’t already thrown off-kilter by your abrupt appearance, when you’re at the appropriate distance, you launch at him with arms held wide. He catches you with an ease unfitting of his slender demeanor, his strength far surpassing that of any mortal. You’re content to wrap your arms around his neck while he steadies you. 

“I knew it was you! The hat gave it away. It always does,” you explain in between breaths. “And here I was thinking that you wouldn’t be in for a few more days.” 

Slowly, he helps ease you back down. You sway a bit, clutching his shoulders to maintain your balance, to which he snickers. “Were you so desperate to see me that running at a reasonable pace slipped your mind?” 

“I thought if I exerted more force, I might be able to tackle you to the ground this time… so much for that.” 

“Hah. As if. What strange fantasies you entertain without me around. The loneliness must rot your brain.” 

“Who says I’m lonely?” You challenge, tilting your head to the side. “I’m more than capable of making and maintaining friendships. That’s what happens when you’re a likable person.” 

He’s quick to reply so as not to betray his irritation at the idea. “You? Likable? The mental deterioration is worse than I feared. I hope it isn’t irreversible at this stage.” 

You shrug. “I dunno, you seem to like me well enough. I consider that my crowning achievement. If I can win you over I’m capable of anything. Maybe I’ll aim for world peace next.” 

Scaramouche is so quick to be swept up in the wild tide that is you that his bumbling underlings temporarily slipped his mind. Lately, there’s been one in particular who seems keen on proving himself worthy of a promotion. He goes out of his way to do extra work Scaramouche never tasked him with. It’s been a minor nuisance yet nothing major has come from it. 

However, in his purview, he senses this sycophant taking a position that’d be advantageous to strike at you from. 

Scaramouche’s retaliation is immediate. On a perfectly sunny day, a vicious bolt of lightning strikes mere inches from the spot he occupies, effectively communicating his lord’s displeasure. The white-hot flash earns your attention. You turn your head in the direction it came from, then shoot him an inquisitive glance. 

“... What did that bush ever do wrong?” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The warning must’ve made it through the agent’s thick head, for he backs off like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“Hey. I have some business I need to finish, then I’ll treat you to dinner,” Scaramouche knows you well enough to be confident that the idea of delicious food will successfully distract you. It’s as he predicted — he can practically hear the gears turning in your head as you form plans. He can only hope he doesn’t have to encounter that slovenly excuse of a god who once serenaded you with the story of an abandoned doll, claiming it to be a ‘cautionary tale’. The self-restraint he exercised that day is second to none. 

“Alright, but try to leave some nature standing, this is a trail I enjoy walking. I’d rather you don’t eviscerate it.” 

You begin to part ways, before loudly proclaiming ‘oh!’, like you’d forgotten something important. Then you’re back by his side. He processes the feeling before anything else, the soft sensation of your lips on his cheek renders him speechless. A crimson hue dusts against his pale cheeks as he subconsciously raises his hand to touch the still-tingling spot. Content with yourself, you depart, waving as enthusiastically as you had earlier. 

When his coherency returns, he sighs. That was a bit more than he’d prefer any Fatui-aligned person to see.

He’ll have to get creative to explain the deaths of all his men on such a low-stakes mission. Before that, however, he needs to ask one to hand the appropriate forms over, lest it disintegrate to ash as they’re fated to. 

It’s a pain, truly, but you’re worth the extra effort. 

would you like a new home? (pt. 3.3)

forethoughts: y'all i'm on such an arlecchino down-badness syndrome i'm writing so much and releasing so much. i think after this i'm going to write more short stories w/ father and reader, so it's gonna be like a cumulative story of reader as their adventures as father's child. (spoilers oops)

notes: gn!child!reader, NOT AN X READER READER IS A CHILD!!!

You were still awake when the door creaked open, and Father’s heels clicked against the ground. Father tried to place the tray of food gently on the table, but you could still hear the porcelain hit the wood.

“Are you going to continue to pretend to sleep, or come and eat?” Father had a playful tone to her voice.

Of course Father knew you weren’t asleep.

Father made her way towards you, placing a hand on your head as she ran her fingers through the knots in your hair. “How are you, my dear?”

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. Your head was still pounding from the orphan’s foot, making it uncomfortable to sleep on that side. “I’m okay.”

“Good. Good.” Father looked at your sleepy expression, a soft smile on her face as she petted your head. “Do you know that I would do anything for you, my dear? I treasure you dearly and hold you near my heart.” 

“Y-Yes, Father. I-I do too…”

“Do you?” Father chuckled. “I am very happy to hear that. Especially from you.”

Father kissed the top of your head, before standing up, heading towards the door. “Eat up, my dear. When you finish your plate of food, please come find me in my office. I will be waiting for you.”

Father closed the door behind her, leaving the lights on. Letting out a sigh, you crawled out of bed, hobbling over to the table as you climbed onto the chair, examining the tray of food. Next to the plate of Jueyun Chili Parcels was an envelope with Father’s seal on it. You took the small letter opener Father had gifted you, and carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper, filled with a sea of ink. You would rather read the cookbook than this. 

“Adoption… guardian… Arlecchino… Y/N… child…” You picked out words you knew, filling in the blanks with your best guess. The word adoption rang in your head. Adoption? No one ever got adopted ever from the House of Hearth. Father said that this was the place orphans from all over would grow up in and graduate from. Arlecchino… that was Father’s name. You recall overhearing some of the caretakers calling Father Arlecchino. 

