౨ৎ˚ Bandaged Hearts ‧₊˚

Hey dear!

For your selected character request I'd like to read some Scaramouche 🖤

I'm more into how things develop rather than how things currently are with the yandere so how would he be like before they start "dating"? Let's say darling is also a Fatui member, nothing out of the ordinary.

What made him so interested in them in the first place and how would he approach her? Would he play the powerful position card or try to sneak into her heart more? I'd love to understand how he'd approach the new situation. He's obsessed from the start that's new and doesn't sit right with him but he can't help but be curious, right?

As far as I'm informed he left the Fatui with the gnosis so I'm assuming he'd plan on kidnapping them from the start.

If you could write a small scenario with him trying to get closer to the reader that would be awesome. He's extremely twisted and I love love love your writing so much. You capture him so well. Do you think he'd whisk them away instantly? I'm dying to know!

If you don't feel inspired and don't want to write this that's okay of course.

Take care!!!🖤

Title: Best Made Plans [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: Scaramouche is getting out. But what should he do with you?

Word Count: 1774

notes: yandere

Scaramouche is not one to be intrigued by things, especially human things. Mortal, flimsy, inconsequential things. Things that bear no importance in his grander world.  

He is certainly not one to care about those who serve under him; he cares only for how they can serve him, how he can push and pull and twist them into meeting his needs. Fatui, not Fatui… doesn’t matter, at least not beyond the surface that he presents to the world. Harbringer, indeed.

He doesn’t normally bother to learn the names of those who take his orders, unless it’s to find out which of the Fatui agents bowing beneath him has fucked up enough to deserve his rebuke. 

He certainly doesn’t learn their faces or histories, doesn’t care to hear about their families and friends and hopes and dreams and all those little tiny details that makes humans… human.

But then you came along and changed everything. A storm that blew in with no warning, leaving electrical charge in your wake.  

You. You intrigue him. You inspire feelings of curiosity, and interest, and--warmth--in him. It’s the warmth, he thinks, that draws him closer to you again and again, seeking a fire that he thought long since extinguished. If it ever truly existed in him in the first place.

With you, he doesn’t feel the primal urge to immediately recoil when the masked agents at his command feel the bizarre (and utterly human) need to make themselves distinct to him with introductions or personal details.

Though it is only the new ones who do so, those who weren’t warned in time by the veteran Fatui that spread the well-minded notice whenever someone new comes under his command: Lord Scaramouche is not to be bothered--at least, if you value your life.  

Were you given this warning? It’s something he often wonders. If you were, you ignored it. The thought that you did so only makes you more fascinating.

He can still remember the first offhand comment you made in his direction, a joke about the rain. Instead of admonishing you for speaking out of turn, for daring to even look in his direction unnecessarily, he found himself unable to speak for a moment. And then he snorted and turned his head towards you, almost a nod. And you smiled.

It was insubordinate. It was infuriating. It was… intoxicating.

He’s found over time that something inside him--but what could be inside his hollow body, except emptiness?--wants to know you. That thing inside, whatever it is, it makes him want to pull out those little details in you that he finds so useless in others. He wants to keep them pasted in a book, keep them, keep you, secure in whatever amounts to his heart.

And what’s stranger is that you freely give those details to him, casually, easily. Sometimes with a smile. Why? Why do you gravitate towards him, when so many others have fled?

There’s an image that comes to his mind during your increasingly long conversations together, something he saw once long ago. A calm spring afternoon and some carefree girl dropping flower petals on a shrine in the country--sweet, natural offerings given without expectation.

The petals you leave him are not fragrant blossoms, but he treasures them as much as any Archon. He accepts them as readily, too, even if he knows that realistically you aren’t leaving them at his feet in reverence.

You offhandedly mention that you grew up with little siblings. He keeps this in mind when he watches you interact with other Fatui. You almost herd the other members in your troop, nagging at them, keeping them in line with a tone that teeters between the border of commanding and camaraderie.

He’s spotted you reading books in your off-time, and you sheepishly held up the title when he asked you what you were reading. Romance novels. Drivel, of course, and yet… he couldn’t bring himself to snipe at you as he might have, if he caught someone else reading the same useless junk.

Instead he flushed. He walked away before you could see the pink tinge to his cheeks, but he felt the heat of that moment for hours later. He felt it again when he ordered a servant to acquire a copy for him--keeping the title a secret under penalty of execution.

All these little details that mean nothing to him in others mean so much in you. Some nights he’ll dream about you, dream about the two of you, alone, without the constant interference of servants and agents and the nagging responsibilities of this life. In his dreams, you’ll smile at him without reserve and shyly tuck your hair behind your ear and then you’ll reach for him and--

What the hell are you doing to him? And why does he want you to keep doing it?

And now… now that he is about to abandon this uselessness, the Fatui, for something bigger, he can’t help but think: what is he going to do with you?

 It was easy to keep you at his side before. He gave the order that you stay in his personal service, and you obeyed it. That was that. You didn’t seem to mind the easier work, nor did you complain when he ordered you to be his personal guard at times, watching him while he worked. Silent, at first, and then gradually speaking more and more.

Anyone else would have been struck on the spot the moment that they dared to speak familiarly with him. But he lets you talk. He lets you ask him questions. He answers them, sometimes truthfully, when it’s not impractical for you to know these things. And you, in your naviety, let him ask all about you. Your life. Your history. Everything that combines together to create the unique and tolerable being that is yourself.

