Lilia Thinks You’re Beautiful.

Arlecchino is really THE Yandere platonic, would love for her to be my father-

But how/when do you think is she becoming Yandere ?

As a "father" Arlecchino loves her children, but her love is something that isn't normal. Her love is hard and stern and fiery, but for some of her children, it's the only love they have. So many of them, regardless of the life Arlecchino lives, find themselves attached to her, indebted to her, trapped with her. Many of them, like Lyney and his siblings do genuinely love her, but at least to me, it's more reverence than it is familial love. They love her because she saved them, and now, they have no other choice but to stay with her, but to them it's a sacrifice worth making because they feel as though they owe so much to her.

Anyway, I think she would become obsessed with someone who reminds her of herself in her youth. Someone who is so detached from the rest of the world, someone who is damaged. In a way, I feel like she'd behave like Silco from Arcane, seeing a child who is traumatized and broken, someone she wants to protect from the rest of the world. She takes you in and from the very beginning her relationship with you is different with the rest of her "children." She doesn't send you on missions or even lets you interact with the House of the Hearth at all. She's very protective in a way that is strange to everyone but her.

I don't know this is just first thoughts.

Oh god, those headcanons of Tailor! Reade and the harbingers, so good!

Imagine the harbingers coming one day, and your mother tells them with a big smile on her face, that she will be doing the measuring today! They are capable of masking their disappointment, but once half of them are done, One ask the question everyone wanted to know:

"Where are they?"

And your mother, who have been barely holding her glee, finally breaks:

"They are choosing a venue with their fiancè!"

Dead. Fucking. Silence.

Hahaha this is gold.

Next thing you know fiance's in that white casket with Signora and Harbingers be acting all innocent with smiles on their faces the next time they visit Tailor!Reader

Haha but if they're not so yandere they'll probably attend the wedding begrudgingly. Jokes on you cause you're still the one making their suits and dresses for the wedding.

Original brainrot here: https://primofate.tumblr.com/post/689561137995530240/brainrot-ever-since-that-harbingers-trailer

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. 

HIYYYAAAA

JUST SAW THE FLRITY PROMPTS EVENT!

What do you say about Lilia with "Don't bite your lip, I want to do that."

I would say hgghh💕💖❤️

summary: "don't bite your lip, I want to do that" type of post: short fic characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is kinda implied to be yuu but doesn't have to be, not proofread, Lilia is shamelessly flirty thank u a part of this event

There are very few things that still manage to catch Lilia by surprise.

At his age, he's simply running out of new experiences; school, politics, even the wonderful world of the internet have started becoming monotonous and boring, leaving him in a slump.

Perhaps, then, that's why he's taken such an interest in you.

Such an intriguing little creature, he thinks, watching you from the shadows of the Diasomnia lounge.

You'd come by to drop something off for Malleus, the sweet thing that you are, and, once again, Lilia finds himself shamelessly staring.

He knows he shouldn't, but, oh, he truly can't help himself!

He inches closer. Lilia can't help but wonder what sort of noise you'll make when he startles you this time. A gasp? A shout, perhaps? Maybe even a cute little squeak... the thought of that is strangely exciting to him.

Only one way to find out.

He drops out of the shadows, blocking you from the exit just as you turn towards it. "Hello!"

And... Nothing.

You smile. "Ah... hello again, Lilia. Did Malleus tell you I was coming?"

His arms fall to his sides with a pout. Nothing? Nothing at all? You look at him like he has something stuck in his teeth.

"He may have mentioned," Lilia sighs. "You're impossible to tease these days. It's quite disappointing, really."

You smile slightly, much to his bemusement. He hates letting you have the upper hand... "Maybe I've started anticipating your pranks. You'll just need to find some new material,"

New material...? He scoffs. You're not even the least bit concerned about him!

"It used to be so easy to get a rise out of you. Humans change far too fast," he laments.