Father… plans on adopting me? The thought struck your head, causing the paper to fall out of your hands. You immediately picked it up, eyes scanning the ink. That was literally what the paper saids. On the bottom were two straight lines adjacent to each other. One had Father’s signature on it, while the others was empty. Father… Father truly planned on adopting you. This was actually happening. You searched the envelope, looking for anything else. A note. A small folded piece of paper.

My dear Y/N,

Perhaps this will be the happy ending for the both of us. So would you like a new home, my dear?

Father.

Father. 

Father genuinely planned to adopt you.

Father wanted you to become her actual child.

Was that why Father was always kinder to you?

Was this why Father was always much more lenient and biased to you? 

It was because Father wanted you to be her child?

Her actual child?

You took a deep breath, picking up the first piece of paper instead. Pure adrenaline rushed through your body, thoughts racing through your head as your heart desperately tried to claw out of your ribs. This was happening. Serotonin and joy was the only emotion you could feel; not an ounce of worry or fear in your heart. Why weren’t you scared? Why weren’t you worried? 

Because Father.

Father was the one asking you.

Father was asking you to be her child.

Father was giving you the one thing you craved ever since you gained the ability to comprehend.

A family.

A relationship.

Someone who truly loved you.

A parent.

So how could you ever say no?

A new home.

A new life.

No more loneliness.

No more fear or worry.

No more doubt or anxiety.

A new home. 

With Father.

Arlecchino reclined back in her chair, playing with the pen in her hand. Out of anything she had ever experienced or done in her life, this was the one moment she felt genuine worry about. She could not plan this out. She could not make failsafes or backup plans. This was a reckless action. But the action she desperately wanted to take.

Arlecchino had saw a part of herself in you; that was what drawed you in to her. She saw that kid who never got along with anyone else, that was always lost in their little world. She wanted to give you the support she never had growing up. So she gave you the little perks she never had. She gave you all she wanted when she was your age. 

It was unfortunate she could not find a companion for you.

But everything always works out in the end.

Life always finds a way to piece everything together.

Arlecchino was brought back to reality when she saw one of the doorknobs twist open, your adorable figure entering the room as you hobbled towards her. The letter she had purposefully placed on the tray was in your hands, cut open and the adoption paper on top of the envelope. You climbed onto the chair on the other side of her desk, placing the adoption paper on her desk. 

Arlecchino watched you with a stoic expression, unable to resist a grin as she saw your cute child face look down and fiddle with the hem of your sleeve in nervousness.

“Well?” Arlecchino cleared her throat. “What do you think about my offer?”

“...Yes.” You smiled brightly, nodding your head. “I w-want to be your actual child.”

The corners of Arlecchino’s lips shot up to her eyes. “Come here.”

Arlecchino didn’t even mind you stepping on her desk to leap into your arms, as she wrapped her arms around your back and head tightly, hugging you close to her chest. The warmth in her heart only grew when you reciprocated the hug back, your tiny arms clutched onto the sides of her ribs.

Arlecchino let out a content sigh, a smile on her face. Now she could say the one phrase that held meaning to it. No more teasing. No more playfulness. 

“My child.”

How do the different yanderes "love" you? (plus some tropes(??) i feel like would fit them)

this was honeslty just practice, and it ended up turning into smt kinda decent, i dont love what ive written but i just needed to get our smt

i blame @fatuismooches for being lovely and having such good harbinger thoughts that they've taken over my mind (fuck you[said with affection])

Yandere! Childe, Scaramouche, Dottore(separate) x gn reader

Childe ("soft and sweet" x unloving and hates touch)

He just spoils you left and right, he feels a little bad when he sees the uncomfortable look in your eyes when he kisses you all over, or when he touches you too much. so he has chosen to spoil you rotten until you finally fall for him, or at least see the way he can take care of you and finally kiss him back.

[He loves you, and that should be known by now, so why do you force his hands to do this, "why cant you just love him like he is", those were the last words you heard before he brought something to your lips and made you drink something unknown]

You are incredibly lucky that the 11th Harbinger is this patient with you, but dont push it too much, he can go to more bloody measures of getting you to fall for him if he sees it's needed. dont worry he wont hurt you too much, he loves you too much to do that, but love is complicated and you cant always control whom you fall in love with, so just love him will you, darling?

after all he knows the aphrodisiac he gave you wont last forever, so it would be better to just fall for him manually, right?

Scaramouche (manipulative, powerful x easily manipulated, weak[...i didnt know what to do here lol])

He might seem like he doesn't love at all, but when you aren't being dragged around to missions and meetings, and all alone with him in your shared chambers, he loves to just hug you, maybe litter kisses on your neck and collarbone. you hated it at first, and you still kind of do, but you've long since gotten used to it all.

He show his love for you when he has his hands all over your body as you dress into the clothes he picked out for you. he cant keep himself off of your lovely body, but would kill if anyone even touch a strand of your hair.

But oh how could you try 'nd leave when this weak little puppet is crying in your arms every night, when he has nightmares about you leaving him, dying when he can't be there to protect you... oh how foolish you are, how stupid you must be to fall for such things, as he has long since abandoned the idea of ever letting go of you.

