Begging For Scaramouche Brainrot Crumbs 🙏🙏

✦ You surprise them with terms of endearment in their language

(Or, pretending that Teyvat uses certain languages based on the regions.) 

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe 

✧ You don’t remember what prompted you to emit this word specifically, however, its occurrence was as natural as the auroras in the Snezhayan sky. During a typical day, when you were casually conversing with Pierro, you just replied with:

“Of course, just be careful, mel.” (honey)

It was out before you could register it, and you hoped he didn’t catch on. But it's known that nothing passes by the Jester unnoticed. Pierro’s gaze was uncharacteristically stunned, yet it softened the moment he turned to you. 

“It’s been… centuries since you called me that.” 

You averted your gaze away in shame, muttering a small apology. But the Director stepped closer to you, his gloved fingers brushing underneath your chin to look you tenderly in the eyes. 

“No, no. I do not seek an apology. You often called me melimelum (honey apple) during our days of guilelessness. Go on. Utter these words for me once more. I must know whether you remember them as much as I do.” 

Meeting his gaze, you stammered upon your words but managed to convey “mi mel” (my honey) for him again despite your coy disposition. The Jester smiled as if an eon-long frost had been melted off his heart. Thus, he leaned closer to relish your lips in his, whispering.  

“That’s more like it, corculum (sweetheart). These words are always sweeter when uttered by your lips.” 

✧ It is no one's surprise that you and Capitano participate in convivial challenges. Who else would match the harbinger’s fierce ambition for competition if it weren't for you, his partner? From duels, training, and games, to even… endearing nicknames. Yes, just loudly calling each other cute nicknames until the other gives up, in the privacy of your own home. 

“You may be the strongest man in Tevyat, Capitano, but!” - you loudly proclaimed “I can still defeat you in a battle of wits.” 

“Your words bring forth a challenge that I seek, my beloved. If you dare to challenge me, know that I will not back down.” 

“Hmph!” - you crossed your arms, a triumphant smile already gracing your features. “My dear, sweet Captain. Don’t be so sure of yourself. It’s clear that I love you more.” 

“Absurd,” - Capitano clenched his fists, his resolve is unshaken. “My love for you brings mountains to dust and the seas to dry. It is clear that I love you more.” 

“Tsk, tsk. I can still express my love in a far wider range, geliebter (loved one).” - There it was. Your special attack as you spoke confidently back. “ You better not underestimate me.” 

The Captain froze, his stance now rigid. Even through his pitch-black helmet, you could see you seized him off-guard. A word he has not heard in centuries, even more so, you put in the effort to pronounce it correctly. The Harbinger stepped closer, his sharp fingers gently cupping your cheeks.

“My dear, cherished, loved engelchen (little angel). Where did you learn that from? Such sweet words will not be tolerated. I shall memorize the entire dictionary to out-win you in this battle of precious monikers.” 

“Oh yeah? We’ll see, herzblatt (sweetheart), because I did my research! So I win!” - you mumbled proudly, even when Capitano kept squishing your face by squeezing your cheeks lovingly. 

Your little ‘warfare’ was left at that, and you didn’t think much of it afterward. A successful conquest; or so you credulously thought. Little did you expect, that in a couple of days, Capitano would burst into the room, a thick book in his hand labeled ‘Dictionary & Encyclopedia of Teyvat's Ancient Languages’.

“My dear, you won’t believe this! I have found a compelling addition to what I must call you, notlazohtlé." (my precious thing)

“U-um, Capitano. You didn't actually spend days trying to memorize a whole… dictionary, did you?”

“Nonsense. A warrior never backs down from a challenge. Especially one bestowed upon him by his yōltzin.” (lover)

✧ When Il Dottore heard you speak, he had to ensure the grip on his book was firm. He swore he almost dropped it but made sure to conceal it, as his back was facing you while he stood in front of bookshelves. 

“What did you just say?”

“Habibi” - you retorted simply. “Or, do you prefer azizam?” (my dear)

There was a prolonged silence coming from the Doctor. The sound of this native tongue brought a conflicting range of abrupt disgust and wistful familiarity. Yet Dottore clenched his jaw; there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice, and he would much rather go on pretending he hadn’t heard you say those words. 

