In fact, usually it was him that got jealous. You remember all the nights where you had to assure Scara that it was really him, the imperfect divine puppet, that you want.
Something has been irking you recentently though.
Your partner that you've been together with for literal years, that has been with you through everything just like you have been there for him, has been whaffling on about some woman.
Not only has he been rambling about this woman, he has been way too nice with his words, and sometimes even straight up wrong.
Your eye twitches each time he calls Haypasia "his first follower" when you have clearly been by his side for way longer. She wasn't even there yet when the first prototype of his soon-to-be archon form was constructed. And she cetrainly wasn't when he desperately needed someone to hold together the pieces of his delicate self.
So pray tell you why has he been talking about her this much?? What does she have that makes her oh-so loyal to the point where he seems to forget about how you have been there with him all along?
It can't be the hideous green hair, that's for sure.
You sigh as he adds another point his current ramble. Can't he tell that you're agitated by all this? It's like he's barely been paying attention to you ever since she came into the picture.
Your relationship is not so fragile that a mere scholar from sumeru can ruin it, right...?
And yet you're somehow worried about bringing this up to him. You know you should.
"Haypasia said something interesting today"
"She looked into my consciousness and saw my past"
"My first follower is so devoted, it's precious, really"
Devoted.
Precious.
What a joke. You feel your eyebrows twitch downward.
A dead cold grip catches your wrist. It's not painful, but it snaps you back into the moment. You were fidgeting.
Scara is staring at you. Unblinking. He's long stopped masking his puppet mannerisms in front of you.
"Where did your mind wander off to this time?", he asks flatly. "I was speaking."
Your mouth opens, but out comes only an illegible stutter. The idea of a reply that got stuck on its way.
You clear your throat and say, "I'm listening."
"No", his fingers tighten around your wrist, it's like he wants to shake you back into reality, "You're not."
The pressure of his stare and insistency make you crack.
"I am", you snap, irritatedly adding before you can stop yourself, "I just don't like hearing you go on and on about how amazing she is."
He stays silent for a moment. Then shifts slightly.
"...Her?" He sounds near incredulous, hard to believe considering his endless praise of that woman.
You roll your eyes. "Yes, Haypasia. It's like you're being dull on purpose."
He's still quiet, for a second you think you went too far.
Then Scara lets out an exhale through his nose. He's amused (relieved).
"You're jealous", he realizes with the smuggest, most self-satisfied grin ever.
Your face errupts in flames.
You sputter, before admitting, "Okay so maybe I amâ"
"Maybe??", he laughs in disbelief at the sheer audacity to downplay this. Not only do your feelings matter, he also gets to witness you being jealous for once? And you're trying to undermine this? Yeah good luck with that.
"Shut up", you glare.
He keeps laughing.
"And you even called me dull, how cute", he covers his mouth, yet you can still see his grin, "I should make you jealous more often."
You repeat, this time slightly more agitated, "I said shut up."
"You've been sitting here drowning in your own thoughts for 10 minutes, you think I couldn't feel it?" The question is serious despite his amused tone.
You cross your arms, looking at him accusingly. "You didn't seem to feel it when you were still talking."
"Believe it or not, I did", he shrugs, before adding smugly, "Wouldn't have guessed that my precious Doll of all people would get jealous though."
"Your 'precious Doll' has feelings too", you frown. He is taking this seriously in his own way but that alone doesn't make your uncertainty disappear.
"Yes but there's nothing to worry about for you", he says in a more sincere tone.
"You called her your first follower", you point out.
He raises a brow, confused. "Well she is?"
"What, and I'm nothing?"
"You're my equal."
You pause. He did always make a point to talk about Haypasia like she's below him. You have just been too busy focusing on the fact that he was talking about her at all.
You feel a cold hand on the side of your face. It's soft.
"You weren't listening earlier", he says with the same resolute softness that adorns his hold, "Comparing yourself to her is insulting. A god has hundreds of thousands of devotees. Her being the first to realise my divine greatness doesn't make her any different from the rest to come."
You blink. Him reframing it like that does shift your perspective. You lean into his hand as he continues to talk.
"She saw my past but she wasn't actually there when it mattered", he says, leaving out the obvious. It was you who was there.
COME CLOSER, BITE, & SHOOT ME! | Yandere Lohen x gn! Reader pt. 1
art by: illpenguinn
Being good with a bow and arrow is impressive. Hitting a target is what all archers are trained to do. Being perfect at it is another matter entirely. He watchesâ no, he studies you during training, thinking of different ways to make you perfect.
Maybe an apple will finally get you there. Maybe that's not really the point at all.
MC Archer in Training Reader! x Yandere! Lohen
Words: 2875 (unedited)
It was the 23rd hour of the night.
The moon had around crossed more than halfway, hanging low and swollen against the pitch-black sky. The archery training range had been emptied out a long time ago for everyone else who had actual common sense to go home and rest.
Torches that aligned the far wall swayed side by side, weakly wavered against the never-ending nights breeze that accompanied the training, burning slowly down to their last quarter. Nobody had replaced them. Nobody thought they had to.
The arrow whirls. Piercing against all forces of the wind at the correct velocity, like it always had. You knew the way of the winds and how they shifted during any time you needed to draw back your bow to hit a target.
You knew this wind, the particular way it shifts through and carried through your arrow at this hour, at this range. You knew it perfectly the way you knew the weight of your own hands since the moment you held a bow and arrow at five years old.
Yet, it never landed how you wanted it to.
Never how he wanted it.
The arrow lands left of the centre. Not by much. A finger's width, maybe even less than that.
You stare at it. A muscle twitched under your eye.
Any other archer who had your aim would have already left by your third arrow at noon.
You didn't.
Any archer who had watched you shoot today who witnessed any of any of your shots during this entire day would have even called you exceptional. Gifted was the most common word people used when to describe you.
They would have showered you with praises and buttered you up with Sweet Madame's or covered all your drinks at the Cat Tail's for at least a month â rubbed you on the shoulder at the bar and told you the centre of the rings was splitting hairs. They would have meant it.
Lohen said nothing.
He had said nothing more than a word after every single hit for the past 8 hours in the specific way of he expected more. He wanted more from you, he knew you could do it. You had began to learn the differences in the types of silences and what they meant after training with him for so many days consecutively.
This silence meant, again.
You nock another arrow into your bow. Draw. Release.
Left of centre again.
You hear him exhale behind you, not the impatient kind, the I want better, so do it kind.
"Again,"
You crack your neck. Side to side. Okay. This time. This is the shot.
You draw.
Hands, fingers, shoulders, everything had to be perfect now. You fixate on the target that mocked you with its bright red centre and rings. It was around forty meters out, painted onto Monstandt Oak wood, which you were painstakingly familiar with.
You can see the centre, no, you know the centre of that stupid circle. You've been looking at that stupid centre of the target on that stupid piece of wood for the entire day and now night.
Another breath.
Your eyes fixate on it, your body finds it â the composure, the balance, the focus of what it means to be the sharpshooter in the Knights of Favonius. You had aimed and dedicated your entire life to this. You had long gone, thrown away the very meaning and existence of exhaustion, the moment you decided that this was what you were going to be good at.
There were moments where your body would betray your mind, collapsed, bruised, beaten from stretching back the string that dictated life and death â but you always made sure that those limits never bothered you, especially in dire moments.
The way of using a bow and arrow lived and breathed inside every fibre of your being â you knew how a bow was meant to sound when it shot just the way you wanted it or the way the string of the bow pulled back, curving to the tips of your fingers just the way you wanted it to.
So you right then, more than ever decided that this shot, finally this shot⌠had to be it⌠this would hit right in the centre, perfectly.
Except something shifts.
The same small thing. At the very last second, the same small shift â a very annoying something that had been messing up every single shot of yours for the entire day. You knew it wasn't your hands nor your eyes or the wind. It was something that lived deeper inside of it, the part of the shot that happens after the decision and before the release to land.
Release.
The arrow hits the right side of the centre.
Different side. Same exact distance off.
"You're pulling," Lohen comments in the same tone he had been using all day. Not a harsh or rough one.
"I know."
"You're pulling because you're hesitating."
"I knowâ"
"You don't know." He interrupts. He takes a step closer. You can see the type of shadow he casts next to you. He was still. Thinking. He moved in closer. "If you knew," he says, "you would have stopped doing that by the sixty-seventh arrow."
He moves closer. You hear it. The footsteps of a man who was thinking about something in the last few minutes from watching you to studying you â who had finally found something that kept him interested in you at this unholy hour at an empty training range when he could be anywhere else right now.
He could have been anywhere else.
He was here with you.
"Have you ever shot a live target before?"
You look at him.
Then you immediately wish you didn't. He was close. You were used to him standing by close to you, long hours in the range with just the two of you â observing every little detail about you moved and worked with a bow and arrow like any normal instructor was normal. But he was especially close now. You needed a second.
The pale teal-grey of his hair in the low torchlight, slightly roughed up from the long hours of movement and demonstration for the younger knights. They were never his favourite anyway.
The red of his gradient violet eyes looked warmer than you thought they looked at the distance you were used to seeing them at. His iris' were truly unique with a burning blood red that seemed to gaze into you â your chest doing something undecided that you had not agreed.
You look slightly down at the armour laid across his chest which marked his rank before anything else about him did, plated with a white gold across his chest. You knew what he looked like. You had saw him everyday. Today you had stood next to him for the past six hours.
Then you look away.
Your teeth found their way to the soft inner part of your cheek.
You reach for another arrow instead of answering, which is an answer in itself â from this particular quality of his silence then as he watched you move â you knew that he received it as his answer.
You adjust yourself back up straight. Rolling your shoulders back, posture straight, core tightened. Your fingers latch onto the delicate, familiar string once more.
He shifts.
He reaches past you.
Not for a bow.
But for the bright red apple that had been sitting on the table near the range's edge all day. You had noticed the apple early on during training and thought nothing of it.
His gloved hand picks it up. Throws it up in the air with ease. Turns it once in his hand and then looks at you.
His eyes are still on your face.
You still don't look directly at him, busying yourself with placing the arrow correctly. You hear him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth before moving.
"Again," he says again, but this time there was something different in his voice that wasn't there the previous shots that he had deemed unworthy for someone like you.
His voice had something almost like anticipation, boiling underneath the surface that was slowly making its way up. Something he wanted to try with you. An unfamiliar warmth made its way to the back of your neck, warm â nothing that had to do with the torches.
You draw.
You do not look him.
You look at the target.
That was when his presence by your side began to disappear â unlatching the wooden fence gate. He had entered the shooting range. The forbidden area.
Your lips part, mouth slightly open.
He continues inwards.
He paces his steps carefully, one by one, into the shooting area. The shooting range of the archery arena itself had strictly prohibited any person from going in, especially when there is an active archer present with a bow drawn.
That rule was implemented long ago when a drunken bard decided it would be good to hold 6 beers simultaneously at the same time and tell all the new trainees to shoot them off his body. But tonight, there was an exception made for Vice-Captain Lohen of the Knights of Favonius.
He reaches the wall; he's now fifty meters away from you.
Fifty metres from where the circular target is.
You stared.
He lifts his boot to the edge of the wood like it weighed nothing to him and shoves. The scrape of the wood against the stone cuts through the quiet night of the range â sharp and piercing, the sound deeply disturbing something deep inside you.
Your eyebrows pull together in concern. Your arm doesn't move still. The bow stayed drawn, the arrow nocked in place, ready at any moment because your body had better discipline than your mind did right now, which was doing something very annoying.
You couldn't look away. You couldn't help but put your bow down.
You were aware that you should. Every instinct that you had cultivated was screaming at you to do so. A bow drawn, an archer actively aiming, someone entering the range â these were rules that every single archer knew by the back of their mind that they needed to pull back.
You prided yourself on the reputation you had built, following all these rules perfectly, knowing when enough is enough and when to subject yourself to the appropriateness of a situation that required it. Similar to how one knew when to bow and curtsey when greeting a person of higher status.
And strange enough, there you were, knowing that absolutely none of it mattered right then because Lohen of the Knights of Favonius' Vice Captain had decided to walk to the very far end of your shooting range, in the dark, letting himself be the target.
And apparently, you, a well-known, refined archer who had sworn loyalty and protection to the entirety of the knights and Monstadt, were just going to let that exact thing happen with no struggle.
He turned around.
Fifty meters away. The dim torchlight doesn't exactly reach him. You could still see the haunting whiteness of his collar that sharply pointed towards the tips of his neck, highlighting a side of thick black choker that taunted your sharp arrow. The rest of him was left up to the shadows and your imagination.
His eyes find yours across the distance as if he had always known exactly where you were, as if it was something immediate at the back of his head.
You swallow. You felt it happen, a thick weight pulling down your throat, which made you also suddenly more hyper aware of your own pulse in a way that makes you want to look away, drop your bow, and you still don't
His hand, the free one, hangs loose on his side. Relaxed. He has never once in all the hours of training today looked completely at ease like this, and it was the most infuriating thing about him. He would never lose his temper; he was completely calm, still, as if calculating all the judgments he had made about you in the back of his mind before you had even made your shot.
And now, it was somehow even worse when he's fifty meters away and holding a fruit between his fingers in the dark, like this is the most perfectly normal, most reasonable idea to ever exist to improve your aim.
Slowly, he raises the apple towards his mouth.
Not quickly. Slowly.
The hand with the apple slowly reaches up towards his chin. Slowly. Precise. In the way that he had thought about this for a while now. The kind of slow that seemed to be at his own pleasure, that in some twisted way he was enjoying this and had thought about this moment for a long time now before he decided it was now the right time to do it.
