A Linnet On A Bough [Yandere Scaramouche X Reader]

making shrimp dishes for floyd. sinigang, fried shrimp, spicy shrimp. make him watch as i eat my fellow shrimp. slice of reality.

HAKAW HI SJAKDH I LAUGHED SM I CANT WITH THIS >>>>

masterlist

floyd leech ; 🌊

He watched carefully, stricken with all sorts of emotions as he watched you serve the shrimp, tangy and delicious as you licked your lips hungrily, wishing you could eat this in front of him.

You just smiled, like the innocent little prefect you are.

You smiled.

You then smiled sinisterly..

Floyd remained silent, eyes wide open as he watched you carefully, silently, staring as you continued putting plate upon plate of dishes of various shrimp on the table.

HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY??

"K-Koebi–chan. What the fuck are you—"

"Eat my brethren."

He paused.

You'd cook your own family? This turned into some Sweeney Todd shit fr-

Floyd raised his fork. Usually he'd love eating shrimp, he's a moray eel. It's in his diet! But for his own Shrimpy-chan TO COOK SHRIMP?? WHAT WAS HE TO SAY?

Does he call Jade? Does he run away or just submit to the agonising confusion and horrific reality of you deciding to boil your shrimpy brothers for each dish?

Azul watched from the side, eyeing every moment of the scene carefully as he did his best not to snort into a hysterical fit of laughter..

for once, he knows what it feels like to be terrified of someone else. Maybe that's why he loved you for giving him such a feeling nobody else could.

When something (or someone) is stealing your attention.

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

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

──⚝ al haitham

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

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

──⚝ kamisato ayato

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

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

──⚝ raiden shogun (ei)

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

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

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

──⚝ scaramouche (wanderer)

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

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

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

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

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

Lilia thinks you’re beautiful.

If someone was to see you now, they would think him mad.

You? Beautiful?

Surely, someone like him who lived for centuries has seen beauties no mortal man can hope to compare in one lifetime.

You are no royal.

You are no warrior.

Nor do you posses powers of the greatest mages.

Yet you are beautiful in his eyes.

What was status, beauty, and power? If not something temporary?

You have something greater than all that.

You are observant which most oft over look.

You are kind.

You have heart.

You have empathy—something that surprises even him at times with how strong you feel.

Lilia looks at you as you lay next to him.

He pulls at your cheek, shaking slightly at the smile and slight drool you give as you continue to sleep.

How charming.

How adorable.

Beautiful.

“I love you, sweet one.”

Woke up today and went “wow, how sexy of me to drool.” And “you know what? Lilia would find it cute (and never let me live this down).” 😂💞💃So this came to be lolol 🫶

The greatest self-love is your favorites loving you unconditionally 🥰❤️‍🔥💝

Title: Rotting Divinity.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.9k.

TW: Reader Is Referred To As A Shrine Maiden But Gender Neutral, Set A Few Years After Dottore Starts Experimenting On Scaramouche, Unhealthy Relationships, Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Themes of Chronic Illness, and Mentions of Human Experimentation.

Scaramouche opened his eyes as the sun set, casting the sky a dull pinkish blue. You were standing above him, a straw basket on your hip and a frown tugging on the corners of your lips.

He let a groan as he hauled himself into a more dignified position, palms planted in the raw dirt and dried grass caught in his hair. One glance was spared to establish that he was no longer in the Doctor’s cramped observation room, all cold stone walls and porcelain tables with leather straps stapled into each corner, before his attention settled on you. “Mortal,” he barked, speaking loudly enough to hear himself over the pain still buzzing in his skull. “Which island is this?”

“Yashiori, near Serpent’s Head,” you muttered, disappointment heavy in your tone. When he clicked his tongue, you went on, your frown deepening. “You ruined my herb garden.”