"Now I'll never get to see that flustered look on your face ever again! Or I'll have to come up with something new to tease you with..."

"Orrrr... you could just not tease me at all?"

He chuckles, shaking his head as if you had just said something ridiculous. "With your precious reactions? Impossible!"

You sigh.

Lilia tuts, tapping his chin as if lost in deep thought. He circles you once, twice, then stops in front of you.

"I can't think of anything," he sighs dramatically. "It'll come to me later... Is that uniform new?"

"Oh, uh..." you mutter, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. You turn around yourself in a circle. How cute.

"Well, it's the same uniform, but I got my measurements taken at Pomefiore, and they they got me a better fitting one."

"I can tell,"

He hums pleasantly, dragging his eyes over your body. "They did a wonderful job accentuating your features,"

You huff and look away, much to his delight, clearly taken by surprise by his change in tone.

"...Thank you,"

"Fufufu. Don't mention it," Lilia says, eyes narrowing. "You don't get complimented very much, do you?"

"Not regularly,"

"I could surmise as much. Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're almost flustered by little old me. Is that right?"

Hook, line, and sinker. Your eyes widen as you realize that you've walked right into his trap. "Oh, no, no. I'm not. I'm fine!"

"Really? Don't get shy on me, now. I'm beginning to like this even more than scaring you,"

He takes a step forward, drinking in the sight of you, your body's nervous reactions to his teasing. "How cute,"

"Tease," you say, biting the corner of your lip.

You back yourself against the wall of the lounge, to his absolute delight, and he takes that as an invitation to get closer.

"That I am," Lilia admits without a hint of shame. "But don't bite your lip... I want to do that."

That long sought-after squeak finally escapes you, music to his ears, and he leans closer. For a moment, it seems like he's about to close the distance between you... then, at the last second, he pulls back.

He chuckles. "Oh, what fun! I haven't felt so young in ages. But I do have other business to attend to,"

And so, Lilia leaves you stunned, trembling against the wall as he merrily walks off before you seem to come to your senses.

"Vanrouge, you little shit! Get back here!"

A slight giggle escapes him as he starts off running, with you not far behind. He was right; this is much, much more rewarding than scaring you.

Maybe, if you make another one of those cute noises, he'll even let you catch him.

6)Scaramouche

Yandere!Platonic!Scaramouche x Child! Reader

Let me be clear, Scaramouche isn't the worst platonic yandere among the harbingers, but he will treat those yandere who mercilessly trample your mental health, nerves and self-esteem. So...

The danger of this platonic yandere-7/10

Common features:

It is difficult for Scaramouche to define his yandere side, but it seems to me that he is conscious. He knows in advance that you will leave and it's not about escape, but about your mortality. Sooner or later it will happen, because of this, he will try to avoid and ignore your existence. However, the longer he does this, the worse he keeps himself in control.

The first time you meet, he will make you cry on purpose. And, at first, he will be pleased with the result, but then, when he remembers your tear-stained face, he will be, to put it mildly, unpleasant. Honestly, it surprises him. Does he feel sorry for you? It's ridiculous... However, whatever it was, he achieved his goal. Now not only is he trying to avoid you, but you shun him like a fire.

I can imagine that the fatal moment will be when one of your loved ones swings at you and he, arriving in a rage, simply will not be able to restrain himself. He didn't want to have anything to do with you because he didn't want to get attached and see your stupid death, but he wants to watch your suffering even less. In the end, after he deals with the objectionable person, he will just grab you painfully and drag you along, periodically throwing you something like: 'Don't break out', 'Shut up', 'try to hit me/bite me again and I will do the same with you as with (Name the abuser)'.

A special feature:

What makes him truly special among other yandere and even among ordinary people is his ability to learn. And I'm not talking about everyday things now, but about his ability to change his behavior towards you. He needs a lot of time and effort, but the progress he ultimately shows is huge. His grip is no longer as painful as it was in the beginning, his angry words about your weakness and pathetic are more like a grunt or a way to tease you.