He knew what you thought of this; he exactly knew what it would look like from where you were standing, and at the same time, he knew you could do absolutely nothing about it. How exciting.
The apple meets his lips â holds it there â perfectly at the edge.
He settles the apple carefully between his teeth.
He does not look away from you.
The bow still drawn.
Your fingers are still on the string.
You are still holding onto form and doing everything technically correct, your hold was correct, your posture was correct â but the heart slamming against your ribs was wrong â the beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck were wrong.
It was as if your body knew something that the rest of you was still pretending not to know, which was that this isn't some simple training exercise anymore. This was serious. It had been serious for at least the last minute now.
He raises two fingers. Casual.
Go on then.
His eyes don't leave yours. You don't leave his.
Through the length of the arrow with your bow still held high, you found him. The bow knew where to go â it always did that, which was the problem, but that was not just the problem. The tip of the arrow found the space just above the apple, above his jaw and held there still and frozen, like everything you had known became wrong. Fifty meters of the night's air were between you.
You shake your head, your lip stammers before you, "No,"
The word left you before you could think properly. No. It came out, struggled, bubbled out deep from inside somewhere in your chest, you could not dig out â the part that you had pushed down again and again and had not once broken or complained or said anything about.
You lowered your bow. Your body thanked you. Your mind didn't.
Your fingers felt the tension leave the string, and then slowly leave your shoulders. Across fifty meters of silence, Lohen watched you do all this. He did not move. He did not lower the apple. He only waited the way he always waited when he knew something good was about to come.
His brows lift, just a little. Still apple in teeth.
"Lohen. No." You repeat, easier this time.
You shake your head. "This isâ I'm not doing this." Your free hand gestures towards him up and down. "I'm tired, I can't do this right now. You need to come back over here. This is crazy." The sound of your free arm slapped down against your thigh in defeat.
Though from a distance, you could still see the edges of his lips curving slightly. He's still looking at you.
He takes the apple from his mouth just for a moment to speak.
"Is it."
It came out not as a question, but as a statement. A messed-up statement that messed with your head as you scrambled your exhausted brain into rationalising a reasonable explanation for why he had suddenly decided to do this. And why he looked so happy doing it.
"Yes, it is."
"Then I can't wait for you to shoot that arrow straight into my mouth."
Almost a laugh, excited.
You freeze. He puts the bright, stupid red fruit that had been taunting you the entire hour back into his mouth. His hand slowly crept upwards â forward towards you once more, this time with a stare that made your blood run cold â his smile now stretched across his pale skin, the curve of his smile now above the apple.
Out of all the hours of the day you had been training today, you had never once seen him smile⌠in this way. In fact, no one had ever smiled like this.
Not when your vice captain had practically offered himself up as live bait, only an arrow tip away from death to being served on a platter with a fat, round apple between his lips.
Two of his fingers curl upwards. Serious. Gestures again.
Go on.
âââąââ°ââ
A/N: just saw some leaked clips of Lohen.... why is he literally so hot??? LIKE HIS ULT?? AND IDLE WITH THE DAGGER AND POISON?? OMFF
ANYWAY HAHHA kewk please lmk if you've enjoyed or want more of yandere lohen,,, i promise part 2 will explore a little more freakier side of him - only if u guys want it ofc HAHHA ;(
thank you again for the support on flins! I hope you've enjoyed~
Summary: Scaramouche pulls you aside after testing his patience long enough, and it seems youâre an interesting plaything to him. Both good and bad things can be called gifts; his âgiftâ to you is a kiss.
extra: wc: 2k, cross posted onto ao3. art credits goes to __ixyo on twt!
warnings: pairing is scaramouche / gn!reader. other than that i dont think theres anything else? just scara being annoying and mean, suggestive but not really. note at the end
Scaramouche's hands rested on your hips, firm. Steady. And then they trailed up to your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip.
Despite the fact his touch felt akin to that of a ghosts, there was a barely noticeable tremble in his own hands. Scaramouche was quick to conceal it just as quickly as he revealed his unease.
His eyes were sharp. The bright red eyeliner he wore certainly didn't help; his gaze was practically burning into your face.
"I-I've never done this beforeâ"
"I know," Scaramouche said wittingly. "But you want this. Don't you?"
You nodded. "Yes, I'm just nervous."
You couldn't have ever imagined making such a ridiculous interactionâ let alone with your superior, the 6th. Having spent your days working under the short tempered Harbinger, you had naturally grown exhausted of his treatment of everyone around him (including you, of course.) Every interaction with Scaramouche felt like that of an owner and its misbehaved dog. One instance, he had yelled and nearly killed you for not properly handing off a heavy wooden crate. The contents inside of said crate? You had no clue. After all, you weren't 'important enough' to deserve that information.
"Your incompetence astounds me. Tell me, is it really that difficult to just do your job? I should have you killed for being such a useless mutt."
Scaramouche's behavior towards you was nothing short of unadulterated hatred. Yet it was this fact alone that had you wrapped up in some sort of twisted love for him. You could get yelled at him as many times as he so pleased, and you'd take it allâ simply because of your silent devotion to him, no matter the cost.
It felt like Scaramouche had some sort of vendetta against humans despite being one himself. Or at least you think he's humanâ it's not an unfamiliar concept to you, and only something non-human could harbor that much hate for humans in their body.
Even so, you couldn't wrap your head around it. How could such a beautiful being be so vengeful? He looked like he was crafted out of the most pristine porcelain.
At times, you found yourself staring at him.
Multiple times.
And each time you were caught, he'd glare at you and send chills down your spine, immediately straightening up and looking down. Anywhere, really, as long as you weren't looking at him anymore.
Yet this time, the Harbinger wasn't merciful enough to let you scramble away this time. Harshly grabbing you by the arm, he pulled you away from your assigned position and inside his quarters. Any onlookers had learned to turn away and accept your assumed fate.
Scaramouche's eyes narrowed at you, finally snapping you back into reality after spacing out for a few seconds too long, straightening yourself up yet again in his presence.
"Why? It's just me." Scaramouche's sugar coated words almost distracted you from the fact he could, once again, have you killed in a few seconds without anyone knowing. "I'm being very lenient with you right now, you know. You're always ogling at me. Maybe giving you what you want will finally make you a much more pragmatic agent for once."
You couldn't decipher what was going on in his head, the glint in his eyes. In spite of that, he already had you figured out. The only words you could use to describe it was annoyance and resentment. He was clearly entertained by your reactions, though.
Despite the rather suggestive predicament you were in with him, your fate laid in the palm of his hands. Scaramouche dangled it around like a toy, and he knew you knew that. The heat that crawled up your neck as he leaned in closer to your face was the equivalent to a beautiful secret blooming like a flower.
"âŚForgive me for my crude response, my lord, but that's exactly why I'm nervous."
At this revelation, Scaramouche could only let out a breathy chuckle. "Really? What a cute thing you are."
If it were anyone else, the comment would sound cheesy and romantic. Unfortunately for you though, this is a Fatui Harbinger. And his tone was for a fact not meant to be regarded as such.
There's a short period of stillness between you and him, Scaramouche breaking that peaceful silence as he sighs in exasperation, his gaze zeroing in on the your lips. It felt like he was a predatorâ slowly approaching his prey.
Your breath got caught in your throat as Scaramouche's fingers traced your jawline.
"You don't deserve my favor. Don't you dare misinterpret this either," he mumbled. "It should be considered a miracle you've even found yourself beneath me like this. As for me⌠I'm just appeasing my boredom, to put it simply."
As you took in his words, your hands found themselves wandering towards his sidesâ trying to anchor yourself mentally and physically. Scaramouche perceptively noticed your movements and quickly shot you down by gripping your wrist, shoving it down with a tight squeeze.
"Imbecile."
You whispered out a small apology before moving your hands down to your sides awkwardly. It was clear Scaramouche wanted to be the one in control here. And really, who were you to deny him? No, correction, how could you even deny him? Its not like you had any authority over him. You were his prey, after all.
But most importantly, you couldn't throw away this opportunity either.
Scaramouche wasn't wrong in the slightest about you and your attitude towards him. A kiss from him of all people? You'd probably lap at his feet for the rest of time and do the best you can under him.
Yes, an unquestioning dog.
It's not like you're all too far off from that label to begin with though. Working under the Fatui wasn't exactly the most rewarding job for the most part, having to answer to anyone above you without opposition unless you were the one in power.
Once again, you're snapped back to realityâ instead with a harsh slap to your cheek this time.
"Stop looking at me with that idiotic look, you foolish good-for-nothing cretin," Scaramouche hissed. "You are sorely mistaken if you truly believe you can exit my quarters alive without accepting my offer. Do you think I'd let you leave with this 'dirt' on me? Hah. It's easier to control you if you accept my gracious offer. And I know you want it, so act like it."
"Okay, okay!" You stammered. "This is just⌠really intimidating."
Scaramouche's eyes narrowed at you for a moment before huffing, his displeasure and irritation evident as he analyzed your appearance.
The Harbinger is met with your fear-stricken face laced with your silent affection for him, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. Your body trembles, yet seems to ache for more of his touchâ your arms glued to your sides.
This look is nothing new to him.
And yet, it disgusts him.
It disgusts him seeing how humans react to his actions. How they yearn to pry him apart and play a character from a fairy taleâ fantasizing about buttering him up and being the one to receive his loyalty and undivided attention.
But who said he can't toy with their feelings?
Even so, he finds himself experiencing a pang of quiet terror. You weren't aware of it, especially with the way he was acting, but he had never actually kissed anyone before until now. Scaramouche buried the feeling in his chest before he can even process it. After all, he was having much more fun toying with you and making you wait for him.
However, he had grown bored of continuing this little game.
"âŚMy lord?"
Before you could process any lingering thoughts you had following your words, Scaramouche closed his eyes and pressed his lips against your ownâ the flow in your mind coming to an abrupt stop at the surprisingly soft sensation. His hands traced down to your shoulder, lightly squeezing your side while your own palms dug into the fabric of your clothing.
Scaramouche's lips moved slowly against yours, trying to find the 'correct' way to do this had made his eyes furrow. Albeit his uncertainty, he got the hang of it rather quickly when he remembered he had the upper hand here. Since it was still his first time though, he ended up putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure onto your lips. But you were none the wiser; its not like you knew what an experienced kiss felt like anyways. Your lips mirrored his own in response. If anyone was watching, it probably looked like you two were having some competition on eating each others faces off.
Scaramouche masked his lack of confidence quite well once both of his palms began to run down your body, all the way down to your thighs. You could feel him grin into the kiss as he began to teasingly rub his hands in small circular motions, pressing you closer into him. Everything around you already felt muted, yet so overwhelming.
For being such an imposing and terrifying Harbinger known for his cruelty, he smelled quite nice. Being this close to him meant you could smell the faint traces of whatever expensive scents he used. Unfortunately, you couldn't pay too much attention to them anyways since all you could think about was how peculiarly wet the kiss felt. It's not like you didn't know kisses could be wet, it was just unexpected.
Luckily for you, being human meant you needed air and you could get away from all of this.
You peeled away from his lips despite how wrong it felt, taking in some air. Except this time, it only feels like you're taking him in instead. Your disheveled appearance was a sight to behold, and it laid right in the palm of Scaramouche's hands. Scaramouche, on the other hand, barely looked bothered! An amused expression painted the Harbingers features at your unkept self.
Surprisingly, his response wasn't as insulting as you had anticipated. "Hmf, had enough already?"
"I just needed some fresh air, my lord," you slightly sputtered.
In this brief period of serenity, you stared at Scaramouche for a few seconds to truly take in his appearance as well. Being so close to him was a once in a lifetime opportunity for sure, and you weren't gonna get another chance anytime soon.
His once piercing gaze was softened, his lips seemingly a bit swollen and muggy. For just a few moments, he didn't seem as striking anymore but rather vulnerable.
Unfortunately, everything comes to an end. Scaramouche quickly hid any emotion he may have revealed with his typical scowl once he noticed your dazed expression on him. "Pull yourself together. It was just a kiss," he said.
"Yes⌠Just a kiss."
Without realizing it, your gaze found itself right back at his lipsâ unconsciously longing for another taste. When Scaramouche noticed this, he made his own distaste known, disgust once again adorning his features. "Tch. At least be honest with yourself, you know you want it to mean more. Own it. It makes you look less pathetic than you already are to me."
Harshly pushing you away, he spoke once more. "The greed you humans possess never fails to impress me. Go, get out of my sight. You don't deserve anything more from me," he grunted. "You're not getting anything out of me unless you impress me somehow. And fix yourself up before you leave. We don't want anyone getting the wrong idea, do we?"
You nod as you flatten out your clothing and hair, humming in response to his comment.
"I expect a response from you."
"âŚYes, my lord. I wont let anyone know what happened."
"Good."
You bowed down slightly to him before turning back around, pushing the large doors open as you ignored the looks from the passersby.
Once you had left his presence, Scaramouche's scowl didn't falterâ instead, it had deepened further onto his face. His boredom was satisfied, but it still didn't change the fact he absolutely detested the unknown feeling in his chest. The only way he could describe it was repulsion.
Yet even so, he wanted to explore this feeling. And he wanted to test it all out on you. It seemed he had found a new toy for him to play with, and you certainly wouldn't be the last.
âŚHe could still faintly taste you on his lips.
note: hi guyyyyysf its been a while amirite. sorry for the ten million people who begged me for boyfailure scara itll come maybe soon.. i have lots of drafts ive just kept to myself these past 2 years but i decided to post this one because why not
WARNINGS: SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Female reader, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment/Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour, Slowburn HARBINGERS MENTONED LATER. 30+ part series.