Had he? He couldn’t remember anything after the Doctor worked those long, tapered needles underneath the skin of his forearms; after an iron mask was forced over his mouth and nose and he began to think his body may tear itself apart before that sadist had the chance to. He wasn’t supposed to be in Serpent’s Head. He wasn’t supposed to be on Yashiro at all. He hadn’t meant to be here, and yet, he’d be thrown in a cage of iron bars and subjected to another round of testing as soon as he trudged back to that dungeon of a facility. Thinking about the feeling of thick, pulsing electricity coursing through his hollow limbs was enough to send a familiar bolt of agony down the length of his spine. It was little more than a phantom, a shadow of the torture it would take to unlock his truepotential, but it was enough to leave him curling into himself involuntarily, glaring at the soil with a hollow type of malice.

He would’ve recovered in a second – less than a second, a moment, a breath – if you hadn’t fallen to your knees at his side, cooing as you pressed the back of your hand into his forehead. “Are you hurt?” If he’d tried to answer, his response would’ve been lost to your fussing, the way you hummed and shook your head as you hauled him to his feet. “Body aches? Migraines? Whatever it is—” An arm was drawn over your shoulders, his weight forcibly rested on you. “—I’m sure I have something for it inside. A place for you to rest, too – however you got here, the journey had to be burdensome.”

He considered protesting. Even in the state he’d been reduced to, it would’ve taken nothing to pry himself away from you, to shatter your ankles underneath his heel and leave you begging for the mercy of the creature you’d tried to pity. He could’ve penned a letter to the Doctor as you bled out in the soil of your own garden, recovered his strength as he took your body apart and fed your remains, piece by piece, to whatever scavengers would have you. He could’ve, if he’d wanted to. He could’ve, but then, he saw what you were wearing.

The sleeves of your kosode were rolled neatly to the elbow, the hems of your pleaded hakama dusted with dirt and grass stains. Unlike the maidens of Watatsumi and the Grand Narukami Shrine, you wore neither red nor blue, but white. Pure, never-ending white.

Scaramouche went limp in your hold, his eyes falling shut as you let out a surprised laugh, doing your best to accommodate his now-dead weight. He could kill you tomorrow, he figured. It was already dusk, and while he didn’t mind traveling at night, he knew the Doctor wouldn’t begin to wonder where he was until the sun rose tomorrow morning. He wasn’t a dog, eager to crawl home and prove his obedience. He could wait until he was called for.

At least, by then, your worrying might’ve done something to dull the burn of the electricity underneath his skin.

~

“So, you’re telling me that this is a waste of time.”

You ignored him with a light hum, a quick movement of your tasseled gohei. Normally, daily rites were something to be performed quickly and efficiently before the unlucky shrine maiden responsible for carrying them out returned to scrubbing floorboards and disturbing fortunes, but in a life as slow as yours, with so little to occupy the many hours of your countless days, even repetitive tasks such as this were given an unnecessarily artistic flourish. Scaramouche might’ve called it indulgent, if he ever decided to be so kind to you.

Currently, you were dancing in front of a dilapidated shrine at the base of the snake’s skull; the paint mostly chipped away and the wood close to rotting. You’d explained, four days after he first allowed you to haul him into your ancient cabin, that you would be responsible for rebuilding it once it inevitably collapsed, an honor only bestowed upon caretakers every few centuries, and he’d told you that you ought to save yourself a few decades and tear it down that day, but you’d only laughed. Most things he said made you laugh.

He'd noticed early on that you were of a weak constitution. Dark bags circled under your eyes despite how often and how deeply you slept, and you seemed unable to carry anything heavier than what could fit in one of your woven baskets. There should’ve been another shrine keeper, if not several. And, if there could only be one, then it shouldn’t have been you.

Still, Scaramouche was glad that you had been chosen, even if you were a bad fit for the position. If it’d been anyone else, he would’ve had to get rid of them days ago, and he was thankful to be spared the effort.

“It’s not,” you said, consciously clipping his choice of words. You finished your rite with a deep bow, then turned to Scaramouche. “Shows of dedication make him happy.”