And he'll make sure you dont let go of him either, because you need him. after all he was the one to save you from danger when you were stupid enough to walk too far into a hilichurl camp. you need protection, and he's rgith here willing to give it for "free".

Dottore (crazy scientist and his crazy lover[aka yandere x yandere but worse])

You lvoe each other in ways normal human minds wouldn't dream of ever understanding. he smiled when you gave him a dead body for experimenting, and the worst part? you had the biggest grin on your face, and a massive amount of blood on your hands and clothes, much to the dismay of many onlookers.

And then there's the fact that neither of you even spare a glance at the amount of blood on the others' clothes, or at least it looks like you don't. but when you are in the privacy of your shared bedroom (though filled with dead onlookers in the closet) you reward each other for getting rid of anyone who dares to interrupt, or archons forbid break, the love you two have.

It has been made a daily occurrence for you both to randomly disappear from the building with a fatui agent, who had taken too much attention from the other, and then come back alone with bloodied hands, and being greeted by a two-minute-long kiss when opening the lap doors again.

just two crazy maniacs in love, awwww (if they arent wanted in at least 6 nations they need to be)

thx for reading whatever this is, luv ya -Masterlist

You are welcome to reblog and like any of my posts, but you CAN NOT translate, copy or hate on anybody for liking my posts

begging for scaramouche brainrot crumbs 🙏🙏

Each strike of your blade is accompanied by the toll of bells, forming a dissonant threnody. 

The barrage never connects. Your intended target weaves back and forth, fluid as a river, evading each swipe. Scaramouche is but a blur of black, purple, and red. Your eyes struggle to discern his figure amidst the haze. Eventually, you jump back, hoping to create distance while you reevaluate. He mirrors your decision. Unlike you, however, his composure is impeccable. He examines his nails, appearing bored with your effort. 

“Are you finished?” He asks. “Or will you draw this out until you faint from exhaustion?” 

This taunt makes you bristle. “I’m not…!” 

“Let me finish that sentence for you,” his voice, once several yards ahead, now purrs behind your ear. “You’re not capable of besting me.” 

Scaramouche’s hand curls around your wrist. He applies pressure until your grasp on the blade’s hilt grows weaker. You grimace. The pain isn’t anywhere near what he could inflict, but your attempts to pull free make it worse. Noticing this, he clicks his tongue, relaxing his grip before your antics dislocate it. 

“Stubborn.” 

He accompanies this comment with a surge of electro. Not at you, no — your sword. You gawk in disbelief as the blade disintegrates. All that electricity and your skin barely tingled. The precision necessary to pull that off without harming you is astonishing. Inconceivable. 

“Satisfied?” Scaramouche hums, resting his chin on your shoulder. He only needs one hand to restrain both of yours. “Compared to me, you’re weak. What more proof do you require?” 

“I’ll… get stronger,” you pant. “You’ll see.” 

“Hm.” 

In an instant, he twirls you around, his hand holding your jaw. The ring adorning his middle finger is cool against your feverish skin. Much to your chagrin, he squishes your cheeks, chuckling at the resulting expression. You doubt your glare intimidates him any. Not when the pleased gleam in his eyes is so prevalent. 

“You know, I’m in a good mood,” he declares. From this perspective, you can see the flush lining his cheeks. He must not be immune to the adrenaline from battle. “Get creative with your apologies and perhaps… perhaps I’ll have mercy.” 

Scaramouche is not as delusional about the nature of your relationship as he is in his contempt towards everyone and everything that surrounds him. He has his share of grudges, prejudices, and deeply rooted reasons for seeing things the way they are distortedly reflected in his eyes, but he is certainly not blind to the veracity cleverly embedded in your serene front.

He does not expect you to be enamored with him and neither does he fool himself into thinking you would pretend to be smitten with him upon the very first glance cast. If anything, he is perfectly aware that you are either indifferent or outright hostile toward him, but you know what? He couldn’t care less about your words and actions. He has no concern for your feelings because his own ones – those sentiments he worked so hard on shutting out of his system – shall always be the first and only priority to focus on. After all, you made him like this. You made him weak, cornered, in a stalemate with no solution, and he will be inclined to detect and analyze what exactly made the thought of you appear in his brain, let alone the need to interact with you directly to course through his frigid body.

You have no affection for him? Fine. You fear him? You better do. You somehow read his mind and reciprocated the contagiousness of the plague that is his obsession with you? Whatever. It doesn’t matter if you hate him or are that depraved to sincerely love him, of all people. You don’t matter at all; your emotions and reactions have zero importance to him. What really matters is why he feels so weird, why he wants you to himself and why is he stepping into the same mousetrap that is humanity over and over again. His injured hubris quells his self-hatred quite efficiently, otherwise he would have been a sight pretty pathetic to behold – at this point, he is so engrossed in denying his innate urges that one might almost pity the divine instrument that, by design, was not supposed to host any cravings inherent in mortal beings, and those same urges overlap with his artificial origins to produce an individual of impressing callousness.