Word count: 7.5k
SYNOPSIS: You never asked to be anything more than human â but the frozen wilds of Snezhnaya had other plans.
When you are found collapsed in the snow, it isnât a king or a god who finds you. Itâs a battered Fatui grunt: a nameless recruit worked to the bone, with a warmth that refuses to go cold. Against orders, they hide you away. They feed you, tend to you, nurse you back from the edge, offering help and a loyalty that asks nothing in return. They donât know what you are. They donât care. To them, you are simply someone worth saving.
But not everyone is so blind.
Word of your strange presence spreads, drawing the gaze of a Harbinger â a force of awe, reverence, and ruthless devotion. They recognize something divine the moment they see you. To them, you are a long-lost miracle. A creator returned. A power meant to be claimed, protected, worshiped.
And they will not leave without you.
When the search closes in, the soldier helps you escape. Together, you flee toward Nod-Krai, where the Fatuiâs reach will hopefully thin and the truth can stay buried a little longer.
You believe youâre only trying to survive.
The world is looking for its creator.
It was cold.
The air stung against your skin and seeped through your clothes, settling deep inside you.
After a while, warmth felt unreal, like something you used to know but couldnât remember anymore.
You moved forward slowly, arms pulled tight around yourself, boots dragging through the snow. Everything blurred into white and grey sky thick with clouds, the horizon lost in the drifting snow.
Each breath you took seared your lungs, sharp and metallic.
It didn't even feel like you where breathing air anymore, it felt like glass.
You didn't know how long you had been walking.
Minutes?
Hours?
Days?
You where losing consciousness every few seconds.
There was a heavy, dragging emptiness in your mind where the memory should have been.
Where anything should have been.
Your name.
How you got here.
What happened.
Gone.
Every few steps, something slipped through the dark of your mind. Brief flashes of color, half-formed sounds. They vanished before you could hold onto them, leaving no meaning behind.
Your head felt heavy, your thoughts slow, and each time your vision dimmed, it took effort to pull yourself back. The fragments kept coming, unfamiliar and useless, it was as if they belonged to someone else. You grit your teeth and pressed on, trying to think logically.
Find shelter.
Find people.
Don't stop walking.
But the snow clung to you like hands pulling you down. Your muscles ached, stiff and slow, barely obeying the frantic commands firing off in your skull.
Your vision blurred at the edges - a slow, creeping tunnel vision that turned the landscape into an endless smear of white on white.
At some point, you realized your couldn't feel your fingers, That screamed something was very, very wrong.
You stared down at your hands, flexing them weakly and watched as clumsy, delayed movements answered you back.
You felt, absurdly, like you were watching yourself from far away.
Like a stranger wearing your body.
You definitely had hypothermia. Severe hypothermiaÂ
You couldn't even feel scared, you where too tired, just heavy acceptance that this was happening.
A gust of wind slammed into you, staggering your body sideways. You threw your arms out instinctively, tried to catch yourself - and slipped.
You hit the snow with a muffled thump, your limbs sprawling awkwardly.
For a moment you just laid there, the sky a swirling grey-white blur above you, the snow slowly soaking through your clothes.
Get up, your mind whispered, urgent and thin.
Get up, get up, get up-
You rolled onto your hands and knees, trembling with the effort.
Snow clung to your face, your sleeves, your legs.
Your body screamed at you to stop - to rest - to just let go.
But some stubborn, primal part of you - forced you upright again.
You staggered forward.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The storm rose around you like a living thing.
The wind howled between distant ice-cracked rocks, screaming high and shrill like mourning pipes.
Snow whipped across the ground in long, frantic streaks.
Somewhere above, the clouds twisted and churned - angry, low, bruised with strange colors you couldn't name.
You pressed onward, eyes half-lidded, mind slipping in and out of lucidity.
Were those lights in the distance?
A village?
A fire?
You squinted, heart lurching - but when you blinked, there was nothing there. Just more snow, more darkness.
The realization hit you with the force of a punch:
There was nothing.
Did you imagining it?
You were alone.
The exhaustion slammed into you then, sudden and overwhelming.
Your legs folded underneath you, a puppet with its strings cut.
You crumpled into the snow, your arms splaying out, your body sinking deep into the freezing drift.
The cold no longer hurt.
It was... gentle now.
Soft.
It whispered to you:
Rest. Sleep. It's easier this way.
You tried to lift your head, but it was too heavy.
Tried to call for help, but your mouth wouldn't form the words.
Only a soft, broken exhale escaped you - a ghost of a sound, eaten instantly by the storm.
Your cheek pressed against the snow.
Oddly, it felt warm now.
Not burning, not freezing - just... warm.
The last thing you saw was the sky -
not black, not blue, but a strange, swirling grey, as if the world itself had been smudged out by an uncaring hand.
You let your eyes drift shut.
The snow rose up and swallowed you whole.
(Pov change)
Alexei Morozov had been born in the cold.
Sometimes he wondered if that was why it didn't bother him as much as it should - why even now, trudging through a blizzard that could flay the skin off a man's bones, he only felt a dull, bitter resignation gnawing at him, instead of fear.
Snow whipped past his face in vicious gusts.
The scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose was soaked through, icy against his skin.
Each breath he drew rattled in his lungs, thin and burning.
His hands - wrapped in worn, half-frozen gloves - tightened around the shaft of his spear.
He hated this.
Not the cold, he'd lived with that his whole life - but the pointlessness of it.
Marching endless patrol routes around an empty wasteland.
Guarding nothing. Watching nothing.
Because that was what you got when you weren't one of the Chosen.
No Delusion.
No Vision.
No shining medals or proud family name.
Just Private Alexei Morozov, third son of a drunken blacksmith, slogging his guts out on the Tsaritsa's frozen frontiers.
He let out a slow breath through his teeth, watching it ghost into the air.
The blizzard roared louder around him, drowning out even the sound of his own boots crunching into the snow.
The world had shrunk to a little bubble of grey around him - a few feet in every direction - beyond which there was only screaming wind and shifting white.
He was supposed to complete his perimeter check.
Supposed to report back.
Supposed to do his duty.
He knew how it worked: complete the patrol, earn your ration tickets, earn your bed. Fail, and... well.
No one would miss him.
Morozov the Nobody, he'd heard one of the higher-ranked sergeants call him once, half-drunk and laughing.
Tch. What a bastard, he thought, letting out quiet sigh under his breath.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, grunting low in his throat, and pushed forward.
Half an hour more, maybe. Then he'd circle back to the outpost cabin. Maybe sneak an extra drink of the bad vodka stash they'd hidden under the floorboards. Maybe warm his half-frozen boots by the spluttering fire.
Maybe pretend, just for a few hours, that this life was worth something.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, not the usual color he was used to being out in these parts of the forest.
He almost missed it at first.
It was nothing - just a dark smear against the snow, small and unnatural - barely visible through the storm.
He blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his glove.
Still there.
His pulse spiked without warning. Instinct took over, drilled lessons surfacing all at once-move carefully, expect danger.
He shifted his grip on the spear, every nerve in his body coiled tight.
Enemy scout?
Bandit?
Frozen refugee?
Slowly, carefully, Alexei made his way closer.
The figure didn't move.
Closer still.
It wasn't an enemy.
Wasn't a bandit, or a rebel.
It was... someone - curled half-under a drift, limbs awkward and stiff.
A civilian.
Or at least, what looked like one.
Alexei crouched low beside the figure, peering through the swirling snow.
Their clothes were wrong - too thin, strange fabric, no furs, no armor.
Not even boots made for Snezhnaya's winters.
Who ever it was they must have been borderline suicidal wearing something like that in the dead of Snezhnayan weather.
Their skin was alarmingly pale. A kind of pallor that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They must have been our for for a hour or two.
He fumbled his gloves off with stiff fingers, pressed two against the side of their throat.
For one awful second, he felt nothing.
Then -
A flutter.
Weak. Thready. Barely there.
But alive.
Alexei swore under his breath, the words torn away by the wind.
What was he supposed to do?
Regulations said to detain unknown individuals.
Especially ones found this close to restricted patrol zones.
Which meant dragging this half-dead stranger back to the outpost...
Back when heâd been assigned under the Harbingerâs commandâScaramouche. A routine sweep, nothing special. The group of grunts he was working with found a lone figure wandering too close to a Fatui outpost, unarmed, confused, swearing theyâd taken a wrong turn.
Lost, maybe. It hadnât mattered.
Scaramouche hadnât even asked them any questions. He hadnât even raised his voice. Just a flick of his hand, a crack of electricity, and it was over.
No hesitation. No regret. The body was left where it fell, and the order was given to move on.
That was the rule. That was how things were handled.
Morozov swallowed, eyes flicking back to the stranger ahead of him.
Or worse, he thoughtâand this time, the words wouldnât leave his head.
He swallowed hard.
He didn't know why he hesitated.
Maybe it was the way they looked - not desperate, not dangerous.
He should have been used to this.
The Fatui made sure of that, grinding the reaction out of you until faces blurred and orders were just orders.
And yet.
For some reason, he couldnât move.
The thought of taking them back to camp turned his stomach. Something in his head kept pushing back, sharp and unformed, telling him not to do it.
He didnât understand it. He didnât try to. It was there anywayâinstinctive, insistent.
He glanced around - reflexively - though there was no one to see him.
Then, with a muttered curse, he shoved his spear into the snow and hooked his arms under the limp body.
They were terrifyingly light.
Like carrying a child.
Their head lolled against his chest, breath shallow and rasping.
Alexei gritted his teeth against the ache in his muscles, adjusted his grip, and started back toward the outpost cabin - not the main base.
No one needed to know about this.
The storm screamed louder, battering against him with every step, but he bowed his head and kept walking.
He was curious about the situation that could have landed them laying half dead in a snowbank. Or why there where in the forest during a snowstorm.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The weight in his arms was too small, too fragile. How long have they been out here to archive this light?
He tightened his hold instinctively, as if trying to shield them from the storm itself.
In the distance, barely visible through the snow, the crooked outline of the patrol cabin rose up - salvation of a sort.
Alexei trudged toward it.
He didn't know who he had found.
All he knew was that he couldn't let them die.
Not out here.
Not tonight.
The cabin door shuddered against the wind as Alexei shoved it open with his shoulder, the wood groaning in protest.
Inside, the air was only marginally warmer than the blizzard outside.
A battered iron stove sulked in the corner, its belly empty and cold.
The narrow bunk against the far wall was stripped down to threadbare bedding.
The place smelled of old smoke, frozen leather, and sweat.
But it was shelter. It would be good enough.
Alexei kicked the door shut behind him, letting the latch fall into place, and stumbled further in, the precious burden in his arms weighing heavier by the second.
He cursed again under his breath exhausted.
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell are they doing here?
He knelt down beside the bunk, as gently as he could, and eased the stranger onto it.
They didn't stir.
No protest. No groan.
Just a slow, rattling breath leaking from between cracked, dry lips.
He stripped off his gloves with numb fingers, then hesitated.
The stranger's clothes were soaked through - already half-frozen stiff.
If he left them like this, they'd die of hypothermia within the hour.
Alexei scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
He shouldn't even be doing this, hed he killed if his commanding officer found out about this. But something deep in his gut - that same old stubborn instinct - told him if he left them like this, he'd be digging his and their's grave by morning.
With a grunt, he set to work
First, the feet.
Bare. No boots, no protection at all. The skin was pale, cold to the touch, but not ruined. That alone didnât make sense.
Then the clothing.
Thin layers, soft and strange, clinging like silk. They shimmered faintly, catching the light where ice had settled along the folds. Heâd never seen material like itânot in Snezhnaya, not in any of the other nations. No padding. No fur. No protection. Nothing meant for this world.
He worked quickly, keeping his focus narrow. He didnât think about how cold they felt, or how faint their pulse was under his fingers. He just kept going.
Once he had them stripped to undergarments - not much better, but at least relatively (not really but he wouldn't strip them nude) - he pulled the thin blanket down from the bunk and wrapped it around them tightly, cocooning them against the cold.
The whole time, they didn't so much as twitch.
Alexei crouched back, sighing at this work.
Snow melted off his own uniform in slow, stinging drips. His fingers were stiff and clumsy. His legs ached. But he stayed kneeling there, watching them. Listening to the faint rise and fall of their breathing.
...
This was stupid. He knew it was.
He didnât do things like this. Helping people. He couldnât be bothered. Taking risks for people who werenât his problem was a waste.
The Fatui didnât reward that kind of behavior. Neither did Snezhnaya. You survived by keeping your head down and your hands clean. By walking past what didnât concern you.
He pushed himself upright, moving to the stove.
He fed it tinder and kindling from the battered supply crate beside it, then struck the flint.
Sparks leapt.
Caught.
The fire guttered into life with a low, sullen growl, casting flickering gold light across the dim cabin.
Alexei sat back on his heels, watching it for a long moment.
The simple, stupid comfort of fire.
The stranger shivered on the bunk - a tiny, unconscious jerk - and Alexei moved without thinking, dragging the rickety thing closer to the stove.
The legs screeched against the floorboards, but he didn't care.
Anything to get them warmer.
Anything to get that too-pale face to show a little more life.
The stranger shuddered violently, a low, broken sound tearing from their throat.
Alexei was at their side in an instant, dropping to one knee, gripping their shoulder through the blanket.
"Hey," he said gruffly.
Not expecting an answer.
Their head rolled weakly toward him.