He should be able to leave you behind. Leave you here like he’s left so many others, so many places, now just vague memories and impressions. Perhaps he’ll recall the way you made his cheeks flush one night, or snort at the memory of sitting in at his imposing desk, reading some sentimental novel about people falling in love.

He should be able to leave you, yes. But he can’t. He can’t be content with only impressions of you. Impressions are ghosting and fleeting and they hurt, in the end. You, on the other hand, do not hurt. You fill him with something. He doesn't know what it is, but the urge to find out is enough to keep him bound to you.

How exactly to keep you with him is something else entirely.

You’re on time, at least. He’s been waiting in place for some time, waiting for you to walk by on your rounds. When you do, he calls your name. You freeze for just a moment before turning on your heel.

“Yes, Lord Scaramouche?”

He beckons with one hand, and you come closer. You don’t stumble over your feet like the others would, anxious and afraid that they’ve upset the volatile Scaramouche. You walk to him as if you’re walking lightly to meet a friend. And are you?

You don’t even ask him before sitting down on a nearby rock, stretching out your legs. Your eyes are alert but unafraid behind your mask, awaiting whatever it is he wanted.

He’s had the question prepared all morning. It’s just one question. Yet the answer you give will help him decide what to do with you, how to keep you with him, despite the whirlwind of changes that lie ahead.

“Why did you join the Fatui?”

The way your posture strengthened is fake and rehearsed and he feels a tickle of annoyance in his throat. This rehearsed behavior looks horrible on you. It’s too formal and unbecoming. He wants you as he’s seen you, carefree and even a bit wild. You came from a country village, you said, and it showed.

“To serve the--” you begin, like you’re saying a line from a play, but he waves his hand immediately.

“No,” he says, a touch of irritation in his tone. “Why did you join?”

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes flick one way and another behind the mask, finally landing on his face. You’re searching for something. Feeling him out. Seeing what he wants, and if he truly wants your real answer. He feels like he can see every conversation the pair of the two of you have had, every almost-touch, every glance, in your eyes.

No, he can’t tell you what he wants--you’ll run, he’s not stupid--but he does truly want your real answer.

You must decide it’s safe to trust him, because you wet your lips with your tongue and then stare straight ahead, relaxing your posture back to its formal familiarity.  Something about this makes him feel a little dizzy; your trust in him is what has bound him to you, but it will also be your downfall.

“I… wanted to get out.” Your lips twist into a smirking sort of smile, the kind you make when you’re talking about something bitter.

And then you do something that sucks the air from his lungs.

You lift your mask and set it down on the rock. Your eyes glance at his, and there’s an almost worried expression in them, despite your congenial history together.

He says nothing. He can’t, the air has been practically pulled from his lungs. Not that you need to know that. If only you knew that he could never reprimand you for showing him your bare face. A face that he could look at forever, far past your minuscule human lifespan. This thought makes him want to shiver, and he tucks it into his memory for later consideration.

“I wanted to get out of that little village and go somewhere bigger,” you continue, voice taking on the bittersweetness in  your expression.

You must be thinking of that little village, and all the details he’s learned from your lips come to mind. Small town, small people, small ideas. No ambition but becoming yet another mother, yet another cog in the wheel of life.

“I wanted to be a part of something...” You look at him again, and this time you hold his gaze. “Be a part of something so much bigger than myself. You know?”

He does.

And now he knows what he will do with you.

He nods, and offers up a thin smile.

“Something bigger than yourself, huh…”

He has a lot to tell you. And if you don’t accept, well. There’s always another way to do things.

Charisma Etched on Strings

You despised being near Scaramouche. It was a danger to your well-being.

Because all you can feel is the warmth of his body traveling to yours, enclosing around you and morphing into the oxygen that you so desperately need to survive.

Gn! reader x Electric guitarist!Scaramouche

Notes: I swear this one has no set pov. It switches between Scara and the reader so I apologize for that. Also, I'm not that good at wiriting x readers *insert crying emoji*

Warning: Slight cursing

It was supposed to be a harmless guitar lesson.

So how the fuck did you end up sitting on this shithead’s lap?

“Easy sweetheart. Stop squirming," Scaramouche’s grating voice reverberated throughout the otherwise empty room. The words he spouts are pestiferous, enough to ensure a fist will land on his face if he doesn’t shut up soon. You merely asked him for a guitar lesson, not to be manhandled and subjectively humiliated by this sick bastard of a friend. “Get me off your lap!" you protest, writhing against his arms. 

You want nothing to do with this. 

Yet he cages you with that god-forbidden instrument of his, propping the black, electric guitar in front of you. You were effectively sandwiched between that handsome son of a bitch and his prized musical instrument. “You said you wanted to learn right?" he mused, his calloused hand cascading down your wrist to seize it securely, "This is the fastest way." 

Lies. 

You scoff at his pathetic excuse to justify himself. He’s just so full of bull. You know he was amused at your predicament, your thrashing and twisting igniting a twinge of sadistic pleasure within him. Scara shifts slightly, a lock of your hair twirled around his index finger, “Now stop moving so we can start our lesson.”

Without much of a choice, you reluctantly compelled to his demands. Your tantrums ceased, much to Scara's entertainment. He knows how much you detest your current dilemma and he couldn't help but take advantage of it. He wants to mess with you. To increasingly rile you up every passing second. He presses his chest completely against your back, wanting to see those cute little veins of yours pop out. His lips twitched upwards as he made sure there wouldn't be any space left between you two. He could hear your pretty lips part and verbalize a gasp. 