Extremely self-absorbed, vindictive, and lacking a great deal of empathy, Scaramouche, as a result, is unable to perceive you as a person. To him, you are more of a breathing mannequin on whom he unleashes all frustrations and resentments to maintain his mask of sanity and faux affability; a convenient fantasy he shapes and molds as he pleases without the least compunction. Yesterday, you were his mother. Today, you are his older sister. Tomorrow, you will be his lover. You are a mere human; a female of her species, but you are also a tool – just like he is – stolen from celestial influence to serve his cause. Of course, he knows that you may have your troubles and all of that stuff, yet… Does he comprehend the value they hold? Does he consider that your desires are as valuable as his – that you, too, have a right to form and express your opinions and that they hold no less weight than his? That you have a right to do what you want and ignore the discreet woes of the spurned doll?

Keep reading

Excuse me for saying so, but I did not think you would be the one take care of me in my illness Lord Scaramouche. Thank you, I am sincerely grateful.

tw: forced marriage, yandere, sickness

"You had better be," he says, not missing a beat. "Do you not think I have more important things to do?"

Despite the impatience in his voice, he stirs the rice porridge slowly, holding the filled spoon to your lips until you open obediently, taking in another bite of the physician-ordered bland mixture that had been the staple of your diet for the past few days.

You didn't expect to see him at all when you'd taken ill, when your mild headache had bloomed into an aching head, burning fever, and dizziness that you couldn't shake.

You certainly didn't expect him to shoo the attendants from the room as soon as he'd been told about your incident, having been found helplessly emptying the contents of your stomach in a hall, unable to even make it to the bath chamber.

Nor did you expect him to stroll up to the bed where you had sat, feeling your forehead for himself--hot, clammy--before ordering you to change into a night dress so that a physician could examine you.

And, of all things, you definitely didn't expect him to be at the forefront of your recovery.

Had he ever touched you this gently, with his hands pressing a cold cloth into your feverish skin?

Had he ever spoken so softly, asking you about your symptoms, which you were sometimes only able to half-answer in your continued weakness?

Yet now as you began to feel more yourself, you felt cognizant of his presence in a way that brushed aside the helplessness of illness--in a way that reminded you of your place.

And so you nod demurely to his words, acknowledging his sacrifices in the name of your health.

He stands, then, idly tucking in your blanket after leaving the tray with your porridge and your water by the bedside.

His eyes glance at the bowl, which is still warm. Now that you're sitting up, coherent, no longer mumbling in your fever-dreams, his voice has regained the dominant edge you've come to understand since you were pushed into marriage.

"I expect you to eat all of it. And do keep it down this time, will you?"

A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: Isolation takes its toll, and you begin to sleepwalk out of the gilded manor Scaramouche has procured for you. Commissioned piece.

Word count: 3300ish

notes: yandere, married reader, sleepwalking, isolation, unhealthy/controlling behavior 

Being the spouse of a Harbringer is no simple matter, and you are no simple spouse. 

If you had married someone from  your village, your life would be simple. You would do what your parents had done, and their parents had done, and their parents had done. Cooking and mending and minding the children, and living out your days without ever venturing very far, except on rare occasions that would be something you would treasure forever.

You would grow old within the confines of the village and die surrounded by your children, who would bury you near your own parents and go on to live out their lives much as you had done.

But you didn’t marry someone from your village, and your life is not so simple. Instead, you were wed to Scaramouche. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real, even now, and you pinch yourself to make sure you’re not nursing some long standing fever-dream. 

Who would have thought? Certainly not you. Sometimes you wonder if even he expected to ever make such a match. But he told you that he intended to marry you, and let the words hang in the air, to be caught or cut down with your decision.

You said yes. Really, you couldn’t say no… but part of you wanted it. Yes, you can admit that much. It was flattering, and isn’t it nice to be flattered? Especially when you were nobody. Just someone who trudged to the town well to fetch water for your elderly parents, someone who helped a stranger (Scaramouche, it turns out, was not the helpless waif you’d assumed) and got a husband for their troubles. 

So, no, life is not simple. Both in the figurative and literal meaning of the word. 

And now, wife of a Harbringer as you are, you have grown acquainted with--and acquainted is the only term for it, for you could never say you were accustomed to any of it--certain luxuries. Food, to your liking, whenever you would like it. Sometimes it is even brought to you out of season, the greatest luxury of all. Clothing made with rich materials; ribbons, jewels, the softest of slippers to adorn your feet. Servants and pampering the likes of which you had only heard about in your old life. 

But there is one luxury that you are routinely denied, no matter how much you pout your lips, no matter how prettily you ask, no matter how many tears blur your vision and wet your eyelashes: the outside world.

You’re not meant to go outside, Scaramouche had told you, the first time it became clear that you were not going to waltz out of the stately manor he’d brought you to for the wedding in order to take in the scenery. 

And so… you don’t go outside anymore. Not in the traditional sense. You rest in covered litters with the windows tacked shut and he’s not above smacking your hand if you try to lift up the corners to catch a glimpse of whatever (or whoever) waits outside. Of course, when he’s not accompanying you, your pitiful looks sometimes convince one of the guards to let you keep one flap untouched so that you can take a peek.

But seeing flashes of the world you used to live in are not the same as truly being within it. The ghost of a breeze against your half-hidden face is not the same as basking in the sunshine. Hearing the sounds of life from a village as you’re carried through it is not the same as stopping at a market stall to buy a treat, asking someone how their day is going, and absorbing the hustle and bustle of everyone around you.

There is no substitute for living out in the world. 

You just don’t know how to convince Scaramouche of that fact.