"What are those harebrained names you are calling me? Has your time in Sumeru made you so asinine?"

You were not surprised he reacted this way. Nonetheless, It was futile to hide your solemn disappointment, so you sighed - "Never mind..." 

The book he had been flicking through was gradually set aside. Although you couldn’t read his expression, he remained eerily still. 

"Say it again." 

"Hm?" 

"I said,” - Il Dottore suddenly turned, stepping closer to firmly set his hands on the table, looming over you. “Say it again." 

Oh no, you thought. “I said habibi. Like people in the Sumeru desert region often say… But I thought you’d loathe it so maybe aziz-” 

Your words were cut off, as the Harbinger cupped your jawline and made sure to silence your doubts with his own lips. The sudden kiss was as sweet and warm as honey, and as ardent and fiery as the blazing deserts of Sumeru. 

“I was not being serious.” - He explained after leaning away, even if his scoff came out stilted. He didn’t mean to be rude, instead, he was impressed you went your way to learn these expressions. His hold on your jaw abates in an instance “Call me whatever you want.

You blink - “Well, you studied like… twenty languages since you were a student. So I wanted to gauge your reaction. What about ‘my heart’? was it kalbi, or…?” 

“...Ya balsam qalbi (O balm of my heart), you just called me a dog.”

The Doctor couldn’t help but laugh at your antic. Your sweet attempts at endearment were beyond him, especially when you fumbled on pronunciation. Thus, he settled with teasing you, locking his lips back with yours. You could feel his love wash over you like the gentle breeze blowing across the sand; carrying away any lingering worries and leaving you with the joy of being with him.

✧ Scaramouche abhors seeing couples being all mushy and sweet in public. Lovers giggling when embracing under the shade? Ugh. Calling each other cute nicknames as they walk? Disgusting. Stealing discreet kisses while no one is looking? Nauseating! 

His reaction is nothing new for you, as he frequently crossed his arms in annoyance. Particularly after a nearby married couple passed by the two of you, one of them saying “Anata, don't forget to buy some sugar and flour on our way home.” - Just people going on with their lives. What you didn't expect was how the Puppeteer would latch to your arm and accuse you:

“Why are you not calling me that!?” 

You blinked in bewilderment - “...what?” 

Scaramouche huffed, his expression sour - “You know what! Dropping the semi-formalities and using Anata (dear). Don't make me repeat myself.” 

“But that's how married couples refer to each other.”

“So?” 

Silence. The two of you awkwardly stood still, frozen. And then it clicked. “I can’t believe my ears… The 6th of The Fatui Harbinger,” 

“Wait, I take it back –” 

“Is asking me,” 

“Don’t. Don’t you da–” 

“To use anata, like a precious spouse would do to their loved one! Aaa!” - you gushed and beamed, your tone countering Scaramouche’s flustered groans, while he tugged at his hat to conceal his furrowed eyebrows. “Should I welcome you home with a cute pink apron, telling you that dinner and a bath are ready, too? Or maybe, offer you something else… ” 

“You’re insufferable. I regret even bringing this up now.” 

“Fine, Fine. I'll stop." - you sighed after a hearty chuckle. “Sometimes, rigid formalities can appear as an insult too, you know. After all, what sort of sweetheart would I be if I didn’t consider your troubles."

You mused innocently at the mental image of using terms of endearment like a married couple. However, your imagination was interrupted as the Harbinger took it upon himself to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Did I tell you to stop? If we're going to pretend to be a cute, married couple - then do so properly. Besides, what was that part about offering something else when greeting me back home?” 

✧ When you prepare little surprises for your beloved Pantalone, you often come up to him with contagious excitement, eager to show what nick-nacks and artifacts you brought along. This time, you recently returned from an expedition in Liyue, and as always your affluent partner greeted you with honeyed enthusiasm, embracing you tightly as you spoke of your adventures.

“Pantalone, Pantalone!” - You exclaimed gleefully “I learned something new while I was staying in Liyue Harbour!” 

“Oh? And do tell, sweetheart, what is it that caught your curiosity this time?” - Pantalone spoke elegantly, helping you undress from your adventuring garbs. 