A sweet, sweet treat for his ears. 

He couldn't be bothered to give you a chance to retaliate. It was way more fun toying with you when he rendered you helpless. Leaning closer and letting his breath fan against the tip of your ears, his fruity voice resounds through your brain and into your spine in the form of shivers. "Let's learn some basic chords first," he murmurs as he slinks his fingers towards yours, hovering over them. Scara felt the smirk on his face expand, you sure do have a warm set of hands. He surely wouldn't mind if it was pressed with his all the time. Stuck in his wishful thinking, he absentmindedly squeezed your thumb lightly. He blinks. Ah, he was getting distracted. He clears his throat and he proceeds, "Just like in every lesson, we start with C". 

He adjusts your index finger to pin the second string on the first fret. He does the same with your middle and ring finger, stationing them on the second fret of the fourth string and the third fret of the fifth string respectively. His loitering fingers aid in pushing down the strings as he's aware that you're probably not pressing down hard enough. It also helped restrain any movements that may disrupt the sound when plucked. You, on the other hand, verbalized a protest. 

“Hey, that hurts," you hissed as you tried to lift your finger off. Even just slightly. But Scara wouldn't let you. He remains unfazed, unbothered by the fact that your fingers are possibly bruising underneath his. “It’s supposed to idiot, it's your first time,” Scara rolls his eyes and his resolve to keep your finger position doesn't falter. 

You'll definitely punch him after this. 

“Now strum,” he instructs and you've got half the mind to not follow through. Curse your curiosity though, washing away each and every one of your senses, dulling them and allowing it to control your other hand to strum the strings. It made a tune, not akin to those voice cracks of teenagers going through puberty or screeching bats when viciously searching for their next meal. It was a pleasant melody, a fine sound that signifies a correct mark. Scara smiles, watching in delight how taken aback you looked. "Good. Next chord," he was ready to shift the position of your fingers once more. Your fingers wouldn't budge though. You've reached your limit.

You've certainly had enough. 

Your heart's been racing since the beginning and you were sure you won't be able to take it anymore. Not with him being this close. You catch a whiff of his perfume, a woody fragrance with a base of leather that never fails to drive you insane. You want to smash your head against the wall so badly.

You despised being near him. It was a danger to your well-being.

Because all you can feel is the warmth of his body traveling to yours, enclosing around you and morphing into the oxygen that you so desperately need to survive.

"This is stupid", you scoffed before he could move your fingers. Scara tilts his head in your direction. Oh? Were you going to object to him again? How cute. He chuckles and raises his brow, “What is?” 

“Your way of teaching.” With a groan, you go back to your squirming strategy to try and break loose from his predatorial hold, “Can't we do this without being an inch away from each other?” 

Scara merely laughs at you. ‘Why? Does the closeness bother you?" he teases. He would get closer to you if he could, but there's literally no more space left between you and him. So he opts to angle his lips adjacent to your neck and let out a drag of air. His breath brushes against your skin, parallel to a gentle caress from a lover. He was so sure he just heard your breathing hitch. Adorable.

“Is this better?” he smirks, heaving a drawn-out breath once more. You shake your head and writhe, flailing your arms wildly in a fit of fulmination. Scara can't help but grin at your antics. He doesn't back down, reinforcing his hold over you. He won’t let go. I mean, why would he? When you fit perfectly in his arms?  

Your scuffle abated for a second and he caught the way your face turned into a stunning shade of red. “Aw, you're even blushing for me," he remarks, prompting you to resume your thrashing.

“Of course not! Why would I be!?” 

Scara chuckles, his gaze never leaving you. "Why the denial? Anyone with eyes can see how red you've gotten because of me."

You wanted to wipe that smug expression plastered on his face. He knows that. He's just reveling in the fact that you couldn't. 

He elevated his head to meet your twitching ears, ready to grace them with an assortment of breathy words bound to hit that sore spot in your heart. "There's nothing to deny you know? Not when I'm right here. Mindful and observant of how you feel towards me."

His fingers dragged from your jaw to your cheek, leaving a touch so sensual it's flabbergasting at most. He rested his hands along your cheek as he spoke with an allure that was sure to keep you on the edge, subconsciously thirsting for more. "I know you like me. You like it when we're this close," he continues, cocking your head up and exposing more of that tempting throat of yours. Not that he can see it from his point of view, but from the front? It would certainly be a sensual sight that would drive every inch of his self-control onto the edge of a cliff. 

"I don't mind it though. I don't mind watching your pathetic descent into the abyss of my heart," he chuckles, hands falling towards your lips. It was quite the contrast, his rough fingers kneading against your soft and plump lips. 

"So just fall for me, yeah?" his thumb rubs your upper lip in a circular motion. Honestly, he's tempted to shove his finger in your mouth. He wants to hear your feeble whines as he occasionally toys with your tongue, your erotic whimpers that deluges his entire sensibility. But he doesn't. At least not now.

"I'll be sure to catch you"

more of dependent scaramouchie please??

CW: Yandere content, attempted suicide

--

"What's with that mopey look? I brought you tea, didn't I? The least you could do is drink it."

You didn't have the energy to glare at the one keeping you captive. You were sick of this. You can't keep living like this, stuck under his thumb.

Eyeing the teapot on the table, the gears in your head started to turn. you grabbed the teapot and threw it onto the ground, sharp shards and hot tea spilling onto the floor.