--

There is a fine line between gratitude and ingratitude, between obedience and surliness, and Scaramouche finds that you walk it all too well. 

It doesn’t matter how much he takes away; how much he removes the temptation by tacking up screens or keeping you within interior apartments, free from all the noise and sights and smells of the outside. You still want to go outside. Something about it calls to you, pulling on your sleeves, no matter what he does.

He loves to hear your voice, nightingale that you are, but sometimes he is so gravely tempted to press a finger to your lips and tell you to hush. 

No matter how much he tries to occupy your mind with something different. Better. Himself, most often (for you should be grateful for that) but things that no one else could say he gave them. Gifts. Trinkets. Things that suited your interests, which he knew very well, because he hangs onto every word that comes from your mouth.

Even the ones that drive him mad. 

At least until you learn to stop saying things that grate his ears and the space where his heart should be. 

The pleadings that come so softly and sweetly--but if that was all, he could manage. It’s the way that you weave your thoughts into every conversation like a pattern in a tapestry--remarking on the weather conditions in regions that the two of you might be traveling in, asking if the retinue had encountered certain flora or animals during the journey. You want to know about the world; you want to be in the world. 

Little things, little threads, connecting you to a world that isn’t exclusively him… why has nothing successfully cut them from your grasping fingers? 

--

“They only blossom under certain conditions, you know.” Your voice is soft and lilting, carrying on the one-sided conversation over a shared table of delicate foods. You take bites in between your verbal fascination with the local flora, a subject you’re all too keen to share with him. “The flowers are said to be so lovely that people have wept at the sight of them. And the fragrance…” You sigh a little, and pick a piece of fruit to nibble on. “There’s nothing like it. Or so I’m told.” 

A pause. You glance at him, eyelashes practically fluttering, then look back at your dishes. 

“And… I’ve never seen one in person,” you add as you reach for another helping of fruit. “I wonder what they’re like.” 

Do you think he doesn’t know what you’re trying to do? Looking at him so sweetly, asking how he finds the food, interspersing dinner with notions of flowers blooming right outside the borrowed manor the two of you have been living in for this current assignment.

But he won’t give in. He won’t be manipulated, not even by you. 

Still… that doesn’t mean he can’t try to fulfill this hunger of yours. Much like filling a better, a taste should be enough to keep you from grumbling. 

Within the week, he has some unlucky Fatui tasked with the mission of cutting a fresh bouquet of the very flowers that you were waxing on about so prettily. And you wake up one morning to find them on the nightstand next to your bed, set in a clear vase.

He thinks that you’ll smile, and thank him, and if all goes well, he won’t have to hear any more not-so-subtle hints about your desire to go outside.

But you don’t smile and fling yourself at his feet, thanking him for such a thoughtful, fine gift. You don’t tell him that this is all you need--the flowers he gifts you, the clothes he has painstakingly crafted to suit our form and above all, him. 

Instead your hand goes to your mouth, covering the smallest of gasps. 

And, well, he thinks--you’re surprised. That’s all. That’s to be expected., if anything. You did often complain about the monotony of your days, so a little surprise was bound to get a reaction from you. 

But instead of breaking into a grin and thanking him, your hand reaches out to touch the delicate blossoms. Like they’re going to break. More than that--like there’s something wrong. 

“How much prettier they would be in nature…” Your lips curve downward, a soft frown that feels aimed right at him. “I’m sorry that you cut them…”

“What is it?” And if there is a snap in his voice,  you surely couldn’t blame him.  You are so difficult to please, and hiding the fact that he wants to please you at all is a tiring chore all on its own. You exhaust him as much as you fill him.

Sometimes, you make him want to scream.

He’ll take out his pent-up irritation on someone else. Irritation that is not at you, but with you. Yet not with you as well. It’s all a jumbled mess that he doesn’t want to untangle, and he won’t. He’ll shove it down deep into some cavernous hole, perhaps the one that exists inside of him no matter how hard he tries, and move on with his day.

If only you would stop looking at those flowers like they were broken glass.

--

You’re gone. The space that you occupy (the left half of the shared bed, all wrapped in blankets and often clutching a pillow instead of him, a trait he does not find endearing but does not wish to push on) is empty, bereft of anything but cool rumpled sheets.

There’s fear, at first. Fear that something has happened. Someone has taken you. Perhaps it was Her… perhaps She, of all the unholy things, has slithered past his defenses and snatched you up just to snap another piece from his broken patchwork body. 

It doesn’t have to be Her, though. He has many enemies. And enemies will target your weakest point, and you, you, you. You are exactly that to him. 

So there is fear, yes, that you have been snatched away and perhaps you are already dead, and they took you not for blackmail but for some kind of revenge. To see him wither. 

But then he retrieves the lantern from the dresser and lights it, the warm glow illuminating the silent, heavy room. He can feel his breath quickening, his chest tightening, and he doesn’t know why or what to do with any of it.

It only gets worse when he realizes that there is no sign of forced entry. No broken door-locks, no sprinkles of glass on the rugs, no drops of blood on the windowsill to mark where you might have been dragged through.

The fear ebbs away, replaced by a sour, sickly feeling of betrayal. 

You’ve left him. After all he’s given you. All he’s done for you. 