“I was familiarizing myself with certain literary texts and it led me down a rabbit hole of traditional phrases common in Liyue… And I figured out how to call you precious! Bǎobǎo!” (baby) 

Pantalone’s eyes shot wide open with renowned zeal. He grinned and clasped his hands, “Oh, my treasure! How adorable of you! And did you go all the way out just to learn this for me? Let me hear you say it again.”

“Bǎobǎo! It suits you! Or maybe you prefer xīn'gān?” (heart and soul)

Pantalone was ecstatic, his smile further widening - “My, my, you certainly worked on your pronunciation. Your stay in Liyue paid off then, because dear, you are making me swoon with your adorable surprises. Pray tell, what other phrases did you learn?” 

“Well, I was told that lǎogōng (hubby) is good.”

“Mhm, yes, yes.” - Pantalone nodded.

“Also huài bāo,” (naughty)

“O-oh?”

“And wǒ yào nǐ,” (I want you)

“O-.... oh,”

“And also shǐjìn yīdiǎn (go harder), but I was told this one is a little bit intense.”

The Regrator became motionless. You gazed at him with such pure naïveté, so oblivious that your charming perception didn't grasp the weight of these foreign words. He placed his hands on your shoulders firmly and inquired seriously:  

“My sweetheart. Who, exactly, taught you all this?”

“Well, so. There was this lady who had a small perfumery shop by Chihu Rock. I think her name was Ying'er.” - you pondered but smiled “She was a nice lady, she taught me all these phrases, and said they would work like a charm!”

Pantalone had to exert all his mental strength to avoid fainting or exploding. He is unsure of what exactly, but one more word from you and he'd drop to his knees with a ring for you. Rather than translating your earlier words, the Harbinger lets out a shaky sigh and focuses on controlling his hitched breathing.

“Oh, Shǎguā (silly). If you were unsure of the words' meanings, you could have just asked me and I would have demonstrated. Personally.”

✧ It was another day at Tartaglia’s family home in Snezhnaya. You visit him often and his family has long since welcomed you as part of their household. Especially the siblings, as Teucer and Tonia always welcome you with tight embraces whenever you arrive. 

When you found your beloved Childe in the kitchen, he innately greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, asking: “You’re right on time, sweetpea. We’re planning on making homemade meat dumplings. Maybe some borscht as a side dish too. Is that okay with you?” 

To which you simply nodded, already moving to help - “Of course, milyy (sweet). Do you need me to start with the bullion?” 

The Harbinger stopped. He never heard you use native terms, but when he registered your words, his head quickly snapped toward you in astonishment.

“Do my ears deceive me?! Did you just call me…!” 

Aha, so you got him. You tried to hide your giddiness, a faint grin threatening to appear - “Well, I just tried to use something new. You love nicknames, right? So perhaps…” 

“Say it again!” - The man practically leaped at you, his eyes now glowing with elation as he hyped you up to reveal your cards. 

“Okay, okay big guy, just take it easy. I just said milyy (sweet). Maybe you’d like it if I said… lyubimyy (darling)?”

Tartaglia gasps as your sweet words hit his ears, but then a wide grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is this a challenge? If so, fight me! I will shower you with more love for each sweet word coming out of your mouth. But I warn you, you'll have to use them a lot more often from now on.” 

He kisses your cheeks again, this time with even more passion and fervor while he cupped your cheeks. His lips felt like waves crashing against the shore, and each one left an invisible imprint of love and adoration on your soul. As you chuckle at his affectionate antics, small hushed voices interrupt you two. 

Teucer and his sister Tonia were peeking behind the kitchen door, giggling as they eavesdropped on you two. However, when Tartaglia caught their gazes, the rascals scurried away giggling.

“Hey! Quite sneaking in! Did your parents not teach you to give adults some privacy?” 

Latin: melimelum (honey-apple), mel (honey), corculum (sweetheart) German: geliebter (Loved one), herzblatt (sweetheart), engelchen (little angel) Nahuatl (Aztec): notlazohtlé (my darling/precious thing), yōltzin (lover) Persian: azizam (my dear) Arabic: habibi (my dear), Ya balsam qalbi (O balm of my heart), qalbi (my heart), kalbi (my dog, lmao)  Japanese: Anata (informal you, dear for couples)  Mandarin: Bǎobǎo (baby), lǎogōng (hubby), huài bāo (naughty), wǒ yào nǐ,” (I want you), shǐjìn yīdiǎn (go harder), Shǎguā (silly melon) Russian: milyy (sweet), lyubimyy (darling)

*While I speak Arabic, and Russian and know a little bit of Japanese; If you have some additional info on the linguistic part, or speculation or spot some inaccuracies - please, please, please 🙏 kindly share them with me! I am open to fixing any mistakes. Or if you just have headcanons and love projecting certain languages onto these characters like I do - share them with me! 