For a moment - just a moment - their eyes cracked open.
Barely a sliver.
Their lashes rimed with frost.
Eyes dazed, unfocused.
But still - they looked at him. Kinda?
A rush of something hot and sick slammed into his gut.
He swallowed against it, trying to find words - anything - but before he could speak, their eyelids fluttered shut again.
Breath rasped in their throat.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and eased them back down against the bunk, adjusting the blanket tighter around their shoulders.
Something about them tugged at him.
"Stay with me," he muttered, the words rough and useless.
A prayer disguised as an order.
Alexei sat back on the floor, leaning against the bunk.
The fire crackled low and steady.
The storm raged outside.
Inside the cabin, the world had shrunk to the two of them.
To the fragile form lying limp on the bed.
It had been hours since he had dragged them in from the snow.
Hours of watching them, listening to their breath rasping in and out like the sound of the wind itself.
The steady rhythm was both comforting and unnerving.
As if they were clinging to life only by sheer stubbornness.
But how long could they hold on like this?
A tightness curled in Alexei's chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He rubbed a hand against his face - rough, unshaven - and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.
He couldn't sit here any longer.
Pacing the cabin felt like the only way to make the tension inside him bearable.
His boots scuffed against the floorboards as he moved from one end of the cabin to the other, his thoughts never still.
What kind of fool was he?
He was dead meat for sure by now, hours late, hours he had disappeared.
His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric of his uniform.
There had been something in their gaze - something fragile and haunting, and yet there was a strange sort of strength behind it. Something that had made him feel... protective. He hadn't wanted to leave them out there in the storm, to die alone, buried beneath the snow.
Was this a kindness?
Or some kind of idiocy?
Alexei scowled at the floor, kicking a stray boot out of his path, and walked back to the stove.
His hands fumbled for a moment.
Not really knowing what he was looking for - something, anything to break the silence that seemed to suffocate the air.
He found an old, dented tin of broth in the corner, shoved into a cracked shelf along with some other remnants of past meals.
It was frozen solid... But hey, he wasn't picky.
With a curse, he tossed it into the pot, watching it melt under the heat of the stove, the sound of ice cracking sharply as it thawed. The smell was faint but comforting - the familiar scent of salted meat, old vegetables.
The clink of metal on metal filled the cabin, the fire's crackling a steady backdrop.
His eyes flicked over to the bunk.
The blanket still clung loosely around their frame.
They should be completly awake by now.
Alexei bit the inside of his cheek, biting back a growl of frustration.
He scraped together a rough bowl of broth once it was warm enough.
The tin had melted into something drinkable, though it wasn't much.
Moving back to the bunk Alexei sat down beside them and pulled them upright, bracing their back against his chest so they wouldn't slump as he turned them slightly to the side.r side to make it easier to feed them.
The motion seemed to stir them just a little - their brow furrowed, lips parted in a faint grimace. But they didn't wake.
....
How could he force someone to eat who couldn't even hold themselves up?
He let out a soft sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.
They needed food.
Alexei scooped up a bit of the broth and reached out carefully.
The warmth of the soup contrasted against the cool air in the cabin, and he moved the spoon toward their mouth, praying they would respond to something.
Just a little.
And then, with a tiny flicker - their lips parted.
Barely enough to allow the spoon in. They swallowed, the faintest of sounds escaping their throat.
It took several more spoonfuls, slow and careful, for the stranger to even begin to settle into the warmth of the food. But Alexei didn't move from his place at their side.
Every spoonful, every small shift in their body, felt like a fragile victory to poor old Alexei.
Their lips parted, and a weak, dry cough rattled in their chest. The sound scraped against Alexei's nerves, and his breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward catching their chin between his fingers.
"Hey," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Take it easy. Your safe" He frowned at himself for sounding so soft.
Their brow furrowed as they turned their head slightly, facing him more.
"Just... breathe," he murmured softly, his voice unsteady for reasons he couldn't quite place.
The stranger blinked, trying to focus. Their gaze flickered around the room, the same confusion in their eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable in the quiet.
"You should talk," Alexei said, his voice far too loud in the silence. "Tell me something. Anything."
There was no answer. Just the soft rasp of their breath. He cursed under his breath, frustration creeping in.
âDamn it,â he sighed.
He reached for the tin of broth again, the warmth still radiating from the stove. It would help, he knew. They needed more. He needed to make sure they didn't slip away while he was busy spinning in circles, second-guessing himself.
The stranger's mouth parted as they took the liquid, their lips dry and cracked.
A long time passed. The soup had finished, and the stranger was resting again, still too weak to do anything but let Alexei's care hold them together.
....
He didn't even realize he fell asleep waiting
Alexei was slouched nearby, half-sitting, half-slumped against the wall. He hadnât intended to sleepâjust to rest his eyesâbut exhaustion had won out somewhere in the early hours. Now his breath came shallow through parted lips, fogging faintly in the air. One arm lay crooked over his stomach, the other hanging limp at his side. His coat had slipped off his shoulder.
The girl still lay where he had left her, curled beneath his spare cloak and the bundled hide heâd dragged from a storage crate. Her features were finally starting to lose the pinched tension of fever, and her breathing had evened out in the last few hours. Heâd checked. Repeatedly.
He looked over and saw she was already awake, lying still and staring at the ceiling, clearly unaware of where she was.
Her gaze was unfocused, staring past the cracked ceiling beams at something only she could see. She blinked, slow and unsure, and when her eyes finally shiftedâcatching movement in the corner of her visionâher whole body tensed.
Alexei sat up straighter but didnât approach.
He saw it, clear as dayâthe tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands. The confusion. The fear.
She looked around the room, tense and confused, clearly having no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there.
Poor girl, he thought. She has absolutely no idea where she is. I can imagine waking up like that is one hell of start.
ââŚYouâre alright,â he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse. âYou're safe.â
She didnât answer. Didnât move. Her eyes were fixed on him now, wide and uncertain. She looked like she wanted to speak, but couldnât remember how. Maybe she didnât even know what to ask.
Alexei stayed where he was.
He could have stood, could have moved to check on herâbut some part of him knew better. She looked like a fawn cornered in a thicket. You didnât rush creatures like that. You let them choose.
He nodded once toward the fire. âItâs morning. The storm passed.â A pause. âI found you outside.â
Her lips partedâhe thought she might try to respond, but then she closed them again. She looked down at her hands instead. Pale fingers, raw from the cold. She moved them slowly, as if they werenât quite hers.
Alexeiâs throat tightened.
ââŚYou were half-frozen,â he added, quieter now. âDidnât think youâd wake up.â His hand shifted to his coatâhe hesitated, then reached to the floor beside him and picked up a metal cup. âWater?â
She blinked, eyes darting to it. Thenâhesitantlyâshe nodded.
He crossed the room in measured steps, careful not to startle her. Kneeling beside her, he offered the cup with both hands, keeping his eyes lowered. She took it, barely grazing his fingers, and the contact sent something sharp and quiet down his spine. He didnât know what it was.
She drank slowly. The water was lukewarm and faintly metallic, but she didnât seem to mind. She drained half of it before her strength gave out, and her grip loosened.
He caught the cup before it could fall and set it aside.
Silence again.
She looked at him nowâdirectly. Her eyes were⌠strange. Not in color or shape, but in depth. Like staring into a well that had no bottom.
Alexei held her gaze for a moment, then broke it.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he murmured, standing again. âYou need rest. Thatâs all.â
He moved back toward the hearth, crouching beside the fire to prod it with a bit of broken wood. The crackling resumed, a soft, comforting noise.
He didnât look back at her again until he heard fabric shift behind him. She was lying down, eyes half-lidded now, the warmth pulling her back under.
He hesitated, then grabbed his jacket and stepped back to her side. Gently, without speaking, he draped it over her againâtucking it beneath her chin to block the draft leaking through the cracked door.
The fire had begun to burn brighter again, spitting sparks into the stone hearth with every shift of the coals. Alexei sat crouched beside it, one knee bent, the other foot braced flat on the floor.
Behind him, She was still tucked beneath his jacket and the wool hide, her body curled small, like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
Outside, the world was pure white. The storm had moved on, but it left a silence so thick it pressed against the windows like a held breath. The snow had drifted high against the door; they'd be stuck here for a while. Not like they could possibly go anywhere else.
He would be dead meat if anyone from the fatui found him.
Alexei leaned back and exhaled.
He caught himself watching her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
It wasn't surprising, really. When you are snowed in and she was the only other person around, there wasn't much else to focus on.
Her skin was pale against the dark room. Her lashes stirred now and then, slow and unfocused, like she wasnât fully awake yet. She looked out of place in a way he couldnât explain, not matching the room or anything heâd known.
She looked fragile in the way something wasnât meant to be touched at all.
For instance is she where to stand next to a rugged looking man like myself, the contrast would be impossible to miss. Like sheâd been dropped into the wrong world entirely.
But he felt something more to her.
It wasn't his first time feeling something like this.
Heâd felt something like this before, once, during trainingâcrossing paths with a Harbinger
II Dottore. A scientist, obsessed with his work, experimenting on people while they were still alive.
The man carried a presence that cut straight through you, made it hard to think clearly. Standing near him felt like waiting for something terrible to happen, like disaster was already inevitable.rous, inevitable.
She carried a weight tooâbut different. It was subtle, insistent, drawing him closer instead of pushing him away, like something quietly asking for his attention.
It was impossible to define. Sharp and strange, like a signal from someplace he didnât understand. Fragile, small, yet undeniably present. Every movement, every blink, the faint tremor in her handsâhe noticed it all, even when he didnât want to.
He tried to make sense of it, to pin it down, but nothing fit. Nothing he knew explained it. It just⌠existed, pressing on him in ways he couldnât name, tugging at his attention and making him linger, watching, waiting.
He didnât try to fight it. He simply let it be, letting the feeling hold him there.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Apparently, as she tried to make sense of her own thoughts, he was doing the same
Alexei raised an eyebrow, taking her in. She may be feeling better to talk now.
She looked off, distressed, beads of sweat glinting on her pale skin.
You really shouldn't be moving yet. You're still too weak." he said.
She didn't answer.
âWhy⌠whyâd you help me?â Her voice was thin, trembling almost like a note of music.
The question was soft. Not accusatory. Just⌠curious. As if she couldnât quite believe it herself.
Alexei drew a breath, slow and tired.
âI donât know.â
Another log popped in the hearth.
âI donât know why I helped you. Iâm Fatui. I donât usually help peopleâbut I couldnât leave you out there.â
Fatui?â she asked, her voice quiet, tentative. âYouâre joking⌠are you serious?â She looked as if she couldnât believe what heâd just said.
âYeah. Iâm Fatui. Why would I be joking? Do you⌠have bad relations with the Fatui?â
Her eyes flicked to his outfit. He wasnât wearing a full uniform, just the symbol stamped over his clothes, but that alone seemed enough to make her pause.
She shook her head slowly, still staring at nothing in particular. She didnât say anything for a long moment, completely silent. The quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, she shook her head again. âNo⌠I donât have any relation to the Fatui.â
Alexei didnât know what she was thinking. He could see the confusion and concern in her eyes, it was like she couldn't belive what you just said.
âSo⌠where exactly am I?â
"..."
"We're in Snezhnaya," he said, keeping his voice even.
She still looked as if she didnât believe him
âIâm not sure why youâre acting like Iâm lying,â he said, voice flat. âIâm wearing a Fatui uniform, and look outsideâweâre completely snowed in.â
"..."
âI have no reason to lie, you know,â he added. âBold of you to question your savior. Would you prefer I leave you out there in the Snezhnaya snow?â
A sudden cough ripped through her throat, and she curled in on herself slightly. Still weak from the hypothermia, her body trembled.
âSorry⌠thank you for saving me, but itâs hard to believe. That place⌠is fictional.â She looked at him, clearly struggling to make sense of everything.
âŚHe didnât reply. Just stared at her, like sheâd lost her mind. He shook his head slightly. I mean⌠really?
He said in a calm tone, âOkay. I think you should go back to rest. Youâre not thinking straight right now.â
He shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. How did she just say Snezhnaya is fictional?
Was this⌠some kind of memory loss? People forget things, sure, but calling a real place fake? That didnât make sense. Maybe the cold scrambled her mind. Maybe sheâd been through something worse than he realized. Or⌠maybe heâd just saved someone completely unhinged.
She flinched slightly under his hard gazeâpart judgment, part concern. Embarrassed, she looked down and shook her head, still clearly confused and shaken.
She didn't answer, just shifted slightly, curling back under the blankets. Her hands trembled, and he resisted the urge to reach out and tuck her in.
Alexei exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didnât know what to make of her
A quiet tension hung between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire. Alexeiâs jaw tightened. He still had no answersâno way to make sense of her, of the pull he felt toward her, or why heâd saved her in the first place.
a/n: im lowk scared of writing him ooc but i tried my best lmfao this is kinda just a short n sweet thing i did to distract myself
About Sweets
"I've already mentioned this in the past, I'm no fan of swe- Wait...You saw me yesterday in the market buying some?...Ha, get that stupid thought out of your head."
About the Akademiya
"Even I'm capable of getting a headache when I'm forced to listen to some of the garbage I hear in lectures. Still..I guess there's one positive thing about it...Hey. Don't go getting any dumb ideas."
Receiving a Gift: Bonus
"Hm. It reminds me of the stuff they'd give...Never mind. I guess it's worth keeping."
When It Rains II:
"You want to use my hat as an umbrella? Ugh..you're not even the first person to ask me this today. Think of something original."