“He being…” His gaze drifted upward, to the fanged skull. Orobashi no Mikoto – the beast’s name provided by some nameless well of knowledge that seemed to linger in the space between the back of his throat and the pit of his chest. Consciously, the only title Scaramouche had ever thought to put to the serpent was that of ‘festering remains’. “…the fucking corpse?”

“If you keep using that kind of language, you might have to start sleeping outside.” You took up the basket of lavender melons you’d (admittedly, unwisely) left in his care, snatching it away before he could add to the small pile of black seeds stacked on his opposite side. Your hastiness left one of the rounder melons toppling over the well-worn edge, though, and he caught it with a single hand, grinning as he dug his teeth into the ripe flesh and claimed it for himself. You rolled your eyes, but quickly occupied yourself with clearing away yesterday’s fruit from the shrine. “It’s not complicated. We keep him happy, hold our rites and make our sacrifices, and he ensures that my crops grow quickly and the village prospers.” A pause, a smile thrown carelessly over your shoulder. You smiled as easily as you laughed, something that irritated Scaramouche to no end. “If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be recovering half as quickly as you are.”

Right. It was too easy to forget that there was a pretense to his time with you; that he was supposed to be some wayward, ailing traveler with a mysterious condition your charms and cures could only keep at bay. He wasn’t lying to you. All he did was lie back and let you fuss over his nonexistent pulse, the bloodless pallor of his skin, the way his temperature never seemed to rise above that of damp clay. He wasn’t like the Doctor – scheming and underhanded, prone to leading his victims in circles before gifting them with the mercy of a slow death – or the priestess he could only vaguely remember from his first days, all dark eyes and whispers of a merciful death. You liked doting on him, and he didn’t mind keeping his mouth shut.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit.” He dug his teeth into the lavender melon as you gathered your things, sugary juice turning his lips tacky as he went on. “I’ve always been hard to kill.”

You came to stand above him, your smile small and eyes vaguely narrowed. “If you’re feeling that strong,” you started, holding your now-emptied basket in front of you. “Then you shouldn’t mind weeding the garden and fetching water, this afternoon.”

It only took him a moment to think to protest, but you were already gone, stumbling down the mountainside as he hastily pushed himself to his feet. He called your name, but he could already hear your voice – rising above his in one of your obnoxiously repetitive hymns and drowning him out as he chased after you.

~

The villagers welcomed you as sheep welcomed field dogs; from a distance.

Scaramouche trailed behind you as you plodded through the humble village, humming and clutching your basket close to your chest, fiddling nervously with the pure-white material of your sleeves. The crowd parted around you, twin walls of watchful eyes and hushed voices forming well-ahead of your path and collapsing as you strode past them, either unable or unwilling to acknowledge the thick silence that seemed to hang over you like a shroud. Occasionally, you’d stop at a stall or a doorway, handing off bundles of wrapped herbs to gloved and trembling hands, and less often, you’d send him a smile over your shoulder, your tired eyes wrinkling at the corners, as if apologizing that he had to come along for such a dull errand. That was how you described it, when he asked where you went off to every few days. ‘Just a quick errand,’ you’d said, as you tried to convince him to stay behind yet again. When he cited your poor health and his growing concern that he’d find you dead in that garden of yours one day, you didn’t waver. ‘You’ll only be bored if you come. The villagers aren’t very friendly.’

Scaramouche decided, mostly on a whim, that he would burn down this village before he returned to the Doctor. If he had time.

He moved to rush forward, to place himself at your side, but a hand shot out of a narrow alleyway and caught him by the wrist. It was a middle-aged blacksmith, judging by the ash smeared across his cheeks, the thick apron hanging from his neck. Scaramouche was quick to pull out of his filthy grasp, but he spoke regardless, his voice low and rough. “Mind your distance, boy.” A glance towards you, a deep sneer. “Don’t you know who that is?”