Thank you 

platonic au bc i can’t help myself. thinking about how abyss lumine could’ve met scara before his betrayals. how scara comes to view her as a sister, yet lumine only cares about finding aether. how scara feels hurt, though he doesn’t know why, after he finds out she has a brother (her only kin, she said, and he has never wanted to grab her shoulders and yell, what about me?) the betrayal he feels after she leaves to further explore teyvat. thinking abt scara hating aether, the golden boy, taking everything he’s ever wanted as easy as breathing — his mother’s recognition, the admiration of others, and having lumine’s affection as her brother.

and now he’s wanderer, helping aether in his search for his (their) sister. imagine them finally catching up, scara airing out his hurts to her and how betrayed he felt when she left five hundred years ago, only for lumine to look at him and ask who he is.

Weak

Platonic!Yandere!Tartaglia x Child!Fem!Sister!Reader

The first time Ajax realized that he could lose you was when he accidentally overheard a conversation between his parents. The father comforted the mother, because that day they learned that their unborn child could die before giving birth. He was shocked and devastated, just as much as his parents. That night he cried almost until the morning, praying for your life and the life of his mother. Fortunately, everything went well, you were born weak, but alive and that was enough for him, now everything will be fine. At least, that's what he thought.

The second time you were three years old, when you were particularly ill. Of course, you were often get sick throughout your infancy, but he will never forget that terrible illness. He remembers how his parents fussed around your crib in a panic, on the first night of your illness. Then father ran away from home to get a doctor, and mother ran to the kitchen for something. At that moment Ajax came to your crib, he didn't fully understand the turmoil of adults, you didn't scream. However, when he saw your blue skin, and instead of the expected loud screams, he heard quiet heart-rending wheezes, everything fell into place. Even if his mother pushed him away almost as soon as he saw his younger sister, that picture and those wheezes were etched into his memory forever.

Now you were sick with another cold. Lying on the bed and covering yourself with a warm blanket, you prayed to all the archons that you would have time to get over the illness by the arrival of your older brother. After all, being sick next to Ajax is backbreaking work. He reacted to each of your illnesses as if you were dying, and took each of your sneezes as a confession of your imminent death. And this is not an exaggeration. When you got sick, he hardly left your bed, even at night Ajax just sat next to you. Sometimes, you gave slack, allowing him to lie next to you, at such moments he resembled a contented red cat.

"Y/n! Ajax is back!"

Teucer happily told you when he looked into the room, but as soon as he saw you lying in bed, he immediately stopped and guiltily lowered his head.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up..."

"No, it's okay, I didn't sleep. In fact, I'm already better and I've already recovered."

"Wow! Less than a day has passed, and you have already recovered! It's so cool!"

Looks like one of your brothers believed your clumsy lies. Maybe Ajax will believe it too? When you went downstairs with the Teucer, you saw your brother standing in the corridor, he had not yet had time to take off his warm coat when the Teucer hung on him.

"Teucer! My little rascal! I already thought there was no one at home..."

"Parents with Tonya and Anton went to the market. They didn't know you were coming back today, but I saw you from the window."

"Haha, I wanted to make a surprise, but it looks like my big-eyed brother caught me. But, Teucer, why didn't you go with the others?"

"I wanted to look after Y/n! She wasn't feeling very well this morning..."

Damn, Teucer! And how could you ever forget that he tells his older brother absolutely everything.

"...But she's better now."

"I see. But she is in bed now, ri...?"

And then his gaze clings to you, the atmosphere around him changes. With a heavy sigh, he lets go of Teucer, and taking off his glove, begins to feel your forehead with the back of his hand.

"Your forehead is hot, it looks like you have a fever... So, go get into bed, I'll be there soon."