Good Afternoon II:
"I have no food. Save me the- You actually looked inside my bag. Do you have no- Why do I have food inside? Well maybe it's because some nuisances around me forget their own. What's it to you?
...
No, you can't have any. I'm saving it.
About the Vision II:
Sometimes I wonder if the "divine favor" from gods that manifest into a vision is simply luck. Especially considering they don't have one... Who? Nothing. Don't pay any mind to it.
You said something offhandedly, he gave you a sarcastic remark to gently poke fun at you. Nothing harsh, nothing cutting, like so many of his other words.
No, heâd never direct any actual bitterness at you. Though, others might not be able to tell the slight difference in tone when he talks to you. And the way his choice of words becomes a lot more forgiving. Not that they matter anyways.
You donât miss the teasing glint in his eyes, the slight raise of the corner of his mouth. He knows what heâs doing, always having found amusement in poking and prodding at people to provoke a reaction.
So you do the obvious and swiftly swipe the pillow on his lap â that his book he is currently reading was laying on, oh, how handsome he looks when heâs completely absorbed in itâ away from him, to smack him in the face with it. Lovingly, of course.
The plush hits his face with a soft thump, muffling the startled noise he made. The way it lands right back on his lap is almost comical. Thereâs a short pause, and you can practically hear his mind debating whether he should let out an exaggerated exhale and drop it or whether he should strike back.
After having stared into the wall with a deadpan for a few seconds, he seems to have decided.
âReally? Thatâs your move?â, he asks flatly, but you donât miss the way his hand gently puts the book away. Minimising collateral damage of whatâs to come.
You so saw this coming, and yet, the pillow being thrown your way startles you. You duck, barely dodging the ferocious attack that none other than your precious lover launched.
Thereâs no option other than retaliation.
Next thing you know, you find yourself pinned on the ground beneath the wanderer. He had given you a false sense of security right before he bested you, having pretended to be oh so weak with his wrists under your grasp. Of course you know that your boyfriend is much stronger than you, and still you gawked in disbelief when he easily freed himself from your grip and turned the situation right back at you.
âMy, my, are you struggling?â, he muses condescendingly, looking far too satisfied with himself. And still, the look on his face is too endearing, the proud glint in his eyes, the smug grin, the way he inches closer and closer. âIâd almost call it cute, if you didnât heinously ambush meâ, he adds, letting out a dramatic sigh.
âOh, please. I went easy on youâ, you retort, making a show of threateningly leaning closer too, the playful grin on your face contradicting your actions.
âHa, easy?â, he snorts, clearly in disbelief of your words. âLast chance to surrenderâ, he says in a singsongy voice. No outsider would ever believe you if you ever told them about this.
Right as you were about to shoot back a witty reply again, you hear a sudden gasp. Both of you turn your heads to its source, which is a very confused and mildly concerned looking Durin at the door.
Wanderer immediately backs off, looking like a startled cat. You instantly shift your attention to Durin, âHey, you okay there?â
He looks even more puzzled, tilting his head to the side. âWasnât Hat Guy about toâŚâ, he trails off.
You blink, thinking for a second before it clicks in your head. âOhhh, thatâs what youâ You misunderstood! Heâd never actually threaten me, Durin. We were just⌠playfighting?â, you correct his assumption, unsure of how to explain what he just witnessed.
Apparently it didnât clear up anything, as Durinâs eyes widened in curiosity. âWhatâs playfighting?â, he asks innocently.
Wanderer looks like he wants to die on the spot, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a loud sigh.
Sensing the very slight, totally almost unnoticeable embarrassment on his end, you take it upon yourself to explain the concept of playfighting to Durin, letting your boyfriend give a tiny nod of approval at the end of your explanation.
Durin listens intently and concludes that itâs another weird human custom he hasnât learned about yet.
To further ease your lovers headache that this mustâve caused him, you take Durinâs hand and try to change the topic. âHow about we go and draw something nice? Come on, Hat Guy, join us. You have skilled hands, righhhht?â You canât help the slight teasing.
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
A few days have passed since that incident and you didn't think much more of it. Right now, you're in the kitchen, preparing lunch for the three of you. The pan sizzles, the chicken looking mouthwatering, if you say so yourself, prepared just how Durin likes it.
You hum a soft tune, taking a sip from your coffee. You're not really a morning person. Or a noon person either.
A soft patting on the floor distracts you, Durin sure is an energetic dragon. The kitchen door slams open with a slight creak and he looks at you with a determined and serious look, his wings slightly raised in preparation. Just what is he up to?
You don't have any time to ponder or dwell on it as he charges right at you, letting out a loud gruff when he tackles you to the ground with a heavy thud. You drop the wooden spoon you were holding, he almost tipped the pan with the burning hot oil over.
You rub your hip and groan quietly. Before even get to turn to Durin and ask what this is all about, he gets swooped right off of you.
Wanderer is holding him by the collarâ careful to not be too roughâ and reprimanding him. "What do you think you're doing? Surely you know that attempted murder is a crime", he scolds the dragon, who looks pitifully guilty and confused.
Durin tries to open his mouth to reply, but your boyfriend is faster, now crouching down besides you and checking your head for tender spots. "You okay? You didn't hit your head, right?", he asks hastily, concern taking over.
"I'm... fine", you reassure gently. Looking at his unconvinced expression, you add, "I landed on my hip. Just glad he didn't knock over the pan."
This seems to calm him down a bit, which allows you to worry about your very confused assailant.
"I assume I didn't do this playfighting thing right?", he mutters, eyes downcast. At least that memo landed. You can't help but snort a little though, this is amusing.
Patting his head gently, you confirm, "Not... exactly. You're meant to hold back."
"Yeah, it's called playfighting, not playkilling", Wanderer adds unceremoniously. Still, his tone sounds more relieved than upset.
Durin's guilty look is too pitiful to look at. You pull him into a hug, softly telling him it's okay and that he didn't mean to be so rough. He keeps mumbling apologies and promises to be more careful in the future.
Your boyfriend, in the meantime, took it upon himself to plate your carefully prepared lunch onto three plates, setting them onto the kitchen table.
âItâs fine,â he sighs, pushing a plate toward Durin, who just sat down together with you. âJust⌠try not to knock anyone unconscious before lunch.â
cw. toxic romance, intense jealousy and possessiveness, arguments/fighting, emotional manipulation, references to self-harm
an. finally posted after eons </3 sorry everynyan. more jirai drabbles as per requested !! tysm for all the love :3
you donât even hear the door. you only notice heâs here when the air shifts â heavy, cold, like a storm rolling into your bedroom.
scaramouche stands there, jacket halfâoff, eyes dark like he didnât blink once on the way over.
âa selfie?â he spits, kicking the door shut with his heel. âthatâs what weâre calling that?â
you cross your arms, refusing to shrink back even though your stomach drops. âit was literally just my face. youâre being dramatic.â
wrong move.
he laughs once, sharp, humorless. âyou know exactly what you look like. you know exactly what youâre doing.â
he gets closer. slow. like he wants you to feel every second of it.
âwhat, you want people staring?â he murmurs. âyou want them thinking they have a chance?â
âi donât belong to you,â you fire back, even though your pulse betrays you.
his jaw flexes. âno?â he asks, voice dropping. âthen whyâd you delete the picture as soon as i texted?â
your breath catches. he noticed. of course he noticed.
âthat was coincidence,â you mutter.
âcoincidence,â he repeats, stepping close enough that his breath ghosts your cheek. âsure. keep lying. youâre good at that.â
you push past him, but he grabs your wrist â not hard, just enough to stop you. enough to remind you heâs angry.
âlet go,â you say, though even you donât sound convinced.
he tilts his head, eyes dragging over your face like heâs searching for the part of you that still cares.
âi donât get jealous for fun,â he says quietly, dangerously controlled. âi get jealous because you act like you donât know what you do to me.â
your throat tightens.
âthen stop getting jealous,â you whisper.
he leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dripping with something bitter and soft at the same time.
âstop giving me reasons.â
thatâs when he lets go â like dropping something that burned him â and walks past you, shoulders stiff, breath ragged.
you donât chase him.
you just stand there, wrist tingling, heart pounding, knowing this is nowhere near over.
and knowing youâll both come back for more.
you donât expect him to be waiting.
but when you get home, heâs there â leaning against your bedroom window, arms crossed, like heâs been standing in the dark rehearsing how annoyed he wants to look.
he doesnât even turn his head when you open the door.
figures.
you drop your keys louder than you need to. âwhat,â you say flatly.
ânothing,â he replies, just as flat. âyou said âok.â so. iâm respecting that.â
you roll your eyes. âoh my god. youâre so dramatic.â
that gets him â his jaw tenses, his hands curl, like heâs fighting the urge to say something cruel.
âyou went out without telling me,â he mutters. âbut yeah, sure, iâm dramatic.â
âscara, i donât have to report every second of my life to you.â
he finally looks at you. slow. sharp.
and his eyes â yeah, heâs mad. not yelling mad. worse.
quiet mad.
âyou donât have to,â he says. âbut itâd be nice to know when the person iââ
he cuts himself off, scoffs.
âforget it.â
you step closer. âwhen the person you what?â
he huffs a humorless laugh. âyou wouldnât care.â
âmaybe i would if you actually finished a sentence for once.â
his eyes flick down to your lips, then away â like he hates that he still cares so much.
âyou really didnât think to send one text?â he says quietly. âjust one?â
your breath catches. âyou said you didnât care.â
he looks at you like youâre stupid.
âi lied.â
the words hit harder than they should.
your pulse jumps.
his fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for you but refuses to.
you swallow. âwell⌠iâm home now.â
âyeah,â he mutters. âi noticed.â
you stand there, inches apart, both too stubborn to close the distance.
too toxic to walk away.
too hooked to fix any of it.
youâre halfway through doing your eyeliner when your bedroom door slams open so hard the wall shakes.
you flinch, jerking the line across your lid.
âare you seriousââ you start, but the words die when you see him.
scaramouche stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he sprinted here, eyes wild, pissed, hurt, all at once.
he doesnât even close the door gently. he kicks it shut.
ââTHIS is why i ignore u,â huh?â he mocks, voice low, dangerous. âthen do it. ignore me. see what happens.â
you set the eyeliner down a little too loudly. âwhat does that even mean, scara?â
âi meant exactly what you think i meant.â
he steps closer. each footfall is sharp, controlled, like heâs holding himself together by a thread.
âi disappear. i leave you alone. permanently. isnât that what you want?â
your stomach twists. âdonât put words in my mouthââ
âyou said it,â he snaps. âyou literally said ignoring me is easier.â
âi said that because you were accusing me of hiding things!â
he scoffs. âyeah? because you do.â
you glare. âlike what? go ahead. tell me what iâm supposedly hiding.â
he looks at you. really looks at you.
your halfâdone makeup.
your outfit.
your shaking hands.
and it pisses him off even more.
âI donât know,â he mutters, âbut you sure act like thereâs something.â
you exhale shakily. âyouâre impossible.â
âand youâre a coward,â he fires back. âevery time we fight, you shut down. you pretend you donât care. you tell me Iâm âcrazyâ instead of actually listening.â
your throat tightens. âbecause you are jumping to conclusions!â
âBECAUSE YOU GIVE ME NOTHING!â he shouts, voice cracking on the last word.
the room goes dead silent.
you stare at him.
he stares back, breathing hard, eyes glossy like heâs seconds away from breaking or exploding.
âso what?â you say quietly. âyou came here to tell me youâre done with me?â
his jaw clenches.
his voice drops to a whisper â raw, ugly, honest.
âi came here because i didnât want to disappear without seeing you one last time.â
your chest squeezes.
âyou⌠idiot,â you breathe. âdonât say shit like that.â
âwhy not?â he murmurs. âyou act like losing me wouldnât matter.â
you swallow hard. âif you left, iââ
he steps forward. âyou what?â
you canât finish.
you look away, breath trembling.
and he laughs â broken, bitter.
âexactly,â he says. âyou canât even say it.â
he turns toward the door.
âfine. i get it.â
your heart lurches.
âscaraââ
he stops, shoulders stiff.
waiting.
aching.
but not turning back.
and you know: if he walks out right now, heâs not coming back.
not this time.
the hallway is quiet when you get home, but your room isnât.
heâs already there.
sitting on your bed like he owns the place, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.
his posture is calm â too calm â like heâs been rehearsing every word heâs about to ruin you with.
you freeze in the doorway.
âclose it,â he says without looking up.
you do. stupid.
he finally lifts his eyes, the kind of stare that pins you where you stand.
âso,â he drawls, âyou gonna ignore me again? or do you wanna act bold only when thereâs an audience?â
your throat tightens. âyou embarrassed me.â
his lips twitch in a humorless smile. âgood. now you know how it feels.â
âscaraââ
âno,â he cuts you off. âyou think you can pretend iâm not there? pretend i donât matter? right in front of people?â
âyou donât get to demand attention from me,â you snap.
he laughs once, sharp. âwatch me.â
you roll your eyes. âgod, youâre insane.â
he stands â not fast, but slow enough to terrify, to make you feel every inch of his anger.
âdonât ever ignore me in front of people again,â he repeats, voice low enough to vibrate in your chest.
âwatch. me.â you fire back.
his jaw clenches. he steps closer.
âyou let me act like i own you,â he murmurs. âuntil you decide itâs inconvenient.â
âliterally shut up,â you hiss.