Scaramouche glanced over him, fighting the urge to scoff. “Why is no one speaking to the healer?”

“That’s no healer, that’s the shrine maiden.” He said it as if he’d caught Scaramouche attempting to throw himself into a rifthound’s mouth. “They cultivate the serpent’s remains. You’ll be dead in a week if you—”

This time, Scaramouche was the one to reach out, his hand wrapping around the blacksmith’s neck. By instinct, a bolt of pure, searing electro shot from his palm into the man’s neck, leaving him limp and convulsing in Scaramouche’s hold. Scaramouche released him as the last of the aftershocks faded, watching him collapse to the ground before planting his heel on the man’s diaphragm, prepared to shift his weight and crush whatever laid below his foot should the blacksmith say something to displease him.

“I’ll ask again,” he said, slowly, ozone thick in the air. “Why is no one speaking to the healer?”

~

Scaramouche returned to your cabin closer to sunrise than sunset. Somewhere, back in the village that he would see reduced to embers if it was his last act on the face of Teyvat, the charred remains of a blacksmith smoldered at the bottom of a stone well, and he opened the door to your ramshackle home with enough force to tear the rotted piece of wood from its hinges.

You were kneeling beside your work table, grinding dried lavender petals into a fine powder. He closed the space between you in a breath, knocked the pestle from your hand in another, then collapsed beside you. “You’re going to die?”

You eyed the spilled lavender wearily. “Even the archons will fall, eventually.”

He let out a ragged sob, burying his face in the dip of your shoulder. You allowed him to, your arms coming up to wrap loosely around him. You’d always been weak, but now, you seemed as feeble as a morning gale.

He was unable to speak, so you took up the mantle, tracing idle patterns into the base of his spine as you went on. “I know what they tell newcomers, about dead gods and their rot, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. He gifts us with herbs to cure our sick and soothe our elders and in return, someone sacrifices a few years. The villagers might not be able to linger, but they make sure I’m taken care of.” He felt you smile, heard you laugh. “So long as I get to help people, I don’t mind making sacrifices.”

“Other people don’t matter.” It took him longer than he cared to admit to pry himself away from you, to straighten his back and drag a deep breath into his aching lungs. He was thankful, not for the first time, that he couldn’t cry. You would only think him irrational if he fell apart so visibly. “How long do you have?”

Your head lulled to the side, your attention drifting to some indistinguishable point on the far wall. “Only the gods can say what fate has—”

“How long?”

“…another year.” Your tone carried a sort of detached acceptance, as if you couldn’t summon the energy to care. “Maybe two. The last caretaker was very fortunate – he survived half a decade in his position.”

He tried to speak, to scream at you for not telling him sooner, but his voice caught in his throat and you reached up, cupping his face in both hands. Slowly, with a dry chuckle, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. The cool porcelain of his skin sapped the warmth from yours, but for once, you didn’t seem to mind his unusual anatomy. “I hope I’ll be able to cure you, before I’m gone.” You were mumbling, now, speaking barely above your breath. “Do you think you’ll be able to stay for a little longer?”

He tried to answer, but you’d fallen asleep on top of him by the time he opened his mouth.

~

He left the next morning, while you were still tucked underneath a small pile of furs and quilts. A letter was penned and sent to the Doctor’s base, a caddy of wildflower seeds purchased from a young girl peddling wares by the side of the road, and he returned to your cabin just as your sleep turned restless. When you rose an hour past noon, he pestered you into taking him to the groove near the shoreline. By the time you returned, chiding him for distracting you from your responsibilities and pointedly ignoring the basket full of fruit at your hip, the sun was low in the sky and masked soldiers had stamped your garden into the ground. Your cabin was in flames and your shrine had been reduced to little more than a pillar of smoke in the distance.