"It's not my forehead that's hot, but your hands are cold..."

"Y/n, please don't try to seem strong and healthy, you are very weak and fragile. It's a pity that you still don't understand it yourself."

Why am I out of bed you ask? B-Because I was thirsty and didn't want to wake you my lord. (Scaramouche)

... Right. That’s what this is. 

Humans and their basic, primitive bodily functions.

He notes how taut your body has gone — almost as stiff as a corpse. You stare at him, unblinkingly, eyes wide and glossy. Observing. Waiting. Biding your time to see what he’ll do next. He thinks that if he had a proper heart, it might be thumping away. But he has no heart. There are still murmurs of something in the general chest cavity area, whether it is phantom pain or not, he feels it. He feels it viscerally, and oh, does he loathe the miserable sensation. 

Fear. 

Not of you what you could physically do to him, no, that is a laughable thought. You pose no threat to his outer body. Yours is a unique poison targeted inward, to which he has found no antidote. 

Fear of you disappearing, abandoning him while he rests, like that damnable creator of his. Scaramouche has found he loses the most while he sleeps. You will not be counted amongst those prized possessions that he has lost. Whether he has to tear Celestia itself from the sky, or reach into the Abyss’ stronghold beneath the ground below, he’ll do it without hesitation. 

There’s a soft fabric in his hand, he realizes. The endings of your sleeve. After feeling you shift around to get up, he must’ve subconsciously reached out, holding you back before you could make it far. 

Suddenly, he jerks back, retracting his hand as if he had made contact with hot coals. You lose your balance at the abrupt motion and take a moment to recompose yourself. This further sours Scaramouche’s mood — how could he have allowed his wellbeing to become so interwoven with a being as weak as yourself? 

He’s past the point of berating himself for where his affections lie. 

“Come back to bed,” he orders, leaving no room for argument. Then, remembering the reason for this predicament in the first place, adds, “I’ll go get you a glass of water. Just— just stay put.” 

Your countenance morphs into confusion. For once, he can’t really blame you; a Harbinger offered to carry out the task of a common servant. Still, you raise no fuss and do as you’re bid. Scaramouche hurriedly ties his yukata into place and makes for the door, but not without sparing you a final glance. 

Assuming he must want something, as he so often does, you offer up a quiet, “Thank you.” 

He scoffs and turns on his heel, successfully hiding the pink hue on his porcelain-like skin. 

There’s no denying it — you will be the death of him. 

Hey, can I request Aventurine and Sunday with Yaoyao! reader?

It will be cute to see two older mans being take care by the small child with adult soul. 🥺❤️

ꜱᴜɴᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʏᴀᴏʏᴀᴏ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

pairings - sunday & yaoyao! reader / aventurine & yaoyao! reader

content - reader is gender-neutral/not a lot of angst/mainly fluff/sibling or family dynamics

warnings - none, except the yaoyao part might be ooc (apologies!)

⋘ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ... ⋙

↻ Sunday, after dealing with an issue at the reception, would be wandering the area to survey if there would be any more troublesome occurrences

↻ His first meeting with you would be him spotting you attending to a distressed Misha, who fell over with his bell cart and had sustained forming bruises on his knees

↺ He watched on curiously as you used a cold water bottle to reduce the swelling, giving the boy a small scolding and advising him to follow a list of remedies you wrote on a piece of paper

↺ Sunday would make his way over shortly after, helping the bellboy up and letting him take the day off to treat his injuries (he notified a medic to assist him)

↻ Sunday who was caught off guard by your seemingly young age, would ask if you had come with your parents to which you would give a shake of your head to

↺ He’s concerned about the fact you are alone in a bustling place such as Penacony, he had ensured that the place is safe for all individuals but why would a kid be there in the first place..?