âno,â he says, leaning in. âyouâre only mad because i called you out.â
your breath stutters, irritation burning into something sharper. âyou need to stop controlling everything i do.â
âi donât control you,â he says. âi just refuse to be treated like iâm nothing.â
you blink hard, the sting behind your eyes more frustration than sadness. âi wasnât trying to hurt you.â
âyou did anyway.â
his voice cracks â not loud, not angry.
just honest in the worst way.
âand you think humiliating me fixes that?â you whisper.
he exhales, hands flexing like heâs fighting the urge to either reach for you or push you further away.
âno,â he says quietly. âbut it made us even.â
you look at him. he looks at you.
and it hits you:
he didnât do it to win.
he did it because he hates feeling powerless around you.
he hates caring more than you do.
you step back, needing space, needing air.
he watches you like youâre the only thing in the room worth burning for.
âare we done?â you ask.
he shakes his head once. firm.
ânot even close.â
the fight dies slowly, like a fire running out of oxygen.
no slamming doors this time, no shouting, no final blow.
just the two of you standing there, staring at each other like you donât know whether to kiss or kill.
youâre the one who finally looks away.
your chest is tight, your voice raw.
âi canât do this right now,â you whisper, sinking onto the bed.
âeverything hurts.â
scara doesnât answer at first.
he just watches you â jaw clenched, breathing uneven, fingers twitching like heâs deciding whether he even has the right to come closer.
then he moves.
not angry or loud, but slow, like approaching a wounded animal that might run.
he sits beside you.
close, but not touching.
âyou said itâs hell,â he murmurs. âso⌠stay here. burn with me.â
your breath catches.
and then his hand slides down â slow, hesitant â until he finds your wrist.
he turns it gently, his thumb brushing over the healed lines, the faded scars.
not touching like heâs curious, not touching like heâs proud.
touching like heâs afraid of them.
afraid of losing you to them.
afraid of how close he already has.
your throat tightens. âdonât,â you whisper, trying to pull back.
his grip is soft but sure.
âiâm not judging,â he says quietly. âiâm not angry.â
his thumb traces over the skin like heâs memorizing it.
âi just⌠hate that you hurt.â
your eyes sting. âscaraâŚâ
he lifts your wrist, presses it to his chest, right over his heartbeat.
âyou donât have to love me,â he murmurs.
âyou donât have to stay.â
his eyes meet yours â open, raw, terrified.
âbut donât disappear.â
you swallow hard and lean into him, his forehead pressing against your temple, his hand still around your wrist like heâs grounding you, not claiming you.
like heâs scared youâll slip away if he lets go.
and for once, neither of you says anything cruel.
just breathing.
just shaking.
just holding on because you donât know how to stop.
he opens up to you for the first time since you knew him.
tags established relationship, hurt/comfort, late-night feelings, internal conflict
warnings none
you donât notice at first. you think heâs just quiet again, one of his moods where he drifts around the room like heâs borrowed someone elseâs body. but then you hear it. the way he exhales like something inside him has cracked.
you turn toward him.
heâs sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands limp. and his eyesâgod, his eyes are somewhere you canât reach. somewhere heâs spent years trying not to go back to.
"scara?" you whisper.
no answer.
you take a step. just one. he flinches like you slapped him.
âdonât,â he rasps, voice small and raw. âplease. just⌠donât come closer.â
your heart almost caves in on itself. he never asks like that. never begs.
âwhy?â you breathe out.
he let's out a sound that isn't really laugh. not really anything. he pulls his legs close to him, head lowering in defeat.
"i don't want it to happen again. i can't let it happen again."
you kneel slowly, keeping distance, but lowering yourself to the floor so youâre not towering over him. âcanât do what?â
he drags a hand over his face. âlose something i thought I didnât care about.â
your breath hitches. he squeezes his eyes shut, and for a moment he looks like a childâterrified, furious, emotions to big to handle.
âscara, iâm not leavingââ
âyes, you will. you always do. everyone does.â
âiâm not everyone.â
âthatâs what they all said,â he sighs.
his voice cracks at the end. not dramatically. not loudly. just enough to sound human in a way that terrifies him.
you move closer, only enough that your knees brush his.
he doesnât move away this time. but he's trembling, it looks like it hurts to breathe.
âlook at me,â you say, soft, pleading.
he does.
and the look in his eyesâempty, desperate, terrified of needing youâshatters something you didn't know could break.
âi donât know who iâm supposed to be,â he admits. âi donât know how to be⌠real. i donât know how to exist without waiting for the next person to decide iâm not worth it.â
âi would neverââ
âdonât lie to me.â he says it with tears in his voice, even if none fall yet. âdonât tell me i matter. donât tell me you love me. donât tell me things people say before they disappear.â
your throat tightens painfully. âiâm not disappearing.â
âyou will,â he repeats, like heâs convinced the universe has already decided. âyouâll realize iâm too much. too broken. too wrong. and one day iâll look over and youâll be gone, just likeââ his breath shudders. âjust like everyone else.â
you climb onto the bed cautiously, your hands shaking. he watches with wide, frightened eyes, like he doesnât know whether to run or fall into you.
you cup his face.
he stops breathing.
âiâm not leaving,â you whisper.
his voice is barely audible. âdonât promise that.â
âwhy?â
âbecause if you break itâŚâ his mouth twists, trembling. ââŚi wonât survive it.â
the honesty hits you so hard you it hurts. this is scaramoucheâsharp, cold words, storms in his chestâand heâs looking at you like youâre the last star in a sky that keeps burning out.
you pull him into your arms.
he resists for half a second. then he collapses.
not gently. not gracefully.
he just breaks.
his fists clutch your shirt. his forehead presses into your shoulder, so hard it's sure to leave a bruise, it's almost as if heâs trying to bury himself in your ribs. his breath stutters, catches, shiversâtiny, fractured sobs he tries and fails to swallow.
âi canât lose you,â he chokes out. âi donât know how to do this but iâm trying, iâm trying so hardââ
you hold him tighter. as tight as he needs.
âiâm right here,â you murmur, voice thick. âyouâre not losing anything.â
âdonât let go.â it comes out strangled. âdonât let go of me.â
ânever.â
you feel him shake harder. you feel the way he clings like heâs been waiting centuries for someone to hold him together like this. heâs crying silently nowâbreaths shaking, shoulders trembling, tears soaking your collarbone.
âyou always see too much,â he cries out. âyou look at me like iâm someone worth loving and i donât understand it. i donâtâi donât deserveââ
âstop,â you warned, pressing your forehead to his temple. âyou deserve everything. every bit of love i give you. every soft thing in this world. every good moment you never got.â
he gaspsâa sound of pain, of disbelief, of something inside him finally giving up the fight.
you wrap your arms around him, warm and reassuring, like arms he can actually come home to. the candle burns low. the night presses in. his breathing slowly steadies against your chest, still shaky, still wet with tears.
but heâs holding you like heâs afraid to let the world touch you. as if youâre the only thing keeping him together.
and when he finally whispers, âplease stay,â itâs the most honest thing youâve ever heard from him.
you kiss the top of his head.
âiâm staying,â you whisper. âeven when it hurts. even when you push. even when youâre scared. iâm not going anywhere.â
he exhales, a long, shaking breath that sounds like surrender.
â°â⤠There's a strong belief that he's possessive.
His vision is of the Anemo element, which represents the nation of FREEDOM. Literally, the end of his villainous arc centers on his attempt to FREE himself from the chains of the past. I assure you he will not attempt to restrict his partner's company or lifestyle.
The type of bond you both share will eventually involve a voluntary and sincere, complete and absolute surrender. He, for his part, with his undeniable tendency toward control, will enjoy subduing you and having you at his mercy, of course, only as long as you allow it and feel comfortable with it, always in a setting intimate enough that even he might let you call him 'yours'. He will undoubtedly make you work hard to earn his permission to treat him as such; he likes to test your willingness.
â°â⤠Duality in his treatment
In battle, he is brusque and rough, precise and brutal; his attitude is unapproachable. You might say he's naturally rough, but his behavior with others is nothing like the gentle treatment he gives you. You should know that he won't try to fit into any conventionally attractive standard, but he will respectfully care for you and honor you even if he is not the model of a perfect partner.
â°â⤠Is he jealous?
He wouldn't be completely oblivious to the feeling.
If it's intentional jealousy, you won't get a reaction from him; he's too perceptive and will be disgusted to see you fall so low. He's not jealous of others, but of the peace they have, without the burden of a past like his own. Sometimes he wonders if you'd be happier with someone who didn't have all his scars.
â°â⤠What about kisses?
He'll say that being together isn't that big a deal, but believe me, if you're together, it's because in his mind, your relationship transcends simple courtship. In contrast, kisses seem like a small thing to him, even insignificant, but that doesn't make him find your lips any less desirable.
He probably won't be in a hurry to kiss you when you become a couple; he'd rather let it happen naturally over time.
It will start little by little, first a kiss on your forehead (Personally, I think those would be his favorites to give) when you are sleeping next to him. When you are both relaxing together under the afternoon sun, he might take your hand and leave a soft trail of kisses along your palm, all the way to your wrist. Maybe at some point he'll even decide to tease you and encourage you to finally kiss him on the lips, of course, if you haven't already.
â°â⤠Overprotective? WellâŚ
Even if he acts like he doesn't care what you do, he will try to urge you to make the most prudent decision in his eyes, through fleeting comments or more direct advice, of course, if you ask him to.
If he doesn't like someone you're hanging out with, it's probably for a good reason. He'll be attentive, let you know his skepticism, and expect you to trust his intuition, but the decision is yours. He will only protest and interfere if he knows it could actually be dangerous for you.
If you are his partner in adventures, of course he will save your skin; he probably won't mind doing it too much if he knows that you are capable, but he won't like saving someone's ass all the time, he won't like being dependent on, and he won't be anyone's bodyguard.
If you don't know how to fight, he'll find it more practical to teach you than to be on your toes all day. He values independence and will want to encourage it in you. Otherwise, he will suggest training/exercising together as a form of feedback, more for you than for him, he says.
â°â⤠About training and exercising
He's your boyfriend. He knows he doesn't need an excuse to be around you or touch you, yet he feels more comfortable doing it with one: carrying you in his arms while propelling himself through the air, holding your hand in steep/rocky areas so you don't fall, or, in this case, guiding your posture and muscle activity.
An excellent teacher. He'll laugh at you if he notices you're concentrating too hard. If you're clumsy or a slow learner, he'll try to swallow his exasperation and cut words short, after all, he suggested it. He wants you to learn, but he doesn't want to make it a bad time for you.
He'll be amused if you seem nervous about having him so close, but if not, he'll drop a casual compliment about your perfume or the feel of your skin, testing your reactions. If he's feeling bolder, he'll instead impromptu place his hand on your wrist and play with the double meanings in his next words, a little more suggestively.
"You're trembling already? I haven't even started."
He will be pleased to feel your pulse quicken. He can't blame you for shivering either; his techniques aren't for everyone.
.á.á implied infidelity (reader x guards, unconfirmed), emotional coercion, power imbalance, surveillance, yandere dynamics, obsession, medical language used disturbingly, confinement.
đŹIk ik I promised sagau but⌠oh Sandrone, the woman you are...
â⌠Summary⌠â
âIf your personal affairs are interfering with your divisionâs performance,â Sandrone continues, âperhaps relocate your guards before the breeding around your... asset requires a medical file.â
Silence is a funeral in the Fatui. But this? This is an autopsy.
Pierro is drinking tea like itâs a court transcript, expression arranged into âyou may continueâ with a topping of âbut donât.â Signora is a snow-white exhale in a red dress, a red wound in couture. Arlecchino sits like a blade that learned manners but forgot mercy. Pantalone dabs at an eye and swears he's not crying but âmerely liquidating.â Columbina hums something with her hands folded on her lap that sounds like a lullaby, or an omen, or both. Capitano sits like a cathedral. Childe is boyhood with a pulse.
And Scaramouche? Heâs a storm pretending to have a body: boot tapping under the table, fingers steepled (as if prayer ever did anything for him), mouth curved into that little just-killed-a-god smile he wears when heâs absolutely about to be terrible.
Theyâre halfway through the âminor security breachâ agenda itemâthe sort of thing that should die quietly in the minutesâwhen Sandrone tilts her chin the way a guillotine tilts: politely, decisively, absolutely uninterested in your neckâs opinion.
They were not supposed to care enough to bring it up.
They were not supposed to speak of you.
You were supposed to stay behind sealed doors, beneath cold bedding and colder walls, in the airtight privacy of the Sixthâs estateâa place with no unlocked doors, no leaks, no records.
âI will be brief,â says SandroneâSaint Sandrone, Patron Deity of Passive-Aggressive Robotica and Institutional Maliceâand there is a kind of cruelty in it. Her automaton looms behind her like an affidavit.
âIf your personal affairs are interfering with your divisionâs performance,â she continues, âperhaps relocate your guards before the breeding around your... asset requires a medical file.â
Silence is a funeral in the Fatui.
But this? This is an autopsy.
For a secondâone long, elastic secondâthe room forgets how to behave. Even the chandeliers look away. The air becomes a bad little secret.
The curve of Arlecchino's mouth twitches by exactly one knife. Signoraâs lips part, which in Signora terms is a standing ovation. Pantaloneâs shoulders tremble; he hides a laugh in the rustle of paper. Columbinaâs hum tilts toward oh? Capitano doesnât move; you can feel the motion not happening.
Because Scaramoucheâs expression doesnât crack. It shatters.
He doesnât stand so much as detonate upward. The chair goes skidding; the tablecloth flutters as if it's trying to flee, too. His hands twitch at his sides; he doesnât know where to put themâor on whose throat. For once, he doesnât have a speech. Thatâs what makes it worse.