BUT don't let that fool you, he's still yandere and if you don't notice it the first time, you'll definitely notice it after he takes you to Dottore and demands to make a potion of immortality for you.

An adorable feature:

He always holds your hand, it doesn't matter where you are, what his mood is and whether you want it. He will hold your hand. In the first days, he will hold out his hand to you and after a few seconds of waiting, he will order you to take it, and if you continue to stand in a stupor, he will simply grab your hand himself. It may be silly and strange for you, but it makes a huge difference for him. To know that you are there, that he has control over the situation, is of great importance to him.

ꜱᴜɴᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ ꜱɪʙʟɪɴɢꜱ

pairings - older sibling! sunday & reader / older sibling! aventurine & reader

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

warnings - none, besides the occasional swearing

⋘ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ... ⋙

↻ Being the head of the Oak Family, he has a lot of responsibilities and is frequently busy attending meetings and managing the Charmony Festival

↻ Despite not having too much free time, he always tries to make room for his younger siblings

↻ If you find yourself needing something, Sunday will always drop what he is doing to help you with whatever it is you need help with ↺ A meeting? He'd excuse himself by saying something family-related requires his immediate attention ↺ Helping guests with their room arrangements? He'd say something urgent had come up and would call over another member of the family to solve the issue

↻ Sunday would be a supportive brother, as seen with Robin, encouraging you to pursue opportunities that would aid you in your career or simply being happy that you are happy with whatever you are doing (as long as it isn’t something questionable, otherwise he’d be concerned and a little stressed) ↺ Something I imagine that could happen if you’re doing a particularly dangerous job (and he hasn’t heard from you) is that he’d pace around in his office, stroking or picking at his wings out of stress ↺ You or Robin would walk in to see feathers scattered around and have to scold him for mistreating his wings, helping him with taking care of his disheveled wings

↻ Speaking of wings, if you have a pair of your own, he’d love to help you take care of them ↺ You know those bird videos where they are helping preen the other’s feathers? He would be exactly like that

↻ Considering Sunday is your older brother, he would be a bit overprotective of you ↻ You would be able to tell just by observing his wings and how they’re puffed up, a smile could be on his face but his wings would try to unconsciously intimidate the person who is making you uncomfortable

↻ If you introduce your older brother to a significant other..he’d be a bit wary at first, slightly interrogating them to observe their actions before coming to a final judgment ↺ Again, his wings would be a dead giveaway to his approval if he’s relaxed and asks you to invite them over to dinner with him and Robin ↺ Otherwise, he’d be tense and would confide in you later about his own thoughts but being respectful of your own opinion (...However, he would try nudging you into a direction if they’re truly not a good person)

↻ As children, if you approached him with something you did that you were proud of (whether it was an artwork or trophy), he’d be swelling with pride and happiness

↺ You would see it being displayed in his office or room later on when you’re older, leading you to nag at him for the embarrassment if other important figures saw them ↺ He would not budge if you asked him to take them down since it makes him smile when he glances at them

-----

“Why do you still have the old drawings I gave you since we were kids!?” Gaping at the messy portrait you made of your siblings, you could feel your face flush with embarrassment when you saw them encased in a nice gold ornate frame.

“Well, I couldn’t just throw them away… It would be quite sad if I threw away something you were so proud of when we were little.” Sunday hummed, arms crossed behind his back while looking up at the artwork. A small pleasant smile graced his face, reminiscing the time you hurried up to him with a slightly crumpled paper in hand.

“But displaying it in your office!? Just how many people came in and saw.. that!?” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you looked down and sighed.

“The value of this artwork is priceless. It is something you cannot replicate the meaning of.” Sunday simply chuckled, coming up behind you and staring back at it. “Looking at it reminds me of how far you’ve come, and to say I am proud of your achievements would be an understatement.”

“You’re so corny, brother.” “I’m glad to know I am fulfilling my duties, dear ____.”