↻ He would have a small walk and talk with you, showing you around the lobby and listing what Penacony has to offer as you seemed clueless about the place

↺ At one point he thought he had lost you, turning around to see that you had disappeared, giving him a mini heart attack

↺ Turns out, you were talking to the origami birds and showing them the little friend that you had brought along with you (Yuegui ˆˆ)

↻ When the small tour concluded, the two of you waved goodbye and went on your separate ways (Sunday made sure that you got to your room safely, watching you roam around and chat with other guests)

↻ Sunday didn’t know if he’d see you again in the dreamscapes, but he prayed for your safety during your stay at Penacony

↻ … He ends up finding you tending to the Trailblazer who had made their appearance in Golden Hour

↺ After helping the Trailblazer regain their bearings, Sunday would introduce you to his sister and the Trailblazer 

↻ From there on out, he’d start seeing you around more (usually helping people with anything concerning them)

↺ Whether it’s offering dishes or varying teas, you always had something on hand to offer if someone was feeling unwell (both mentally and physically)

↻ Whenever you bumped into Sunday, you two always engaged in a conversation

↺ The topics would range from how was each other’s day to debates about the best locations in the dreamscape

↺ From here, the two of you learned a lot about each other and basically adopted a father-daughter/older sibling-younger sibling relationship (although, he felt like the younger one here…)

↻ If you spotted Sunday feeling unwell or stressed, you’d scold him for continuing to work in such conditions, sitting him down and offering anything that could help his condition

↻ You’d recommend treatment options whenever he came to you about a certain health concern he had, providing him lots of information so that he was educated about the issue

↻ You would bring Sunday a treat, maybe one of his favorites in Penacony or from distant worlds, to help him cheer up or feel better

↻ It was weird at first, but Sunday had grown accustomed to your doting self and was really appreciative that you took the time to help him with his troubles

↺ He never really liked relying on anyone, but you always reassured him (he felt like he learned a lot from you)

------

“Sunday…” “Hm? Yes, _____?” “Are you feeling alright? You look like you haven’t been getting rest…”

Seeing the formation of dark circles around his eyes gave you a pang of worry, fearing that he was overworking himself to the point of exhaustion. But through it all, Sunday still gave you a smile.

“I’ll be alright, _____.” “Not if you get enough rest and take some time to relax. Doctor’s orders!”

------

↻ sigh This man would be such a hassle for you

↻ You found Aventurine sitting on a bench in Golden Hour, seemingly contemplating something but looking a bit distressed

↺ When you walked up to him, his demeanor took a sudden turn, a friendly smile greeting you (however, they never met his eyes)

↺ But you knew better, despite being told that you would be too young to understand, you knew that this was a front the man decided to put up (yet you never wanted to overstep your boundaries)

↻ You stayed to keep him company, telling each other stories that the both of you have encountered before coming to Penacony 

↺ You inquired about his eyes and how pretty they were, learning a little bit about his Sigonian background but never delving too deep

↻ From the day that the two of you had first met, a friendship had been established (Aventurine didn’t really take it seriously at first but he warmed up a bit to you)

↻ Aventurine wasn’t used to your friendly personality; if he had one word to describe you it would be warm

↺ Warm like the tea you brought him, the dishes you had made, the comfort you provided.. It all felt so foreign to him but it comforted him so deeply

↻ He’d treat you like a kid/little sibling, teasing and joking about you which you always pouted at (scolding him for being so mean)

↺ If his teasing was enough to make you upset and tear up, he’d quickly apologize and offer to treat you to one of your favorite dining spots 

↻ Despite treating you like a kid, there were times that he felt like he was a child with how you scolded him for being so reckless, sitting him down and telling him to take a step back

↺ If he was injured, you’d help patch up his injuries and advise him a list of self-treatment options, if he was stressed or feeling upset, you’d be there to talk to and offer some calming tea

↻ As a way to cheer him up or help him loosen up a bit, you’d bring out Yuegui and set them down on Aventurine’s lap

↺ Initially, he was confused and almost wanted to laugh, in fact, he did, but it made him feel a bit better 

↺ He’d inspect the little guy inquisitively, asking you about their origin and what world you found them on

↻ Aventurine would show you around Penacony (golden hour), introducing you to some of his personal favorite spots

↺ You found some of them a little concerning, but whatever makes him happy…

↻ He’d show you around the casino, the loud and chaotic atmosphere of it almost overwhelmed you but you kept your cool, finding interest in the slots and different things they had to offer (not really a child-friendly atmosphere however…)

↻ With your introduction to the casino, you’d get to see how bad Aventurine’s gambling addiction was

↺ It really worried you how he was so willing to gamble everything away, how easy it was for him to just discard everything