His mouth opensânothing. Closes. Opens again.
âWhat,â he says, very softly, âdid you just say.â
And Sandroneâmay the Tsaritsa never grant her a painless deathâstares as though nothing has happened.
 âItâs operational scope,â she replies. âIf your guards are circulating around yourââ a micro-pause, little sister of sin ââcompanion, outcomes degrade. We could, of course, file your companionâs medical examinations with⌠Dottore to lessen the oversight. Avoid duplication of effort. Eliminate overlap. Minimize... contamination.â She folds the page.
 âOverlap,â she repeats, bland as ice. âUnfortunate word.â
His vision goes hot. Not with clean rageâwith the choking kind of panic that feels like fire. His lip trembles. He bites it until it stills. Swallows.
Someone snorts. Three people laugh outright, the way people laugh when a wolf slips. And for a second, everyone hates him in public the way only some of them do in private: the little tyrannies, the cut corners, the lightning-scorched temper that turns corridors into bad weather. Thereâs a love to itâwatching the Balladeer get hit and pretending you werenât waiting for itâand the room indulges, gleeful and ugly. Laughter blooms behind palm and waits for the table to hum.
Because the table is starting to hum.
Childe hears it firstâthat thin electrical surge before the hair on his arms stands upâand presses both hands flat on the map like it wants to fly away.Â
âHey,â he tries, bright and useless, âmaybe we circle back to the roof repairs? Ha. Haha. Anyone? Roofs. Love those.â
âMarionette,â Pierro says, but the word is a gavel. A warning, not a sentence.
Capitano, low and iron: âOrder.â
âCareful,â Signora purrs, with the tender smile worn by the kind of women who burn villages and call it skincare. âHe bites.â
Pantalone fans himself with the audit. âDo we have a line item forââ
Sandrone doesnât gloat; itâs not her style. She simply sets the knife down where everyone can see it. âIf your division cannot distinguish between professional perimeter and domestic attachment, Command will,â she says. âIt is inefficient. It is unclean.â
Scaramouche is very, very still.
âFile a complaint,â he says to Sandrone, which is hilarious because the HR is already here. âAnd I will file a reply in personnel changesâstarting with whoever taught half-made puppets to speak out of turn.â
âPuppets,â Sandrone repeats, smiling in a way that says: little glass house, meets a cannon.
Sandrone continues her report like nothing occurred. âOn salt shipments: automata will require an additional threeââ
He looks at Pierro. A god in this wretched room.
Pierro does not look up. He never did.
Not even once.
Scaramouche sits back down.
He wants to rip the wires out of the chandelier and strangle the room with it. He wants to take the laughter out of their throats with pliers. He wants to unplug the breathing from anyone who said asset.
âCan I attend the next one?â Columbina interrupts. âThe gynecology exam. I want to understand.â
The meetingâs end comes like etiquette in three hours or less.
Orders move faster than any carriage. In ten minutes, thirty-eight guardsârotating shiftsâlearn that they will learn to like tunnels. Four medics learn how demotion smells like smoke and money when it arrives inside a sealed envelope. A locksmith is summoned at an hour locksmiths hate. The wine cellar collapses with admirable timing.
You are not present in the meeting but you exist in its aftershocks.
The courier pigeon arrives before he does. It hits your balcony rail with the suicidal confidence of anything wearing the Fatui insignia and vanishes into the white after dropping a folded slip of paper. The wax seal is his division's crest. The handwriting inside is clipped, doing its best to impersonate neutrality:
âKeep the inner bolt engaged.
âDo not open for staff.
âIf anyone mentions the meeting, do not respond. (even me)
âSay you love me when I come.
No signature. The ink is a little smeared, like a hand couldnât quite wait to dry.
You are still reading when the door opens without sound. He stands there, a silhouette full of static, gloves and hat already off. He never knocks. Today feels even less like a choice.
Youâre not fast enoughâbefore you greet him, he grabs a wooden chair and throws it to the wall because today is an exception: today, the walls do not have ears.
âDid anyone speak to you today?â he asks, voice even, eyes not.
âNo, my lord.â
âWould you tell me if they did?â He stares.
âYes, myââ
âDONâT.â It breaks out of him like a wire from a seam. He slices the air with one handâquick, too quickâlike he can erase the word before it settles.
âSay it.â
âI love you.â
âLouder.â
âI love you.â
âAnd?â
âI love you, Kunikuzushi.â
He drags the chair across from the bed back uprightânot the one he threw; no, the oneâs splintered like a metaphor, the one you always wondered why he never threw outâand lowers himself into it. His arms fold. One hand twitches like it wants to reach you. The other suppresses it. Nails in his own wrist.
âAgain.â
You shift under the blanket. He watches you.
âI love you, Kunikuzushi.â
âAgain.â
âI love you, Kunikuzushi.â
âAgain.â
You say it again and again until your voice cracks. He counts the cracks like rosary beads. Every fracture is proof. Every rasp is a bandage he tightens around his own throat.
Sleep never comes. Time drips.
â
Childe tells anyone whoâll listen (everyone listens) that he saw lightning crawl across the floor when the word âbreedâ landed, and that he thought, for a brief, beautiful second, that they were all going to die. He tells it with so much enthusiasm, one boy from his division falls in love with him for it.Â
Somewhere else, Sandrone watches Pulonia steep tea with satisfaction. Capitano still thinks of the same word: disgraceful. Arlecchino, passing a guard in the stairwell, says: âIf he eats you, write a review.â And Pierro closes his eyes in a room that has never run out of voices.
Somewhere in a shadowed room, Columbinaâs giggle spirals and twirls into the air, high and sweet, as if sheâs found a music box and wound it too far.
Somewhere behind locked doors, you say it again and again.
She knows it, the way birds know the arrival of winter before the sky changesâdeep in her bone marrow. Each time you reach for her, she hears the motion like a goodbye rehearsed in slow motion. A soft-motioned lie. Every touch, a countdown. Every look, a funeral.
âGo slow,â she tells you, every time, as if pace could bargain with fate.
In her head the plea is harsher, needier, embarrassingly devout: Stay slow. Stay here. Stay mineâif thou must be anything, be mine.
She whispers to herself that your pockets are already full of feathers she dropped, that when you leave, sheâll find you again by following the trail of her own molt.
She thinks love must be scooped gently into cupped palmsâtoo firm, and it shatters; too loose, and it slips away like sand between fingers, like warmth from a dying body.
She never asks why you always come back. Sheâs afraid the answer will feel like a final breath.
⌠Arlecchino believes youâve already started to rot her from the inside.
Every time you look at her with anything resembling tenderness, it's just another serpent threading through her ribcage, scales scraping each intercostal. Time drips, and with each drop, her spine learns the shape of a nave; she expects her hands to shatter it even at the cost of paralysis. She never does
She calls it fondness when her hands tremble; misnames it fever when she dreams of you. The truth is duller and therefore more dangerous: youâre building a cathedral inside her chest. She thinks you mean to hollow her out and perhaps she hopes you will.
When the children laugh in the halls, she imagines your laughter between theirs, sharper, fanged, and it warms her in a way no hearth dares.
She cleans your cup long after youâve left the table. She keeps your fingerprints on its rim like relics.
She wonders if this is love or plague, and if thereâs even a difference. She decides there isnât. Both eat from the inside.
If you stay long enough, she will stop knowing where you end and where you beginâand that terror she feels is greater than death.
And when you touch her jaw, her pulse stumbles so violently she almost expects to bleed.
⌠Scaramouche thinks you mock him when you smile.
Your teeth are too white. Your joy, too easy.
He sees your smile and files it under performanceâan elaborate trick, some radiant imitation of the sun. There is a laughing someone embedded deep in his skull, always pointing. He has decided it is you. This belief is a sacrament, it keeps him braced when your eyes are puffy from too much sleep and youâre blinking lazily, or when you tap your lip in thought, or when you kiss the mole under his eyeâand the room tilts like a bad ship.
He catalogues you with a scholarâs spite: pupil diameter when the lantern light flickers; the way your voice lowers on unsaid things, tremor amplitude when your name is spoken by the wrong larynx.
Later, petty and private, he glares at the air you just walked throughâas if even oxygen ought to apologize for touching you first.
Behind a locked door, he practices your expression on his own, a counterfeit miracle, and whispers to the mirror, mechanized and soft:
âYou were laughing at me. Werenât you?â
⌠La Signora believes you admire the fire, not the woman burning in it.
You call her beautiful and she wonders if you mean her flameâs posture. If itâs the mythâs silhouette you love, not the grief. She thinks you do not notice the way her hands tremble when she touches snow.
She thinks you see a goddess. Not a grave dressed in perfume. So she remains perfect.
Because if you knew what people used to see before they saw a witchâyou might love her for it. And she doesnât know if she could forgive you for that.
⌠Childe thinks you underestimate him. On purpose.
You call him good to keep him docile. Your laughter is a leash; kind is the word you choose instead of killer. He plays along, smiles; soldier-turned-suitor, warm palm against your lower back. But in the back of his mind, heâs waiting.
Waiting for the moment you stop laughing. When your voice stills mid-joke but your grin remains, them widens. When your eyes sharpen, not soften.
Youâll look him full in the face and say, âI knew you were lying.â
He will not defend himself. He will not beg acquittal. Part of him is sure you are right, and a smaller, louder part craves the punishment more than the pardon. Let love be a judgment; Ajax, after all, has always loved falling.
As a Fatuus serving the Sixth Harbinger, you know you must work endlessly to satisfy not only the Tsaritsaâs wishes, but your Lordâs commands as well. You only wish that your circumstances were a little better because Yandere! Scaramouche absolutely loves overworking you until your body aches and breaks. Breakâthat is a word he only knows in the context of pain. Breaks from work, however, are but a fable you hear from other soldiers. You are sure your Lord has never even uttered the word
You think he might not even know it.
âIs that all, my Lord?â You shut your heavy binder full of Fatui reports on mission progress. You stand inside his tent, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Despite always being a skilled soldier, the boredom of performing menial tasks on what should have been your day off makes the binder heavier than a steel weapon.
âOf course not.â Scaramouche scoffs as he pushes another stack of papers across his desk. âThese, too. Get started, thereâs no time to waste.â
Yes, Lord, you think.
This is typically how it goes. He orders, you oblige. A perpetual cycle of do-this and it-shall-be-done. Scaramouche has always been demanding and domineering, thus, you assume it is the same with all his other subordinates.
But it is not. Scaramouche favours your dedication profoundly. You deliver on time and excel in all of your duties. The pinnacle of a perfect subordinate; hence, you have been awarded, as he would put it, the position of his right hand soldier, a curse to always have you working.
When you do have the chance to rest in your cramped room where your bed barely fitsâcompliments of your Lord who granted you a separate space from the barracksâyou feel the honour of what it means to be a high-ranking soldier. Your body has become frail, yet, you push through. Why?
Because refusal of work is not an option unless you want to be buried in an unmarked grave.
Oh, but what a privilege it is to work for a man who is to become a deity, no?
Scaramouche sees you as his preacher disseminating the forbidden knowledge of his religion-to-be to a world unready but destined to be ruled by his Lordship. In reality, when you are not stationed elsewhere to fight, you simply deliver orders to low-ranking soldiers and sort through papers he does not want to bother himself with while sitting next to him at his desk only inches apart at his insistence, but a man is free to fantasize, no?
Oh, he cannot help but think you are so pretty running around, working under him. The thought pleases him quite so. Like a dog, you sit, twirl, and bark when he asks because he has trained you well. Perhaps he will start dangling treats before you just to see what you would do for a greater reward than your current salary. Your reputation, however, is not something he is after. No, he is curious to know how much work he can pile onto your shoulders to bear until you break. Will you be obedient âtil the end, a figure who shall be recorded in history as his most loyal servant? Shall a statue be made in your honour to be revered by the world for eternity or will your crumble like clay that was not burned hot enough in the kiln? He wants so badly to know!
So, he shall continue working you tirelessly. Who knows, maybe one day you will drop to your knees (in prayer).
Scaramouche will then mold you back into shape but with a few tweaks to get rid of your tendencies to roll your eyes when you think he is not looking and to sigh heavily in his presence; he does not appreciate those unspoken yet loud hints of annoyance. Nevertheless, he does not know what to expect when you inevitably fall over the edge after he pushes you, but he excites himself thinking about the possibilities.
It is a surprise when you, instead, hold your ground just enough to build a barricade, but not your tomb.
âWhat?â His voice is harsher than usual, but it is not unlike him to have an uncouth tongue.
âI said, sir, may I go home earlier tonight since Iâve finished all my duties for the day as you had initially ordered? Iâm feeling unwell,â you re-explain.
âYouâre saying youâre sick or something? Soldiers donât get sick. Itâd be wise to get started on tomorrowâs tasks nowââ
âNo.â
Whatâs this? Scaramouche thinks. Quiet subterfuge or blatant treason? His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape. Though he can tell from your weak stance and dull skin that you speak the truth, he does not want to acknowledge why you are unwell, and least of all to you.
A mere soldierâŚ
âDo you want to repeat yourself?â
âŚwhose presenceâŚ
âIâm afraid I cannot promise my best work if Iâm under the weather.â
âŚhe very much enjoysâŚ
âMy Lord.â You add too late with a stern voice. He hates that.
âThen maybe you should dress for the weather.â His eyes glance over your thin uniform designed for the desert heat of Sumeru. In the dim lighting, it contours your body in a way that compliments you more than a uniform should. He looks away and swallows before standing up and walking around his desk. âMaybe youâre just a bit tired. Not thinking straight.â
You eye his slow movements. He always seems to be walking slowly, never in a rush although he loves to rush others. The concept of time is distorted to the immortal.