Yes, he’s taken away your freedom, but you didn’t have the capacity to understand why that was not something to begrudge him for. Freedom was not for delicate things that needed to be kept alive, protected, harbored from the rest of the world. 

He clutches the lantern in one hand and storms out of the room, still wearing his night-clothes. The hallways are dim, barely light by small windows that let in a trickle of moonlight. He listens. 

You couldn’t have gone far, and you’d better hope he catches you himself before morning, because if he has to engage a search party on  your behalf, no one (least of all the Fatui stationed with him) will be enjoying it.

He dismisses one of the guards who spots him. He doesn’t want them involved, not yet. He pushes out one of the side doors and begins to walk the perimeter of the grounds. You might have gone off into the forest, or perhaps you went down the paved path, hoping to find a traveler who might help you.

He is about to decide which option to take when he hears something from behind him, near a half-broken brick enclosure that had seen better days. Were you hiding in there? Trying to trick him? He couldn’t put it past you. 

He braces himself, feeling something thrum through him that made him want to turn away and rush forward all at once, and walks through the open gate of the enclosure. 

And… you’re there.

Sitting in the midst of a garden, some untended thing that was left here by the previous tenants, before it was abandoned and absorbed into the network of buildings useful to the Fatui. And to him, for keeping you in one secure location for months on end.

It was wild and overgrown, and some of the rocks creating the garden path were moss-covered. It’s a wonder you didn’t slip on them, he thinks, and there’s a flash of fear mingled with his irritation. How could you do something as stupid as sneak outside at night, in the dark, and walk into some unknown, overgrown eyesore? 

You haven’t heard his footsteps, evidently, because you go on standing. You’re swaying a little, and your hands brush the flowers. He can hear you talking to yourself, something low and sweet. He can’t see your face but it’s easy enough to imagine that you’re smiling. 

“What are you doing?” There was an attempt, in his mind, to keep his voice level. But it quakes anyway, with fury and irritation and that still-sour worry that you betrayed him in the night.

He waits. You don’t turn around. He thought that, when you heard his voice, you were going to jump like a scared little animal and apologize and try to smooth things over with your teary lashes and pouting lips.

But you don’t turn around. And when you answer him, it’s not a word, really. It’s mumbling. Low. Almost a groan.

He’s had enough. He walks forward until he can grip your upper arm, and moves to turn you around. But you don’t pout or jerk away or tell him that you just wanted to go outside. You’re looking straight at him but he can tell right away that you don’t truly see him at all.

You’re… asleep. 

Standing up, eyes blinking rapidly as if in the throes of some waking dream, in the middle of a garden.

But asleep, all the same. 

He presses his lips together. You were a nuisance. Truly. He should leave you here, let you wake up in the morning cold and shivering and covered in slick green moss.

Instead, he lifts you up. You flail a little, arms jerking this way and that, but it’s easy enough to grip you close and carry you bridal-style back down the hallway (the Fatui stationed in the hall is wise enough to say absolutely nothing as he sees him returning) and continues until he can lay you gently down onto your side of the bed.

You gasp, then, perhaps half-waking. But it’s eased enough when your hands instinctively grab your pillow and curl up with it. 

Before heading back into bed, he grabs a fire poker and slides it through the handles of your bedroom doorway. You wouldn’t be getting out, not in your sleep, anyway.

His dreams that night are fitful.

--

The first thing you realize upon awakening is that you’d really rather go back to sleep, because your dream was lovely. You were in a garden, fragrant and lovely. There was cool fresh air on your face and grass under your toes and sounds, real sounds. Birds and insects buzzing and everything that is forever kept on the other side of walls and windows now.

Over breakfast, you smile, and serve your husband his dishes before you tuck into your own. And is it wrong that you want to tell him about your dream? Is it wrong that you hope it will make him finally let you go outside, even just for a little while?

“I had a lovely dream last night,” you say, smiling with what you hope is sweetness and not desperation. “I was in a garden…”

You don’t see the goosebumps that run up his arms at your words.

--

You sleepwalk the next night. And the next. And the next. He doesn’t know how you manage to get the bar off the door every time, how you evade the guards, how you don’t wake him up… but you do. 

Always going to the same place, the damned garden, with its stubborn flowers and broken paths.

Well. If one vase of flowers is not enough to keep you satisfied (and more importantly, inside) perhaps he needs to take it a few steps further. 

He gifts you more flowers. Bundles of them, baskets of them, stuffed into vases and pots and cracked pans his underlings found in the kitchen storage room. 

And while the rooms of the manor are soon a garden, filled with cloying blossoms and greenery that brings its fair share of insects lurking about, it doesn’t make you stop talking about the world that you’re supposedly “missing” out there. 

Not just the flowers, but the animals. The people. The markets. 

The life, teeming with every little thing, good and bad, that makes up this world. 

Most disturbingly of all: The sleepwalking continues.

What more can he give you without giving you the freedom that would break him apart?

--

It’s not that the sound of a bird in the morning is unusual. It’s just that they are normally muffled, as there are no trees near the window of the bedroom.

But the chirping that you hear now is so close that it might as well be in your ear. Groggy, rubbing away the dust of sleep in your eyes, you sit up…

And find that there is a silver bird cage sitting on top of your dresser, next to a wilting vase of flowers from a few days before. 