Before Scaramouche could do or say anything, you took one of the shards into your hand and brought it to your throat, intending to use it to end your miserable life.

"NO!"

He immediately leaped forward and grabbed your wrist before the shard could slice through your skin.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" He yelled at you in desperation as you two became locked into a battle of strength. In with each of you trying to move your hand either towards your neck or away from it.

After much struggle he managed to snatch the shard from your grasp. "What were you thinking?"

"Why won't you let me die, damn it?"

"I am not letting you go, hear me. Not now, not ever." His lip quivered at the thought of you leaving him behind, betraying him like everyone else. "You're mine. You can't go."

--

❥ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 — 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄. ˚⊹꒷

📓୧・꒰summary—wc꒱ affection, regret, and zenith. 1503.

🎸୧・꒰warnings꒱ yandere character ꒰forced/unhealthy relationship, manipulative behavior, mentions of abduction꒱, reader is not traveler, lightly edited.

💿୧・꒰adi moment꒱ sorry for the scara/wanderer posting, may or may not end up happening again! i've got mixed feelings on how this turned out, but yandere scaramouche owns my heart atm and i had to write something for him. hope you enjoy! ૮꒰..◜ᴗ◝..꒱ა ♡

as a disclaimer, i don't support yandere behavior in real life! please don’t interpret this post as justification for any of scaramouche's actions.

જ⁀➴ affection: how do they show their love and affection? ˚⊹꒷

Being openly affectionate is a rather difficult task for Scaramouche… though it isn’t exactly hard to understand why. Betrayal after betrayal combined with years of working beneath the Tsaritsa certainly don’t encourage emotional vulnerability, any tenderness he’d once possessed being forsaken for the sadistic persona he now proudly flaunts.

He’d used that very façade of his to attempt to push you away, back when he’d still had yet to realize just how desperately he needed you in his life. Affection from Scaramouche would remain a rarity between the both of you for quite some time, even after he’d taken you into his ꒰albeit forceful꒱ care. It was safer for him, that way. You weren’t exactly subtle with your discontentment, and the sting of abandonment wouldn’t hurt as badly if he kept you at a distance.

But when he asks—no, demands a hug from you—you’ve really got no choice but to oblige. 

At first, he’s hesitant in the embrace, hands shakily grasping and pulling at the fabric on the back of your shirt as you hold him. Although without the need for air, the stiffness of his body made it seem as though his breath had gotten stuck in his throat, mechanical grasp erratically tightening and loosening as he attempted to adjust. Once he finally does, he absolutely refuses to allow you to pull away, keeping you still in his grip for well over a minute before he finally relents. His eyes are wet as you glance at him, a tear-stained blotch on your clothing as he hurriedly barks for you to turn away.

Despite his initial reaction, these commands for physical affection only become more and more frequent afterwards—much to your distress. Beginning with those awkward hugs and culminating in full blown cuddle sessions ꒰one-sided as they usually are꒱, Scaramouche gradually allows himself to become more and more acquainted with the softness of your touch.

Gift-giving is also a rather common habit of his. As strange as it is for him to be jealous, considering that you aren’t even allowed to sit in the manor’s garden unattended, he just can’t help but worry about you. Seeing you decorated in clothing and accessories of his choosing alleviates his worries, reminding him that you’re still his, even when he might be far away on one of the Tsaritsa’s missions.

It starts out small. A gold necklace. An intricate bracelet, the design of which mimicking the traditional Inazuman motifs found on his clothing.

But it’s not long until he has you fitted for the garments themselves, tailors indebted to the Fatui hauled over from the solitary nation to create an entirely new wardrobe. Scaramouche, of course, oversees the entire process. Not a single detail is overlooked, with him comparing different samples of designs and forcing them to start over whenever he’s displeased with one of their creations. Any attempts to get him to loosen up are met with harsh glares—the same reasoning repeated to you every time. 

“Their debts will be paid by their labor,” he’ll justify, “A mercy considering the Fatui’s usual methodology.” Unless they want to find a permanent residence amongst the cadavers in Dottore’s lab, incompetence simply isn’t something he’ll tolerate.

And, sure, the expense is one that causes a fair share of annoyance from the other Harbingers—especially Pantalone, who was made to fund the operation—though it’s hard to pay any attention to his vexed murmurs when you look so good in the finished pieces.

જ⁀➴ regret: would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? ˚⊹꒷

Scaramouche? Feel bad? When he’s doing you such a gracious favor? Archons, now that might just be the funniest thing he’s heard in a while. In his eyes, it should really be you that feels bad. You should be sobbing at his feet, begging him to forgive you for your oh so constant insolence—your endless whining and complaining.

After all, how could he possibly ever expect to feel pity for the circumstances you’ve found yourself in? You, who’s currently ‘trapped’ within a mansion more luxurious than you could’ve previously imagined. You, who he makes sure is both well fed and dressed—who has countless Fatui guards at your every beck and call. You, who he specifically keeps safe from the many dangers of the world you so stupidly wish to explore. You, who he endures some of Dottore’s more gruesome experiments for—just so your DNA can be preserved in case of tragedy. 

In actuality, the thought that he’d regret ‘taking you’ from your ‘home’... it’s just pathetic to him.