↺ That fact made you feel a bit upset, almost wanting to run out and find comfort in other things

↺ But you stayed for Aventurine’s sake, just in case he got into any trouble 

↻ When the two of you finally leave the casino, you hesitate to tell Aventurine about your feelings and concerns, the air rising a bit in tension as he is confused about your sudden change in attitude

↺ After some time walking, you tell him what has been bothering you and he sits you down on a bench, bending down to your level with a sigh

↺ Aventurine couldn’t make any promises to you, but he’d try, for your sake, to stay safe while doing something dangerous (whether he’s on business, he’s gambling, etc…)

------

“Now that you are feeling better… How about we go get some of your favorite stir fry, hm?” Aventurine smiled, getting up from his bent position and dusting himself off. “My treat.”

Slightly sniffling, you rubbed your nose and got up from the bench. Looking up at him with your own smile and warm eyes, you nodded your head. 

“That sounds delicious, let’s go!”

------

⋘ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ⋙

note - as promised ˆˆ

play wrestling — scaramouche.

Occasionally, there are instances in one’s life where regret embeds itself too deep to safely remove. 

Standing here, your back against the literal and proverbial wall, you’re reacquainted with this humbling reality. A reminder of your mortality. What a delicate substance it is, easily extinguishable like a candle to some. 

Violet eyes piercing enough to sever metal regard you, unamused and faintly malicious. You can’t say you didn’t bring this upon yourself. He pins your wrists above you with one hand. His grip is tight yet falls short of being painful. As much as you want to look away, he won’t permit it, so you maintain unflinching eye contact to prevent ruffling him further. 

“Well?” There’s a sardonic lilt to his voice that makes you shiver. “I’m waiting.” 

You part and close your lips in the same breath. Asking him for clarification won’t do you much good, he delights in watching you piece together his dubious intentions. The satisfaction he derives from it is a bit worrisome. Nonetheless, he offers you one saving grace he’d extend to no one else — patience.

What led up to this unfortunate development? Ah, yes, you saw fit to poke a slumbering beast with a stick. Scaramouche had been too preoccupied to entertain your whims. So, you being the genius that you are, offhandedly remarked that if he didn’t want to wrestle around with you, Tartaglia would certainly be up for it. 

No sooner had his junior Harbinger’s name left your lips did you find yourself pinned against a wall. 

He sighs, long and drawn out, as if you’re the source of all his woes. 

“You’re the one who proposed this insipid game, the least you can do is see it through.” 

One of the best boons from being in Scaramouche’s orbit is how many insults he adds to your vocabulary. His lexicon is vast and impressive. 

Now that you understand what he’s getting at, you push back against your restraints, gauging how effective this method would be. He doesn’t cede any ground. His lithe body belies the immense strength he can wield. He restricts your writhing without overexerting himself in the slightest. Realizing a battle of physical prowess won’t end in your favor, you employ a new tactic. 

The corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile at him softly. 

“Kuni,” you speak the nickname he weakly claims to abhor, “Won’t you go easy on me?” 

The tips of the Harbinger’s ears turn red. He scoffs, turning his head to hide how effortlessly you fluster him. “Of course not. If I always indulged you, you’d become more insufferable than you already are.” 

“That’s rude.” 

“The truth often is.” 

While he’s preoccupied with your exchange, you twist your body, placing your best on the element of surprise. He’d need to quickly readjust the angle at which he’s holding your wrist to stop you. For half a second, you think you have him beat, but he leans in, using his torso to block your escape. A wicked grin spreads on his face at your little underhanded tactic. 

You swallow thickly. 

“Awe, don’t look so defeated! The effort was there,” he snickers. “Maybe next time?” 

“Don’t you have things to do? It’s not like you can hold me here all day, right?” 

He stares at you blankly. 

“... Right?” You repeat, chuckling weakly. 

“Hm, I don’t know. I’m starting to see the appeal to this game of yours. Let’s play a while longer.” 

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. 

Deep and Dark [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: Deep and Dark [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: The woods are deep and dark, but that alone wasn’t enough to deter you from running straight into them. 

Prompt: Scaramouche + “Never waste your pain”

Word Count: 955

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, injury, mentions of blood

The woods are deep and dark, but that alone wasn’t enough to deter you from running straight into them. Silks and ribbons flying behind you, snagging on trees, but you pulled and twisted and kept going–until the world fell out from under you and all you could feel was hot, searing pain shooting through your lower leg.