It’s a pretty thing. Small and  yellow. A pretty thing in a pretty cage. Another gift from your husband, after the mountains of flowers, the wreaths of blooming vines, the meals, the clothes, the comfort…

--

He can never get used to waking up without you beside him. No matter how many times he easily finds you and brings you back, mumbling and bleary, there is always those terrible, agonizing moments of panic when he thinks: you’ve left him.

But you’re not alone in the garden. 

You’re holding the cage, clutching it to your chest. He wonders what will happen if your sleeping muscles dream of something else; will you drop the cage and let it clatter to the ground? Will the delicate bird inside be jostled so terribly that it dies? And what would he do, then, to ensure that this doesn’t make you even less satisfied with your isolated life?

But you don’t drop it. One thing he has learned from watching you sleepwalk is that you are surprisingly nimble about it. 

He watches, lips pressed into a frown, as you slowly lower the cage to one of the formerly ornate pedestal tables in the garden. It must have been pretty once. Now, it’s mossy and gray and damp. 

It doesn’t surprise him, what you do next. Your fingers, shaking but surprisingly deft, undo the latch on the door and swing it open. The bird inside hops around for a few moments, tilting its head to and fro, before it launches itself into the air and flies away.

You mumble something, sweet and slurry. A farewell, perhaps. Who knows what really goes on in your pretty head when you sleep? 

And it’s his cue to take you back inside. You still fight, just a little, when he picks you up. Flail your arms and legs, until he’s held you tight enough that your muscles seem to accept the hold and relax.

He looks down at your bleary, half-awake face. Your eyes tend to close when he carries you. Perhaps your body knows that it’s okay to let them rest, now that someone else is carrying you. Holding you. Protecting you.

A pity that your mind couldn’t understand that fact. 

Sometimes he considers chaining you up at night. It would be the most practical solution. It might even ease his fears every time he wakes to find you gone, and he’s forced to track you down to this nighttime garden that no one else would bother entering.

But there’s something in him, hard and sick, that wonders. If he chains you up, he might just free you in his sleep, like you’ve freed the bird in the cage. 

It’s easier to pretend you aren’t his prisoner when your chains are invisible, after all. 

Summary: Dottore had always been impressed and interested in the making of puppets, with Scaramouche at his disposal he could finally dive into the topic and create a prototype of his own..

Pairings: Scaramouche/Balladeer x puppet!reader

Notes/Warnings: Reader is completely gender neutral and has no pronouns beyond "you"! POC friendly! Reader is said to have long indigo hair, but is not physically described beyond that!

When Dottore brought up the idea of creating a puppet as an experiment by following his design Scaramouche had said he didn't care what he did in his free time, but he truly did. Knowing first hand what it was like to be created as an experiment or to satisfy someone's curiousity, it was hard not to care even if he didn't want to. Especially when the Doctor had said that you would be created by "following his design".

It was dysphoric to live in a world full of humans that looked and talked exactly like you, but were so incredibly different from you. Humans who if they found out the truth would betray and fear you - not that he cared about anything like that anymore. But you likely would. You would have to go through that as well, if the Doctor didn't simply dispose of you after he was done tinkering...

Scaramouche had said he didn't care, but would occasionally he would go out of his way to deliver something to his corner at the palace to see his progress. Dottore knew immediately and would always have a smirk on his face when the Balladeer appeared to deliver something. He would love to poke fun at him, but he didn't. He would simply give some insight or details about his progress without acknowledging what they both knew to be true.

The Doctor was successful in creating you and giving you life, while you were made following his design you didn't exactly resemble him. There were some details and personality traits he could connect between you, well more like traits he had when he was still just Kabukimono - but at the same time you were very different from him too. Dottore had clearly had some creative freedom in what he made you look like, but the long indigo hair you had was clearly made to resemble his.

It was eerie looking at you as you reminded him so much of his past. You were always quietly observing everything around you with curious eyes, you tried so desperately to not be a burden to anyone. He hated your doe like eyes that would look his way occasionally, they were filled with so much innocence it was almost disgusting to him. Technically you were still in your infancy, just in a grown body.

In the end Dottore didn't much care for you or even need you. Creating you was a simple act of curiosity - to truly understand this delicate act of creating artificial life. Once his curiosity had been sated, he simply moved onto other things and never thought much of you or your presence beside him or away from him.

It was actually the Tsaritsa that gave you freedom and a name. While she wouldn't involve herself in matters conserning the Harbingers free time or personal life, she made an exception for you. To her you were alive and thus deserved to live like it, with your own room and own name - free to do whatever you wished. But truthfully you didn't know how or what to do with such freedom. Unlike Scaramouche you didn't have a purpose before or after creation, so you didn't have anything to strive for.

You weren't like humans, you couldn't have a normal life where you eventually grow old. You could potentially live till the end of time and it left you hollow. Longing for something you couldn't quite grasp, something like a purpose.

You stood barefoot in the pure white snow, your head tilted upwards towards the grey winter sky. The cold didn't bother you, you couldn't even truly feel it. The snow flakes raining down the sky fell against your face, but didn't melt when landing on your face. After all... you weren't a human. You didn't produce warmth that would cause them to melt away, you couldn't stay out too long to prevent you from being buried in snow. Perhaps it had been a joke, but you still followed the suggestion.