You’re innocent. Naïve. Foolish, to be totally honest. How could you possibly hope to survive out there without his protection? Teyvat is not nearly as safe as you wish to believe, the gods that you find reprieve in oftentimes uncaring to the suffering of their believers. He knows that from experience, and yet you still refuse to believe him. Everything that he’s done is for your sake, ungrateful as you are—it’s a miracle that he hasn’t exposed you to the true nature of the world in order to stop your incessant nagging. 

Scaramouche doesn’t even think he asks much of you, either. All that he expects you to do is sit still. Remain by his side, allow him to shower you with love and ꒰more importantly꒱ keep you safe. Not… sulking around in the room he’d prepared specifically for you, not wildly declaring that ‘you’d never asked him for his protection!’—no, not at all!

So, no, he doesn’t feel any sort of remorse for his actions. What he's done is simply for your own good, and you’re simply foolish to not appreciate that. If he didn’t love you as much as he did, you would’ve been disposed of a long time ago. At the very least… be grateful for that.

જ⁀➴ zenith: would they ever break their darling? ˚⊹꒷

In a way, it’s simply an inevitability with him. Entanglement with the Fatui has rarely ever spelt out positive outcomes for those involved, something you’ll learn because of Scaramouche’s attempts to protect you. Living within his carefully constructed dollhouse doesn’t do much to dim the memories of your old life, nor does it do anything to quell the urge for freedom burning deep within your bones. Awareness of the world you’d once known and fear at the very notion of being struck beneath his control for the rest of your life… None of it bodes well for your mental health, either.

Lacing it with the violence made common from the Fatui, or the punishments inflicted on you in hopes of finally destroying your will to escape ꒰whether they be physical or mental꒱—it’s really no surprise to see the ambitious spark within your eyes eventually being snuffed out.

Isolation alone is already enough to drive the average person insane. With all that you’ve been dealing with on top of that, it’s honestly quite commendable that it doesn’t happen sooner.

At first, Scaramouche doesn’t take this new development of yours well. Your lack of response, lack of reaction to even the cruelest insults of his being hurled at you—to even his mere presence—it freaks him out, slipping beneath his guard and making him feel as though you’ve already abandoned him. Really, how dare you not pay attention to him? Are you mad? Or is this just your latest attempt at escape? Aren’t you just trying to fool him? To make him believe that you’d learned your place just to turn around and sneak away? 

It must be.

He doesn’t leave your side unless necessary, having his soldiers keep watch on you whenever something pulls him away. Whatever new game you’re playing at, he’s determined in his attempts to stop you before you can take a single step outside. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. His patience wears thin, the realization you still haven’t done anything hovering over him and sending him into frenzies. But coupled with your newfound compliance to his commands, the way that you numbly follow along with any plans he makes for the both of you—well, he’s eventually forced to realize that you don’t even intend to try running.

As much as he finds himself enjoying your obedience, a part of him simply can’t help but miss your spark. The delicious fear that glazed over your eyes when you were caught doing something suspicious, the fits of passion that led you to stupidly defy his orders… They’d been aspects of you—aspects of the version of you Scaramouche initially fell in love with, the version of you that stubbornly persisted when you still had the opportunity to back away from him.

But this version of you doesn’t move away whenever he pulls you into his arms, doesn’t recoil from the touch of his fingers as if he’d somehow burnt you. This version of you doesn’t cry and beg him to go outside, doesn’t fight against him when he goes on tangents confessing his love to you—occasionally grants him the chance to hear an ‘I love you, too.’ slipping past your lips.

Ultimately… that’s good enough for him.

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The Last Child of Khaenriah

A Flicker in the Ruins: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 The Abyss That Calls The Stray Star of Khaenri'ah The Bonds of Obsession The Cage They Call Home The Light That Found You, The Shadows That Cling: Part 1, Part 2 MISUNDERSTANDINGS THAT COULD END LIVES The Chains You Cannot Break To Love a Ghost Into the Abyss A Caged Flame – When the Child of Khaenri’ah Grows Up Cursed to be Loved Not Yours A Fractured Star A Hug in the Darkness A Power Unchained

Capitano Specials:

Discipline of Steel Parenting for Dummies: Fatui Edition Capitano's Death: A Celebration Dottore Joins the Party Ding-dong, The Tin Can's Back The Cost of Defiance

Dainsleif Specials:

Dainsleif’s “Totally Legal” Side Hustles Reader (Child) vs. Overprotective Dainsleif: The Struggle

Kaeya Specials:

A Flame's Reluctant Warmth A Reflection or Something Else?

BLEED. — in which the Knave attends to her wounded little sibling.

— trigger & content warnings. depictions of injuries & blood, descriptions of violence, implied murder. 1.4k words.

— pairings & notes. hurt/comfort. arlecchino & younger sibling!reader. reader is a member of the fatui. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns). arlecchino is referred to using her real name.

— author's notes. arle <3

       "Oh, you— you came."

       Their surprise was evident, written all over their features as they stared up at the Harbinger. The eerie, echoing click of her heels cut through the silence that, upon her entry, had befallen the Fatui's medics. The microexpressions on her face—brows furrowed inwards, gaze focused on nothing else but them, and lips pointed vaguely downwards—promised a fate far worse than death for anyone who dared to interrupt her.

       Arlecchino was a calm, even-tempered woman...

       ...That is, she was a calm and even-tempered woman when her beloved little sibling was both safe and well. However, the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around the lower half of their torso made it clear that they were not well. Safe, yes, but well? That, they most certainly were not.

       Her tall stance cast a shadow over their body. Perhaps if they were anyone else, they would currently be fearing for their life... but as they gazed up at her with a meek smile, it occured to them that they were definitely concerned (though undoubtedly in a far more lighthearted way than any other person would be).