Whatever concern you might’ve held for him was immediately forgotten. Dropping your basket, you moved to run towards the embers of your home, but Scaramouche caught you – one hand on your shoulder, another on your waist. Careful not to break what couldn’t be repaired, he forced you onto your knees, letting you scratch at his wrists as you screamed, the noise anguished and ragged. Masked soldiers gathered in the outskirts of his vision, but he bared his teeth, keeping them at a distance as you thrashed in his steadfast hold. Once he took you somewhere else, somewhere better, you’d be able to calm down.

Once he got you away from your rotting god and your unthankful village, you’d be able to worship something worth your time.

A moment passed, then another. Finally, the Doctor emerged from the crowd, his white coat unmarred by the ash in the air. He regarded you with a grin, then looked to Scaramouche. “This is the filthy toy you’d like to take home?”

It was a foolish question, undeserving of an answer. Scaramouche countered with one of his own. “Can you fix them?”

“Can I save a human being who’s been brought to the brink of death and infected thoroughly with the rot of divine remains?” The Doctor hummed, clicked his tongue. “That depends, little puppet. How much time are you willing to spend on my vivisection table?”

Scaramouche glowered, but he didn’t protest. Rather, he pulled you close – your crying softer, now, your struggling impossibly weak – and held you against his chest as he responded. “Do what you have to. They’ll be staying in my chambers, and you won’t lay a hand on them without my permission, doctor.”

“I do wish you could call me Dottore.” He sighed, shaking his head. His acquiescence was communicated with a dismissive roll of his wrist, a silent order communicated to his lackeys. His soldiers moved to take you up, but he kept you in his arms as he pushed himself back to his feet, letting you cling to and beat against his chest in tandem.

Your voice was hoarse, your shoulders trembling. Tears streamed freely from your eyes, and he allowed himself to wonder how poorly you would take it if he ran his tongue over your cheeks. “You— You monster. Hundreds of people will—"

“You said you wanted to stay with me, right?” His smile wasn’t as soft as yours, as comforting, but he did what he could. You let out another agonized sob, crumbling against him as he let his lips ghost over your forehead, speaking against your skin and above your wordless cries.

“Now, there’ll be nothing in the world capable of taking you away from me.”

ARCHON QUEST SPOILERS!

Your older brother isn’t a good person. Fatui Harbingers don’t tend to be. As the Sixth—well, what do you expect?

You may be a century or so younger than him, your mother’s second failure, the true eternity she’d been searching for trapped in a child’s body, but that doesn’t mean you lack a brain, or a nose, or a set of ears. When they scream, you hear them. When he snaps, you hear him. When he calls you into his office so you can tell him about your day, you pick up on the tang of blood. It hits your nose every time. So does the residue electricity, dancing across your skin and making your hair stand on end. You know, every time.

(Whether he’s aware of this, you’re not sure. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. You don’t ask, only clutch the stuffed animal tighter in your arms and ignore how your older brother smells like the dead every time you meet him.)

But look, now: Kunikuzushi may not be a good person, but he’s the best brother.

He presses your face into his side when you’ve run into trouble and he’s had to cause a scene. A hat that wobbles atop your head, a veil that’s pulled across your eyes. Two hands that cover your own, these gestures warm with familiarity. Kunikuzushi snaps, “Are you stupid, getting yourself into trouble like that? Can you not keep your mouth shut for the one moment I’m gone? You’re the one who wanted to come with me, so behave yourself.” You don’t take the sharpness of his tongue to heart, nor the scowl as he berates you. It had hurt at first, but not for long. Now, these make you smile.

He takes you from the shrine maiden with sly eyes and two pink, swishing tails, when he hears of your birth—your creation. Back then he’d been like you: too sweet, too kind, too sensitive to the uncertainties of life’s transcience. He too had been fragile in nature and wide-eyed at the wonders of humanity, quick to cry in the face of betrayal.

Well, betrayals. Three.

You hadn’t been there for the first two, when he had lost his mother and his friend in the span of a century. But the last one, you’d witnessed. Kunikuzushi’s third; your second. The boy’s death had been the last string.