-----

↻ Overall, Sunday is a very caring and doting older brother. ˆˆ

↻ Aventurine as an older brother came as a surprise to a majority of his peers, if not all (perhaps it’s because of his background or personality)

↻ However, he wouldn’t have met his younger sibling until later due to being separated from his family when he was a kid (I’m trying to use some of his lore that we know so far..but it won’t be entirely accurate, apologies!)

↻ This would lead to him being a very doting older brother once he met you and learned that you were blood siblings ↺ He was skeptical at first… Even if he had faint memories of his siblings he didn’t think he would have the chance to come across one of them

↻ It would take a while for Aventurine to be comfortable around you, not because you aren’t someone he can’t really trust, but because he isn’t used to familial bonds and this was something unexpected

↻ He would feel a bit insecure about himself because the expectations of being a good role model for you are now placed on him

↻ When the two of you were more familiar with each other, he would try spending his free time learning about you and what happened when the two of you were separated ↺ It would then transition to lighter topics, such as what is your favorite food? What places have you traveled to? Do you like your career?

↻ Aventurine would try to be a good older brother for you, wanting to be there to support you throughout the rest of your journeys and missions ↺ Whether you are a nameless on the express, a resident of a distant planet, or a traveling merchant, he’d try to keep in contact with you and share updates on what he has been doing

↻ Eventually, Aventurine would open up about his trauma or past to you, about being taken to the IPC, how he became an executive for the Strategic Investment Department, etc… ↺ Being vulnerable in front of others was difficult for him, but you didn’t mock or distrust him, you were willing to open up and find him so he wanted to do the same

↻ After all, his work could be quite lonesome for even someone as eccentric as him so this was a nice change

↻ The time spent getting to know each other would not only bring you two closer together but introduce you to how much of an asshole (affectionate) your older brother could be

↻ Considering that you’re his younger sibling, he’d probably take you around Penacony to gamble or see popular events ↺ When the two of you are playing any game, he’d use his 'older sibling' card to go first which irks you ↺ When he ends up winning the game, you affectionately start slapping/arguing with him, drawing attention to the both of you

↻ Because Aventurine often gains a lot of money from unfortunate players who gamble with him, he’d spend it on stuff that reminds him of you or things that you wanted ↺ You would be shocked and scold him since some of the stuff he bought you was a pretty hefty price, but he just waves you off

↻ Aventurine would tease you a lot, resulting in many (non-serious) arguments which always amused curious bystanders (standard sibling relationship) ↺ The majority of the time these arguments consisted of random topics that popped out of nowhere, leading to a debate

↻ If someone were to taunt and speak lowly of you, especially if it’s because of you being a Sigonian, he’d be incredibly defensive and say things that would have them reevaluating their own values and sense of self (attacking their self-esteem lol)

↻ Aventurine would also treat you to different restaurants, containing different atmospheres and settings but he’d try to stick to what made you feel most comfortable

-----

“Have you ever been here before, Aventurine?” You asked, looking around the cozy restaurant inquisitively. The lights were a soft yellow and the booths had a red velvety cushioning to it, giving the place a welcoming feeling. You wondered where he had heard of this place…

“Well, no not really. I’ve only passed by this place a couple of times while on my way to the casino.” Aventurine spoke, folding the menu and placing it at the end of the table. “..Do you like it?”

“I do! It has a nice atmosphere and the food looks good.” You hummed, skimming through the menu and setting it down once you’ve decided what to order. “Thank you for taking me here, brother.”

Aventurine hummed, twirling his fork between his fingers. A small smile ghosted his face.

“Don’t mention it, ____.”

“... By the way, you’re paying right, Aventurine..?” “Hmmm, I think I left my wallet at home.” “Aventurine!”

-----

↻ He’s an older brother who’s trying his best to be there for you ˆˆ

⋘ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ⋙

note - hope you guys enjoyed reading (˘◡˘) ! it's been a bit since i wrote something so hopefully this isn't too bad lol.