       "You look so scary like this," they giggled timidly, snapping their gaze away and looking anywhere but at her. Subconsciously, their fingers fidgeted with the blanket draped over their legs. "Don't be mad... I messed up a bit. You know. Things— things happen..."

       Arlecchino sighed, cutting them off: "Are you wounded anywhere else, [Name]?"

       "No. Just there."

       "I see," she muttered thoughtfully, rolling up her sleeves. The inky darkness of her curse pulsed and spread, crawling further up her arms than it usually did—they couldn't help but frown slightly. Nonetheless, they said nothing of it. She would surely brush them off and tell them to worry more about themselves if they did.

       Arlecchino turned to the nervous agents in the room; the second they did, everyone immediately tried to appear busy, whipping their bodies away from the direction of the Knave and her baby sibling with such speed that it surely gave a few of them whiplash. "You all are dismissed."

       'Get out. Now.'

       With polite acknowledgments to her unspoken command, heads bowing to the Fourth, the Fatui's medics were quick to leave, urgency evident in their speedy steps. Anything they had been working on was long forgotten and left behind; certainly, the soldiers were unconcerned with their work. If anything, the only thing they were concerned with was getting away from Arlecchino. It wasn't very difficult to understand why.

       No agent wanted to so much as imagine what might happen if they were to somehow invoke her fury, especially now of all times.

       Once the final agent had left, and the heavy double doors shut—shockingly without any echo; perhaps the medics were afraid that even closing the door forcibly enough would agitate the Harbinger—their eyes shifted upwards.

       "Peruere..." they murmured softly, straightening their spine somewhat and removing the blanket from their legs so that they could gingerly swing them over the side of the bed. They wished not to agitate their wound further—it still throbbed and ached, so they knew that one incorrect move would render them doubled over in pain. Their elder sister took notice of their enhanced caution.

       "Did they give you any medication yet?" Arlecchino—Peruere, rather, inquired. She turned away from them briefly, speedily shuffling through the medical supplies on a nearby table. Scissors, gauze, antibacterial ointment...

       "They tried, but nothing worked... well enough, that is. My fever has gone down since I arrived and it hurts slightly less, but it just hurts far too much for any of their weaker painkillers to be effective. This base isn't well-equipped to handle wounds like this."

       Even breathing was a chore, really; each time their chest rose and fell, painful sparks clawed through their skin, originating at the gash in their side.

       "Hm." Her face twisted and soured somewhat. "...I suppose I have no choice but to speak to the Doctor once we return to the Motherland, then."

       Peruere then began thoroughly scrubbing her hands with special attention to the underside of her nails in one of the medical sinks, as to ensure that she did not cause any kind of infection to fester in their wound.

       Their breath hitched, and they immediately went on to frantically ask, "Aren't you busy? You don't have to come with me. I can return by myself, it really isn't a big deal... even if that means talking to him—"

       "No." Her eyes shifted to their direction (and for a moment, she couldn't help but think that they looked a little bit like a kicked puppy—dejected and pouty, as if they had somehow upset her). The Knave's tone softened slightly. "No. I do not trust the Doctor around you, nor do I trust these agents to ensure your safety. You are injured. I am the only one who can ensure no harm will befall you."

       "I can defend myself," they asserted. "I'm your sibling, you know."

       "I have no doubt that you can," she softly assured, drying her hands with a clean towel. "However, at the moment, you are in no condition to fight."

       With that, she collected the necessary items and walked back towards their bed. Setting all but the scissors aside, she kneeled down, and began cutting away at the gauze.

       "Did they clean your wound?"

       "Yes."

       She hummed in ackowledgement.

       Peruere's gaze softened somewhat at the sight of their wound—still wet with blood, the perimeter of the wound lined in matte crimson. She observed the way their stomach heaved with each breath.

       Scorching flames burned in her veins. Had she not known any better, she would resolve to deliver a fate far worse than death to whoever did this, to personally escort them straight to the lowest circle of hell and splatter their guts across the floor.

       (She awaited and anticipated the day that the Doctor somehow, in some way, brought harm to her sibling. Should that day ever arrive, she would finally have a reason, an excuse, to reunite him and the previous Knave.

       Peruere was patient. She could wait.)

       ...She did know better, however, and her sibling was just about as much of a force as she was.

       Whoever did this was certainly already well-acquainted with the devil.

       After squeezing some of the antibacterial ointment onto her fingertips, she gingerly spread it across the area of their wound.

       They grimaced somewhat, body instinctively snapping away from her hands. Peruere's freehand shot out to grab their hip with enough pressure to keep them in place but not enough to hurt them any further.

       "Shh. Be still."

       "But it stings," they whined, shooting her an accusatory glance; there was a glimmer of mischief in their glazed eyes, however, and she immediately understood that whatever they were going to accuse her of was unserious in its nature. "You're making it hurt on purpose."

       At that, the Harbinger rolled her eyes. It was clear that there was no true agitation behind the gesture.

       "No, it doesn't, and no, I assure you that I am not," she replied calmly, continuing to spread the ointment to ensure that every part of the injury was adequately lathered. "I put nothing on it that would make it hurt. Don't be dramatic."

       "Ahh... you're so mean, Per..." they sighed dramatically. "So terribly mean to your beloved, wounded baby sibling~"

       She chose not to feed into their mischief. Instead, she began winding the gauze around their body. Once she felt that it was properly wrapped—covered with enough layers to keep dirt and debris out of their flesh and blood—she pulled. "Is this too tight?"