That was how long ago? You can’t tell in the dark, in your pain.

It took you some time before you could gingerly reach out, fingers shaking, to see exactly what had happened: an animal trap, glinting with hints of moonlight that reached down through the trees, clenched around your leg. Droplets of blood streaked down where the teeth of the trap were lodged in your flesh, and even moving your leg just a bit sent you into sheer agony.

You were stuck.

In the dark.

In the woods.

Keep reading

Self-aware Scaramouche and a Reader who basically adopts him? Casually chats with him during the boss fight, praises him for his determination and skill, apologizes for kicking his ass and uses all their wishes to bring him 'home?' A sort-of platonic Scara simp, basically. (I've been hyped for him and the Childe rerun since the recent 3.2 leaks, I never thought I'd be anxious for October to end)

I love scaramouche, kind of.

Exceptions

Scaramouche never felt the need to make exceptions, just like the Shogun.. well her sister, exceptions are enemies. But, this exception... he'll tolerate you.

When you played through his backstop, the only thing you felt is heartbreak. How could a series of such misfortune events be fated upon him? He doesn't deserve it, atleast, you do.

When he first became self aware, he was confused. A god? How ridiculous, no, a human? They deserve but the worst fate. But you were nothing like his experiences, you were different. You weren't his parent, but you felt so much like one.

When you met him he was self aware, you were also pretty confused, how could this happen? No matter, you promised yourself that you'd be what Ei wasn't: a parent, a mother.

You might look insane, but you didn't care. Through a screen you talked to him daily, showed his love when nobody could. You were his friend, his family.

You dread every week where you have to fight him, and he knows that too, he understands. You'd praise him and shower him in compliments, you were oh so focused on him that you never realized the other characters were self aware, and they praised you as a God.

You didn't know, but Scaramouche knew. He doesn't plan on telling you because you might abandon him for the others.

He'll basically gatekeep you when you get isekai'd one day.

How They Mark You as Theirs

Yandere x Fem! Reader

A/N: because I genuinely can't stop thinking about Scaramouche putting his makeup on you! It's been keeping me up at night.

Diluc: With jewelry

You sparkle when you walk into a room. Not just your glowing eyes or large, puffy dresses, but also what adornes your body. A pendant around your neck, large gem rings on your fingers, and earrings, more expensive than most could afford. People wondered if maybe all of your gems and stones were too heavy, maybe that's why despite the fact that you looked so lavish, you never smiled.

Dilcuc would be at your side, slipping another ring onto your finger. The other ladies would fawn at the sight, silently wishing for a man who wanted to adorn them with silver and gold, but to you, every ring, every stone, every bracelet, and every gem was another lock on the chain harboring you to him, claiming you as his.

Childe: With Bruises

Your neck is littered with love bites, your thighs covered in scratches from where his nails would dig into them, your wrist would have markings around them, from where he would hold you down, pressing passionate kisses and maybe more if he desired.

Even though you were embarrassed by the blatant proof of what he'd done to you all over your body, he still made sure you wore rather revealing clothing. You'd flush with embarrassed, knowing eyes looking all over you, but Childe would smile happily. A hand around your waist would caress you, making it known that he wished to claim you more.

Scaramouche: With make-up

How did everyone know that you were married to number six of the Fatui harbingers? Well, they had to look no further than your eyes, framed in that familiar red shade. The first time he makes you wear it, it's because you watched as he did his own. His nimble fingers held the brush like it was second nature, creating the lines against his eye with ease.

“Come here,” he'll order while still standing in front of the mirror. Before you can ask what he needs from you, he's already squeezing your cheeks between those same fingers, holding your face in place.

The brush tickles as it slides across your eyelids, making you shake a bit in his grasp as you hold back laughter. The smile on your face making his demeanor melt for just a moment, he softens and stops his work, just staring at your features, “I know how it feels. Stop moving,” he'll order. And you do your best to obey.

The sight of your smile is more than enough to make this a habit, instead of a one off thing. Everyday after your kimono dressing, he calls you to him, holding the brush stained with that familiar red makeup.