(Yes, you think. He falls before you. This is one of the few things we have left in common.

Of course, out of all things, it is this: The three betrayals it takes for Eternity’s puppets to snap.)

You didn’t mean to see it. Him. Your brother. The Balladeer.

Kunikuzushi, reaching for your mother’s gnosis.

It’s been centuries since you’ve seen him so vulnerable. If not for the Fatui, maybe you would’ve seen him like so more, but the Snezhnayan organization had hardened him. Turned him bitter, cunning. Not towards you, of course (never you, his precious little sibling) but you saw when he spoke down to others. So condescending, holding his position over their heads. So demanding.

You get the feeling that if they saw him now, they would laugh.

He’s hanging from the tubes of the robot The Doctor built for him and he looks so desperate. (He looks like the puppet he always tells you he’s not, but this time, the strings are Dottore’s, not your mother’s.)

It’s useless to strain for it now—even you know that. Even if it’s not yet in her hands, Sumeru’s god has already won. You can tell that much by how hoarse his voice has become.

Your older brother has been reduced to cries once more.

“That’s mine!” Kunikuzushi roars. You startle, stumble back. He hasn’t noticed you yet. “Don’t even try—!”

“A kid?” you hear from your right, and you see—yes. The Traveller. “What’s a kid doing here?”

You look over, open your mouth to answer, but then you hear him quiet. Your brother has gone silent. Your eyes shoot up.

His strings have snapped.

“Kun—” You catch yourself as you stumble forward. “Scaramouche! Brother!”

He is falling.

Just this once, you plead, help him. Help him. She made him, but she made you too. She made you, you’re her eternity, so surely—

Something gloved latches ’round your arm and you’re pulled back. Stop, you think to cry, but don’t. Why are you stopping me? Don’t do that!

You don’t turn though, only fight against its hold, claw at the fabric and the hand it’s slipped over—Please!

In your frustration, you give one last lunge forward.

And finally, he sees you. (But look, on his face—has it twisted in regret?)

You cry, “Broth—!”

And—too late. The crash is unbearably loud.

The fall has already ended.

Scaramouche with a Child!Sibling!Reader

You paint your big brother's nails.

Strictly platonic. Fem reader. Spoilers for Scara's real name. Nail salon vocabulary has links for examples.

Even though you're the younger sister of the big bad Scaramouche, you were pretty timid and quiet.

You cared for your big brother, you wanted the absolute best for him. He cared for you, and took you along with him to find a home in the fatui.

Unlike your brother, you didn't get any special training. You never became a fatui harbinger. Kunikuzushi changed, but not around you.

He holds you dear to him, his precious baby sister. Scaramouche tries so hard to shelter you from this stupid evil world.

Even though you're around 10–13, you paint nails without any flaws. People would see you with different, beautiful, exotic, creative nails, basically changing every week.

You decided to own a small business in Inazuma to earn Mora, even though you don't need any because of your brother's work (And considering your young age).

When Scaramouche obtained the Inazuma archon's gnosis, he fled to your nail shop to tell you that he doesn't have much time to stay.

You heard the door to your nail salon open. "Ah... we're closed—" You looked up from your last customer's hand, which you were still holding. There stood your big brother.

You smiled. "Just a few minutes, I'm almost done," You reassured him, and continued working. Scaramouche looked at you with soft eyes, then glared at the customer, making sure they know how much he hates them for taking up your time.

Scaramouche sat down on the sofa.

When you finished, your customer handed you the Mora and took off. You sat down next to your big brother.

"What happened today?" You almost whispered, looking up at him. Your big brother rest his arm behind you on the couch casually. "I've obtained the gnosis."

...Huh? Your brother has the gnosis belonging to your creator? "We don't have much time. We better go soon, around midnight." He stared at the clock in the room. 9:32 pm.

You looked down at his hand resting on his lap. You wanted to do something before escaping Inazuma, anything memorable... Oh.