       A soft hum rose from their throat as they inhaled as to ensure that it really wasn't too tight, even when they breathed deeply. "No. The pressure helps with the pain, actually."

       The Harbinger nodded, securing the end of the gauze. She then rose—though not fully, and rather bent at the waist somewhat to meet them at eye-level. The hand that was void of any residue from the cream softly carressed their face.

       Her pupils bore into theirs, thumb rubbing back and forth across their cheekbone. She was mindful as to avoid scratching them with her nail. Though she often told others not to gaze into her eyes for too long—'What you see may not be very pleasant,' she would say—they seemed to be an exception.

       In her eyes, as most do, they saw destruction, death, and madness. In them, it did not induce fear. It made them feel safe.

       And perhaps that made them no less mad then their elder sister was.

       That fate, however, was one that they were content with.

       The Knave withdrew, though not before placing a tender kiss on the crown of their head.

       "Rest now. We will depart for Snezhnaya when you awaken again."

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

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

masterlist

floyd leech ; 🌊

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

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

You smiled.

You then smiled sinisterly..

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

HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY??

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

"Eat my brethren."

He paused.

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

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

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

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

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

Little One

summary : wanderer stumbles upon a surprise— a child, specifically. he does what he believes is right.

contains : an abandoned toddler ; the drabble is set to take place in the period after the 'inversion of genesis' interlude quest

word count : 1k

The bustle of Sumeru City once night fell was nothing more than a hassle for Wanderer. The calls of the merchants and the chatters of the common folk were too loud. The wilderness beyond the city, however, was welcoming. Unlike the outdoors in Inazuma, thunder and lightning didn't follow his every step, and the serenity in silence was all he could ask for after hours of buzzing akademiya scholars.

He didn't venture out too far, for going south towards Gandharva Vile would only mean to walk into the forest rangers area, and north were too many hilichurl camps ready to disturb his peace. And so, his chosen path was towards Vissudha Field; not too far, but far enough.

Wanderer kicked at a stone at his feet, watching as it rolled downhill before claiming its place under a tree. From here, he could see the city without having to hear the unwanted banter between customers and merchants over prices, or the boastful bluffs of prideful scholars. To be alone meant to be at peace… or at least that was his belief.

Peace, what a delicate thing it is. Even the most insignificant of actions from anyone was enough to shatter it. But that only meant that you must treasure it, be careful with this fragile feeling.

The silence of the forest quickly disappeared and the Wanderer turned his head at the sound of crying. A scowl made its way to his face, but betraying his expressions, Wanderer got up. Earlier, he didn't have a destination nor a motive in mind, but now he moved with intentions to find out the source of the sound.

Any child could have run off from home while playing, only to be terrified once the moon rose. Wanderer picked up his pace, sensing the crying to come from somewhere near. Whatever was so terrifying about the this part of the forest? Definitely not the green grass nor the Sumeru Roses.

But those questions quickly dissipated when he spotted a child, far too young to have ran off— let alone walk— away from home. And... hilichurls. A 'tsk' left his mouth faster than he could think, and upon nearing the scene, he saw that the hilichurls simply stared, occasionally speaking something in a language long forgotten to time. And much to the Wanderer's surprise, the hilichurls merely walked off at the sight of him. Were the hilichurls only checking on the child for a moment? Hmm... maybe monsters too have their humanity. But those fleeting thoughts weren't much pondered upon because—

"Mama!" The child, now no longer crying, stretched out its hands towards him, as if asking to be picked up. Wanderer had never snapped his head in such a manner before.

"Who are you calling— ugh..." he sighed, knowing his words were futile, for they made no sense to the babbling baby.

"Mama?" The child once more said, this time as if discerning that the one present wasn't its mother. Wander sighed once more, kneeling down in front of the child.

"You're all dirty," he whispered, making note of the fresh dirt upon the child's hands and clothes. It wasn't long before it was left here, at the mercy of the wilderness. Not the smartest idea if anyone were to ask him.

"Were you too abandoned by your mother?" He asked, not anticipating an answer— not that the child had the ability to say anything other than—

"Mama..."

In the full moon's light, Wanderer was able to make out the tears filling the child's eyes, and he sighed once more.

"Such delicate beings humans are," he muttered, plucking a sweet flower from the ground before waving it in front of the child. Much to his expectation, the child had quickly forgotten the idea of crying as it stretched its hands above its head.

"Mama!"

Wandered furrowed his brows. Did this child even know what 'mama' was? Or did it just keep repeating what it heard? He wouldn't know.

A huff left his lips as Wanderer watched in amusement as the child took the sweet flowers from his hand, one hand clenching onto the stem of the flower, and the other taking his finger. But as soon as the child was occupied with the flower, a set of questions floated into his mind.

What should he do with the child? He couldn't leave it out for wild animals to find. But he had no business babysitting a child he didn't know. So, what now?

"Hey!" Wanderer tsked, pushing the hand of the baby away from its mouth using not more than his forefinger. He knew he had power to take down more than just humans, so to be with a child, he was more careful and cautious than he would accept he was.

"Flowers are not for you to eat," he scolded. What was he even doing, talking to a baby? But, much to his surprise, the baby blinked at him, then threw the flower down. Not what he meant for it to do, but a good enough try.