Scaramouche watched from the sidelines as you stood still enjoying the pure snowfall. He didn't know why he didn't just leave to do what he was supposed to, perhaps he was curious. His feelings and relationship with you were complicated to say the least. He wasn't your creator like Ei was his, but he felt some sort of connection to you. He didn't necessarily want to feel connected with you, but he did.

He hated that a small part of him was curious about you, of what you were like. If he could possibly relate to you or if he would form a connection with you if he were to approach you. Even if you were technically his kin, he knew it didn't mean anything as in the end even Ei had betrayed and forsaken him - who was to say you wouldn't do so as well?

You both knew he was there watching you, he often was. You never acknowledged him as he seemed to not want to interact with you. You did know of your connection, you would silently and carefully go through the Doctor's projects and had come across the plans that he used to create you. You longed to connect with him knowing he was possibly the only being you could ever relate to, but he refused to come close to you.

Unbeknownst to you he was actually quite protective of you. He had once heard some fatui members talking about you in a rather provocative way and it didn't sit right with him, he couldn't ignore it no matter how hard he tried. He didn't kill the morons, but he did make sure they'd never utter another word about you or to you. He didn't need to warn anyone else as the word spread around quite quick.

He would face stupid comments from the people he was supposed to acknowledge as colleagues, but he didn't respond to them. The next day he found you standing behind his door with a gentle smile and a nod. He had never seen you smile before, or been this close to you - his chest filled with unexpected warmth from the small interaction... You said nothing before leaving him standing puzzled in his doorway. You didn't need to say anything for him to understand what you meant. That was the beauty of your connection, you could understand each other so easily without the traditional need to say anything.

He later wandered out to the courtyard out of instinct and found you there once again gazing at the sky. This time though, he couldn't help but approach you. He didn't even know why or what he was going to say or do, but he still kept going. His steps caused the snow to crunch beneath his feet, alerting you to him. You curiously turned around to watch as he approached...

A/N: Not proofread lol

𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐄 ── ᡣ𐭩

↳ 640 words

↳ tw: suggestive content below the cut!

↳ romantic . ݁₊ ⊹ .

↳ content | what it’s like to make out with the retired fae general himself, lilia vanrouge…

↳ i’ve never written anything like this before, but i had an idea so i went along with it! hope you all enjoy!

#𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 ᡣ𐭩 — where are his hands usually placed on your body?

♱ ˖° lilia tends to be rather handsy, he loves to hold you while he kisses you senseless. one hand is almost always on your waist, and the other is holding your face so he can make sure you’re only focused on him. the eye contact he maintains with you holds a lustful undertone, but the cheeky smile you feel him making against your lips tells you his intentions are something less lewd. the fae can get so lost in your taste and lips that he merely forgets where the both of you are, which is incredibly unlike him. this leads him into weaving his hands through your hair, giving you tugs every now and then to tease you. sometimes he can’t help but want to do so, you just look so cute!

───

#𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 ᡣ𐭩 — is he sloppy, calculated, or just cheeky?

♱ ˖° to no surprise, lilia is a big tease when he’s kissing you. occasionally he may peck you playfully on the corner of your lips before he brings you into a long, passionate one filled with all the feelings he can’t manage to say with words. the unpredictable nature of his affections leads to a truly entertaining intimate occasion with you, which lilia could never object to. and, this fae is also a lip biter. with his sharp fangs, and the present opportunity to take a little taste of your lips, he can almost never pass up on it. he will nip at your lips as he continues to smile against you, savoring the flavor of your blood and your taste. however, if you yelp in pain at his nipping, then he will tone it down a bit and apologize for inflicting pain on you. he wants you to enjoy the kisses he gives you as much as he loves receiving yours, so cutting it down on the nipping isn’t much of a problem for him.

“sorry, my dear! i may have gotten a little carried away, kufufu. i do hope you can forgive this old fae.”

───

#𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐒 ᡣ𐭩 — where are his favorite places to be intimate with you?

♱ ˖° the bat fae isn’t really one for indulging in that desire in front of a large group of people, but if you lead him over to a more secluded spot in the garden then he just might just give in. he enjoys the thrill of someone being able to hear you two from your hidden spot, and if you were caught he’d play it off teasingly like he wasn’t just sucking face with you. it truly bewilders you how one moment he’s kissing you so fervently, then the next he’s talking down a heartslabyul student into believing that they saw nothing. after the student left the scene, clearly not convinced, lilia walked right back up to you again. however, he didn’t kiss you. he merely whispered something into your ear before making his way to his next class, leaving you flustered in the lush green garden where you once had been so entangled.

“now, darling. i’m terribly disappointed that heartslabyul boy interrupted our romantic escapade, we were just getting to the best part. i assure you we’ll continue this later…”

───

#𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᡣ𐭩 — what does he feel when he gets to make out with you?

♱ ˖° unadulterated adoration, you’re quite literally the love of his life. he had loved others in the past, but none of them had ever come to fruition. he thought he was going to live out the last of his days alone in the land of the red dragon, but you changed his plans drastically. you had shown him a love like no other, unintentionally sweet talking your way into his heart. now that you had made him attached, he was never letting go. the way he desperately clings to you as he holds you, the teasing yet love filled kisses he places on your lips and neck, the warm glow in his crimson eyes as he stares into your own; it all means i love you.

@𝐯𝐪𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐞𝐝 ♱