You took your big brother's hand, the one that was behind you on the couch, holding it with both of your hands. You spread his fingers out, observing his nails. You looked up at him innocently.

"Can I paint them..?" You brushed one of your thumbs over his hand, gently.

If you were just some random Inazuman merchant, Scaramouche would've snapped you're neck his hand away from your grasp. But, you're his baby sister. He can't resist you. Plus, you're acting so adorable right now.

"Fine. Don't take too long."

You led him to sit on the chair infront of the table, where you work.

The scent of nail polish engulfed him. Scaramouche has long since associated this smell with you. Whenever he smells this, he thinks that you, his little sister, is around. It's pretty wholesome, if you ask me.

You gathered your supplies and sat down, taking your big brother's hand. Your hands were so small compared to his.

Starting off with the emery board, you were careful to be gentle and not hurt him. Scaramouche rests his whole hand, to make it easier for you.

Scaramouche decided to take a look at your supplies set on the table. He spotted the essentials, more complicated tools, nail polish, accessories.

He then looks at you. "You know what style you want for me?" He asks you, resting his head on his free hand. "Mhmm, it's a surprise— Well. I guess it can't be a surprise, but I'm not telling you," You answer, gesturing to switch his hands.

Your big brother places his hand in your smaller ones. "I see feminine accessories. Kind of scared what you might do," He half–joked.

"Hmhm, well you should always worry when I paint nails. Especially yours." Scaramouche let out a little 'Hah' in response.

Scaramouche thinks you carefully holding each finger in place, bringing them up to your face so you could see clearly, and holding his hand was just too adorable.

He trusts you completely, to the point where Scaramouche tries not to look at his hands, so it can stay a surprise.

Then you pluck out some accessories from your little kit... Along with the glue.

You carefully place a couple on his nails. After that, you gave a little blow on his nails and placed them inside your nail polish dryer.

It burnt for a second, but Scaramouche got used to it. While waiting for his nails to dry, you stood up to set your supplies away.

Scaramouche looked at the time. 10:56 pm. One more hour until you two have to go.

You sat back down infront of him and gestured for one of his hands. After checking that they were dry, you told your big brother that they're done.

Now, you've painted your big brother's nails a thousand times before. But only when you were just starting out, though. You stopped painting his nails to start your small business.

Scaramouche hasn't seen any of your progress recently, he doesn't even really pay attention to your own nails. But when he pulled both hands back to look at his nails... Kunikuzushi went silent.

They were so pretty. His nails looked like they were taken care of by the most advanced manicure in Teyvat. His jaw dropped a bit as he stared at his hands. Since when have you improved this much?

...Scaramouche feels guilty. He was barely around to witness all of his little sister's progress. He realizes just how little time he spends with you. He doesn't notice his eyes water, until you wrap your little arms around his shoulders, tucking his head towards your chest.

"I'm so proud of you, big brother." You wanted Scaramouche to know how much you adore him, how brave he is, how strong and fearful he is in and out of his work with the fatui.

But... Why were you proud of him? Scaramouche didn't do anything to earn your respect. At least, that's what he thinks. Kunikuzushi should've been with you every step of the way. Why did he notice his mistake just now?

Kunikuzushi gently returns your hug. His tears finally fall when you start petting his head gently. Archons, what did he do to deserve a younger sister as sweet and caring as you?

He won't make this mistake again. Scaramouche will take care of you, take on his role as your big brother, without relying on the fatui.

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

Pairings: Scaramouche/The Balladeer x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Headcanons for sibling scara with an affectionate reader who pinches and kisses his cheek just because he’s cute and likes picking him up?

SAGAU: THE GOD OF TEYVAT WONT LET GO OF ME PLEASE SEND HELP-

❀ synopsis: you are the clingy one, and you so happen to be a god with super strength. how do the three different phases of Scaramouche handle the situation?