"Do I take you— why would I take you with me?" He thought out loud, waving a finger in front of the baby, amusing it just enough to keep it occupied. Should it start crying, it might attract more than just a few hilichurls.

"The traveller is a goody two shoes, but if I remember right, they are to leave soon— far too busy with journeying Teyvat to look after you." Despite his initial reluctance, it took not long for Wanderer to reach a decision.

  –

"Oh? Who is this little friend of yours?" Nahida turned around, hearing footsteps and the babbling of a baby.

"Someone," Wanderer answered half-heartedly before the child in his hands pulled at his hat, resulting in him making a sound alike the hissing of a cat.

"You didn't kidnap someone's child, did you?!" Came the yells of Paimon along with the traveller's stare, both astonished at the sight.

"If you're so smart, why don't you figure it out?"

A/n : I had this random thought: 'how would he behave with a child?' And that thought now resulted in this haha! I initially thought of Xiao in this scenario but ended up writing this first ( keep an eye out for the Xiao fic! )

Ps : I couldn't find of two pictures of wanderer with a similar colour scheme as my blog for making the headers... but i guess this works, kinda??? Oh and, if you liked this, then perhaps check out my Kazuha drabble!

I saw requests were open! I like to request PLATONIC! Lilia with a daughter (or child if you wanna make it gender neutral) who is like Ariel (the Disney princess)

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Soft platonic yandere content, fem reader, reader has red hair but that's the only physical description.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Lovely request, I hope you like it! <3

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Lilia Vanrouge was known for many things; mainly for being a general, the brother of Meleanor, guardian of Prince Malleus, and a loving father. His daughter, similar to Ariel, had beautiful red hair, an adventurous spirit and a kind heart. He had found her soon after finding Silver, lying dormant above the lake, a beautiful green tail revealing to him what you were.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ However, the strange part was that your parents weren't around. No matter how much he called or dived, he hadn't found them anywhere and Lilia was a fairy, who should he turn to to report a missing mermaid child? He did what fairies do and stole you (although if anyone asked, he would say he just adopted you).

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A traveler and connoisseur, he knew a thing or two about potions. And that's how he gave you legs and what an idea that was! As soon as you learned to walk, you couldn't stop running, dragging Silver with you wherever you went. It was tiring to take care of you, but Lilia loved it. You and Silver were the best part of his day, and the memories he forged with both of you was something he would never forget.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Since you were little, you have shown a fascination with the aquatic world, always asking your father about the fish, the algae and the tides. Somehow, he supposed, you knew your home was down there and swimming came naturally to you.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Lilia, although protective, never contained your curiosity. He taught you how to fight and defend yourself, but he also encouraged your passion for music and exploration, preferring that over you wandering aimlessly or swimming, afraid that you would simply disappear, even more if you knew the truth. Nights in Briar Valley are often filled with the sound of your songs, which are reminiscent of the old ballads Lilia used to hear on his travels. Your voice is soft to his heart, like a promise of an old friend.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Despite growing on the cottage, isolated from everyone except your father and brother, you captives everyone who meets you for the first time. Your red, beautiful hair makes everyone turn around to admire and when you sing, they are hypnotized by you - even if you don't why that happens, though it's just your mermaid voice acting.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Lilia likes to tell his old stories of battles and magic to you and Silver, while you, in return, like to talk about the ancient and mysterious artifacts you found during your dives. Lilia helps you organize your items, listening to how much you like your little collection of things.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Overall, he is a very sweet and doting father. He let you run free knowing full well he can take you home if you ever strayed away, if you ever feel hurt if you didn't know you too were adopted. And if this do happens, he sooth and comfort you. You are family and family stay together.

"She'd like you more if you were nicer to her" -Drabble

Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem! Reader

The words that his subordinate had said weighed heavily on him. Nice? He was nice. Scaramouche was always nice to you. He provided you with hot meals, a warm place to rest your head, and clothes on your back. Better than those rags you were wearing when he met you in Mondstadt.

All he asked for in return was your love and affection, which you rarely gave to him without him ordering it first. But he wanted you to do it because you wanted to. As nice as your touch was, it was better when he didn't have to threaten you for it.

“Good evening, my lord,” you bowed to him as he sat in his office. He called for you and you came running quickly, something that took months of work before you got it right.

“Raise your head,” he ordered and you did so promptly.

The kimono he has you wearing was truly a work of art. A deep, dark purple that matched the shade of his hair, with lighter purple flowers across the fabric. How could he not be considered nice when he worked so hard to have such art on your body?

He reached to his side and pulled out a flower he'd gotten for you. It was just sitting haphazardly at his desk, amongst all his papers and documents. The blossom looked a little weak and it'd lost a few petals, but it was fine nonetheless.

“Take it,” he said. You took the flower from his hand and held it like you didn't know what to do with it, only that you were holding it because he told you to, “We'll have our dinner together in the parlor, I've hired someone to play music for us. You like the shamisen, don't you?”

You nodded your head quickly, but that only made him raise an eyebrow, “Don't shake your head at me like a wet dog. You have a mouth, use your words!”

Your body stiffened at his harsh tone, a sight he was used to seeing of you,“Yes. I like it, my lord.”

“Good. I'll see you then,” he picked back up the document he was reading and waved his hand at you, telling you to leave, “You're dismissed.”

You bowed once more and scurried out of the room like a little mouse. He scoffed while still thinking about what was said to him earlier. He was obviously nice to you. Those who couldn't see it were stupid.