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.

By The Fractured Altar.

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency dialed up to the MAX setting, and Dottore shows up for a second so sorry about that in advance. Word count: 4.6k.

i.

The first time the Wanderer thinks he’s lost you, he learns that every moment of fear he ever experienced before paled in comparison.

He awakes with a start. Lying beneath a blanket of gleaming stars, his eyes are slow to adjust to the low lighting, the once roaring campfire calmed to a hush. Its surviving embers nearly rival the magnificence of the welkin above in their glow. An empty pail sits beside the concaving wood that once stood so proudly. From this, he assumes he fell asleep before you. You always made it a point to put out the campfire before you both turned in for the night. In the warmer seasons, the Wanderer didn’t mind; it wasn’t until autumn’s chill nipped at his cheeks that he questioned your reasoning.

Keep reading

Make Me Your God, I Can Give You Everything

Yandere! Scaramouche x Broken! Reader

Part of {Mai Playlist}

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, my lord Scaramouche,”

“How much?”

“More than anything, my lord Scaramouche,”

“Would you kill for me?”

“Happily, my lord Scaramouche,”

“Would you die for me?”

“If it would please you, my lord Scaramouche,”

Like a broken record repeating the same phrase over and over, you spoke your words with little emotion, hardly even a change in cadence. You looked at him, but your eyes had lost that familiar glimmer, that light that he'd come to rather enjoy, even if it was annoying. That light was perseverance, it was hope, it was good drive and will, but now it was gone and you often just looked more like a doll than he did.

“What’s something that would bring you joy?” He asked. Typically, he wasn't one to spoil you, but the last few weeks of you just being so docile and…empty. It had him worried. He wanted that spark back, that light in your eyes. He wanted you back.

“You, my lord Scaramouche,”

“No,” he spat back angrily, “What will really bring you joy? What will make you happy?”

“Anything you offer me is a gift enough, my lord Scaramouche,”

Annoyance caused him to stand swiftly from his chair and march over to where you sat, still as a board and posture straight, just like he'd drilled into you many times before. When he raised his hand to strike you, you didn't even flinch, making him lower it in surrender. You were still as beautiful as the day he got you, still as soft and your voice still as sweet. But you were hollow. Had he truly broken you down so?

He slumped back in his seat and sighed out longingly and you still barely moved. He made a motion with his hand for you to come closer and without a word, you did, “Sit. Join me,” he ordered. Promptly, you sat on his lap, the weight of your body comforting him. You were still in there, somewhere.

“I didn't want this,” he mumbled, his face pressed into you back, arms wrapped around your waist.

“You didn't wish for me to sit here?” You questioned, preparing to stand, but he pulled you back down with little resistance.

“No. I didn't want you to end up like this,” he squeezed your waist a bit tighter, making you let out a shallow breath, “Why couldn't you just love me as you were before. Why did it have to come to this?”

“I do love you, my lord,”

He pushed you from his lap and you crumbled to the floor, still, with little resistance. You didn't look scared or shocked, you didn't even look hurt from the way you'd fallen. Just there. He remembers the last time he'd done something similar to you. You spat at his feet in defiance. Mentally, he cringed at how hard he'd punished you that day. One of the many days of punishment that led to you becoming what you are now. Empty.

“I'm…I'm sorry,” he struggled to get the words out. Eyeing your face he saw something different, the slight raise of your eyebrows, before they fell again. But it was something. It was you, even for just a second, “Is that what you want? An apology?”

He kneeled before you and took one of your feet into his hands, his cold hands traced the soft skin of it. Scaramouche hadn't taken a knee for anyone in years. No one except his creator and the Tsaritsa herself. Both archons, but he put you on a similar pedestal. A kiss was pressed right against the toe of your foot and he felt your body jolt.

“Come back to me,” he pressed another kiss to your foot, “You'll be worshiped, not broken again.”

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.