❀ notes: this was supposed to be sibling headcanons but then realized just how ambiguous I made the relationship between the reader and Scaramouche. So this can be implied as romantic or platonic, or if this is regular genshin or sagau.

❀ pronouns: they/them

Kabukimono with a clingy God reader: Omg, he is so overwhelmed with joy and embarrassment, please give him a minute to process his emotions. If you picked him up in private he would immediately wrap his arms around you to try and hug you. He would even request for you to spin him around if you didn't do so yet. In public, though he would short-circuit and shyly ask for you to please put him down, if you don't he will do his best to shrink in your clothing if he sees any of the villagers staring.

Pinching his cheeks is a different story, it was ok at first but then he grew to not like them. Mostly because it feels weird if you do it, and maybe even painful if you're not gentle enough. He would pout before (gently) slapping your hand away before you can pinch his cheeks. But then he would realize what he did before hugging and affirming how sorry he was and you can pinch his cheeks as much as you want please don't leave him alone-

Scaramouche with a clingy God reader: Soft moments are over, have a scummy Scaramouche to replenish your palette. He enjoys the affection, but only in private. If you are taller than him he would be even more frustrated with how you can easily sweep him off his feet and pick him up. His face bloomed a deep shade of red as he demands that you put him down immediately. If you did this in front of any of his subordinates he will feel a huge chunk of his pride die inside of him.

Similar to when he was Kabukimono he wouldn't like the cheek pinching. While pinching his cheeks he will just give you this look that says "You-will-forget-what-its-like-to-eat-solid-food-if-you-don't-let-go-of-my-cheek", but he soon learns to appreciate the small piece of affection and even mimic your actions by pinching your cheek too.

albeit harsher since he is petty like that

Wanderer with a clingy God reader: Unlike these two, he is SHAMELESS. Nobody remembers him anymore so what does he have to worry about? Forget about you picking him up in public, he will be the one to drag you back to the camp if he wants to spend time with you. Any sort of physical affection is greedily gobbled up by this man. He would act like a tsundere in public unless he was jealous and you decided to pick him up to prove that you're taken. In that case he would be smug.

Pinching his cheeks would be a bit annoying but the more you do it, the more he grows to like it. It would come to the point he would lean onto your hand if you ever do it. And then it would just be you holding his face. He likes your hand, they are very warm...

scaramouche + "i love you so much, i could look at you for hours and not get bored."

note: yandere

"Is that the excuse you've created to explain your incessant staring?"

He looks down on you, because of course he does--you're sitting at his feet, practically reverent, gazing up at him with a look that twists between expected adoration and something... softer, sweeter, and far less easy for him to grasp.

It's maddening, as you are maddening.

"It's the truth," you say, and this time--bold minx that you are, though you pretend to be everything but--you dare to rest your chin against his thigh. Like a puppy, or an acolyte, placing your head in your better's lap.

Is that not one way to view your situation?

He refuses to give in to what is clearly a ploy for more of his attention. An invitation for his hands to grip your chin and lift it, catching your gaze. A clear desire for him to rub his thumb on your lips and consider pulling you up to press his own against them.

He refuses, for now, because that would be putting the game in your court. And if he does, there's always the chance (however slim, he thinks, seeing the way you stare at him) that you'll let him go in the end.

And that? That is the one thing he cannot abide, and so, here, now, like this--he'll be the one who stays in control.

When he does nothing more than return to the task at hand, reading important missives scattered out on his desk, you pout, huffing out a little sigh with puffed cheeks. Your eyes slide to the floor, dejected and pathetic.

"I didn't tell you to look away," he says, nonchalant, at least in his own mind.

He feels the slightest bit of warmth in his cheeks when he senses that you've turned your gaze back up at him. If he glances down, will he see a glimpse of that something sweet, that something soft? That something that he can't seem to hold in his fingers, something without real solid weight despite the heaviness it creates in his chest?

Maddening. You really are maddening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So now? You don’t want to escape. 

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

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

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

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

“But you already have.”