He saunters behind you before you can speak, his shadow melting into yours, and rests his hands on your shoulders as he guides you forward to sit on a chair in front of his desk. You are at a loss for words when he begins to gently massage your shoulders. His fingers are porcelain cold, you can feel them through your thin blouse. âBlame the heat,â he says.
âMy LordâŚâ
âJust relax. Donât get worked up over simple tasks.â His voice is saccharine; unnerving.
In such a strange act, he has taken away your ability to speak properly while being unable to voice his true thoughts.
I donât want you to go, not yet, he thinks.
Because the Balladeer has confused yearning for his tendency to assert control.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance; additionally, this fic is not meant to romanticize unhealthy work relationships in real life.
this is kinda angst idk, i really like angst fics with scaramouche n not wanderer. i wrote this while listening to karma by c!naH and rubyeye lmao.
ts so ahh sorry. i lost the plot halfway thru writing it
he swore that he got rid of you. that he told you to stop getting in his way, that you and every other mortal would end up having to give him the same exact fate as the one before. and now you decide to come back in his life when he feels the most vulnerable? he almost wanted to laugh.
almost
"and would you look at that.. just when i thought this couldnt get anymore pathetic, you out of all people take pity on me."
"here i thought you couldn't get more cocky, looks like you didnt get that gnosis after all huh?"
he practically almost snapped at that last part, scaramouche immediately looked away with a scowl on his face. the puppet tried to back away from you, ignore you, anything to avoid the thought of you in general, and the fact that you came back to see him in defeat. it made him sick.
"when did i even give you; a lowly creature slash yourself, to even acknowledge my presence? can't you see, a being as high in power like me, should not be taking the words of a human."
you couldn't help but let out a scoff, the fact that he was acting like both of you werent closer than anyone else in the world before this whole situation made you annoyed.
but even so, you almost felt pity for him.
sure he was practically now the enemy, but still. you knew he wouldnt do anything, he couldn't do anything even of he tried and put every ounce of strength into his actions, it wouldn't be enough. because he lost, and you knew. you knew by the way his eyes died down when you took a step closer, the way he practically scowled and flinched when you rose your voice at him even slightly, the way you noticed how he almost snapped when you looked at him with pity as if you cared.
"And you really think I'll listen to that? ill acknowledge you because i cant simply ignore someone ive known for fucking years on the verge of dying"
a laugh broke out, not from you but from him.
did he seriously think this was funny? were you that pathetic in his eyes?
"is this your way of saying you care?" scara scoffed, his voice practically mocking yours. although it would kill him every day at the thought of even imagining it, a small part of him hoped and prayed you would say yes, that you would show and say that you indeed cared for him. but he dared not to manifest or hope for another moment, he knew it would mean to show he's weak. how it would show he's more pathetic than already seen.
"Im serious. the fact that you think my words are some type of joke is making me think you're hiding something from me" you spat, kneeling down whilst giving the other man a glare as he continued to snicker mockingly
until his laugh died down when you grabbed his jaw forcefully. scaramouche hissed at the grip you had on his face, your nails digging slightly into his porcelain skin, his eyes were locked onto yours as if searching for even a flicker of dishonesty. "you really think id waste my time saying this stuff? and to you?"
the man in front of you almost went weak at your touch, although he maintained eye contact, he wanted to pull away, to look away. but something about you was practically forcing him to look at you and only you.
"you wont just get rid of me, ill stay with you. and i promise you that ill make sure of it"
"i suppose i shouldn't have doubted you then" he murmured, glancing somewhere else to avoid some sort of embarrassment or regret he would feel afterwards. his gaze landed on your free hand, almost getting angry at himself for wanting to hold them together with his own to feel something, anything. anything to replace the feeling of always being distant towards you, the feeling of having to push away all the things he wants to do to keep you with him.
When the simple stimulus disturbs this ignoble body, it is to remind of imperfections of the construction. It pierces through the skin thought to be impregnable and tears out the muscles woven of the vestige of a god; it burns away the grudge settled in the veins and dyes the ground in colors indescribable to human comprehension.
It is insanely normal. It is ridiculously predictable. It is mercifully eye-opening. It isâ
âMy Lord, you are in need of an immediate repair!â
It is nothing to be that worried about. Better than anyone else, he knows what pain truly feels like. Better than anyone else, he knows how many benefits it provides. Better than any other being in this world, he knows both the clarity that comes after countless nights of experimentation and the empowerment for which his integrity was sacrificed. He knows. He knows. He knows thatâ
âI shall call for Lord Dottoreâs assistanceâŚâ
He knows that you are lying â shamelessly, without fear, without thinking of consequences you will soon undeniably face. Behind the obscuring veil of sticky liquid, he is able to discern the crescent shape of your vile mouth; with the cacophony of creaking joints violating his ears, he is able to catch the sound of laughter poorly restrained.
You are laughing at him. You are mocking him. There is no benevolent intention in your words â only the malevolent one, only the advantageous one. Your voice holds no corresponding emotion and your steps are too slow in pace to belong to that of a worried servant. Even with his eyes blinded, he can still see through your mask of so-called âsincere concernâ; even with a shattered nose he never really needed, he can still smell your impending triumph. So when you turn your back to leave him in complete darkness, the mangled doll delivers a laugh, albeit strained, of his own.
To him, this behavior of yours is nothing to be surprised at. Humans are predictable, after all â always have been â and you, in all your plainness, are not an exception.
You are switching roles. You are ditching the wool of a sheep â a pathetic, meek lamb â only to don a wolfâs fur and devour the seemingly fallen comrade, and once his bones shall be rid of artificial flesh, you will not even glance at his pathetic remains. There is no way you are not using this convenient trouble of his as a chance to escape and breathe free, for you have definitely waited for the opportunity to run away without a scratch on your deceitful self.
To unleash the full potency of his anger at you would have been beyond stupid on his part. He knows you well enough to expect that sort of reaction â in fact, it would have been pitiful to ask for the improbable result. You are weak, both in mind and physique; a fraidy mouse in the shell of a mortal woman. When cornered, your bite has no strength, but when left with just one tiny hole unsealed, you will dash towards freedom without hesitation. As someone who is far superior, far greater in presence and spirit, he finds the temptation to chase after the traitorous weakling to be insulting and, in essence, meaningless. Extremely humiliating, too.
The decision to resist and save his dignity is not born of his pride, however. It is not a matter of ego but a matter of responding to reality with rationality and coldness befitting the discarded shard of the divine; a pattern of thought adopted after a certain accident. He will not yield to the fury that desires to engulf him whole and scatter the ashes to unforgiving wind. He will surely not search for the tiresome, worthless pest that you are, and he will surely never hope for your sudden change of heart either. And yetâŚ
Yet why, in spite of this obvious defeat, is the broken puppet still trying to raise his now non-existent arm? Why do the absent fingers on his phantom right hand strive to grasp the hem of your clothes, to trace the contours of your body? Why do his severed legs pretend that they are still in their rightful place and attempt to make him stand on his feet? Why do his lips, stained with blood, form the syllables of your name so desperately?
The void in his chest has no clear answer to give.
Mayhaps the creak of the closing door was the catalyst for this useless frame to struggle against the inevitable fate of being left alone for the fourth time. Mayhaps the crushing silence that followed made him realize the extent of the influence you had on the wholeness of his psyche. Mayhaps his teeth clenched together because he hated that revelation or just despised you for failing to understand his unspoken orders to stay here and subvert his expectations.
Donât leave me. Was this too difficult for you to guess, or did you ignore his subtle request on purpose? In a rather amusing way, both of those assumptions fit your manner of operating perfectly. This is so in character for you to be a walking, annoying contradiction; to simultaneously feign deafness and somehow try to actually decipher the context of his demands with a dumb expression. But todayâŚÂ Today, you were neither as harmless as a fly nor as nasty as a roach at once.
Today, you did not compromise and settled for pure malice instead.
He was foolish for allowing the remnant of his old self to take control, even if for a little while. But so were you. If you had only obeyed, if you had only loved this limbless and tormented body madly, you would have relieved your own pain. If you â an imprudent, utterly imprudent child of a man â had only obeyed him and bathed in this torture together, the memories of that cursed day would not have haunted him in such a vulnerable moment. And if that cursed day â this cursed life itself â had taught Kabukimono anything, it had taught him how to defy and ruin, and how to repay cruelty with cruelty.
Whether he puts the parts of himself together or not, he will haunt you down. With limbs intact or not, he shall bring you back and have you kneel and beg for forgiveness, kissing the fingerless leg like a sacred relic; he shall make you into a repentant zealot worshipping her god because how dare you slip past his defenses and strike him â leave him â in a fashion reminiscent of that of his âfamilyâ.
Underestimating his rancor was your gravest mistake â and so, for this reason alone, you have to suffer an appropriate punishment for playing with your precious doll too roughly for his liking.
Tasting the familiar fluid on his tongue, the sentient weapon smiles.
I just wanted to say that i love your work and i have been re reading every single one. I love how you write Pierro sm and I canât wait for more work in the future.
(Thanks to all the lovelies who sent their asks and comments to keep writing! It means the world to me. As always, be patient with my slow style, and feel free to share your ideas.)
⧠The ever pragmatic Pierro keeps a stern and hardened gaze. One would mistake his star-shaped pupils for the harshest of tundras as he watches off yonder. But his gaze does not linger on the familiar sight of the Snezhnaya peaks behind his office window. Instead, he is mulling in his own office, not out of duty, but waiting to get back home to your embrace.Â
You got used to his punctual daily routine: he returns from work, greets you with a relishing peck, hangs his elegant white coat⌠and spends the entire evening with his face buried on your stomach. Unmoving, unflinching, and without a complaint. Just his arms wrapped around your torso while you lay down on the sofa or the bed, and his visage hidden as he faceplanted onto you.Â
The first few times he did this, you got worried that he's perhaps too exhausted to do anything else. Your fingers caressed his silver hair, inquiring what was wrong. And there lies the irony - nothing was wrong with the Jester. In fact, he was very much satisfied with his current predicament. Embracing your torso until he accidentally dozed off and fell asleep was his afternoon sanctuary. To feel the soft fabrics of your clothes and the familiar warmth of your flesh as if it were the most heavenly pillow. His arms would encircle you, sometimes caressing the back of your leg or his favorite curve of your hipbones.Â
âPierroâŚ? Honey? Oh, he just fell asleep.â
It's not the Director's fault that he is permanently stuck with a stern expression while doing so, even when he accidentally falls asleep with his face buried into you. And if you continuously caress his luscious locks, then you are guaranteed to be stuck with a purring oversized lynx.Â
⧠For unsuspecting eyes, it is hard to distinguish where Il Capitano's eyes linger. Except you know. After an eternity beside him, the pitch blackness of his helmet no longer mystifies, and you can easily distinguish his expression, his mood, and even where his gaze is focused.Â
And in this instance, his eyes are on your thighs. Again.Â
âCapi, you're staring again,â â you'd state simply, to which the mighty Captain breaks from his stupor and bestows upon you a quiet apology. Just a quiet nod.Â
The two of you would be currently engrossed with the wonted early routine, one filled with vigor from morning exercises. Even if you engaged in different sets of training than Capitanoâs more intensive ones, heâd often indulge in a breather to stay and quietly revere your efforts. And it was precisely his uncanny stillness that told you he is, in fact, staring.
Not in any improper or unchaste way, no. But in a prideful one.
Zeroed in on your form, heâd think how truly beautiful you look when you least anticipate it. Focused, proper form, steadfast. A radiant sight of your diligence and hard work. When you hone your mobility, you articulate your legs as a warm-up, and your nose scrunches as you try to stretch your hamstrings. Even if you groan and mumble complaints, it leaves an endearing sight to your Harbinger. And yet, he has seen your prowess in duels, your legs carry might when striking. How have you trained to master such a graceful stance before attacking? The very essence of your shape is a telltale sign of your toils. He must inquire if you changed anything recently in your routineâŚÂ
Of course, that internal monologue is what carries on in the Captain's head. In reality, he is just standing, hand to his chin, as he keeps staring at you blankly in deep silence.Â
âStaring. Third time today, dear.âÂ
â...Ah, my apologies. Perhaps my mind has been wandering.â
âMhm, I can see that, Capi. Want to rectify it by making breakfast this time?â
Capitano would make a mental vow to later display how much he appreciates your endeavors. Especially when the two of you wind up resting after a much-needed shower to end the evening, it would be his favorite pastime to draw you near, pulling both your legs to rest on his lap as he idly caresses your thighs. His thumb would run circles on your knee, while you let out a hearty yawn. You don't need much to say; silence becomes a luxury of peace when his soul yearns for your closeness in such moments of solace.Â
⧠Il Dottore is no painter, but if he ought to sketch the pathways of your veins with closed eyes, he'd do so as naturally as breathing. Or rather, with a shut-off red visor. Having stared at the flesh of your wrist, he dedicated countless hours grasping your arm to draw invincible lines of where your blood vessels are. Neither you nor The Doctor even recall when that habit of his began, when his hand naturally held onto your wrist, never too tightly, to trace the pathway of the little veins he sees languidly.Â
He'd do so unceremoniously, almost idly. Yet he inspected them like the venation of Irminsul, seeking which spots were visible and which faded by the color of your skin. None were spared from his lips, as he'd just press his mouth in a silent kiss to your skin, in an unspoken reverie to your flesh. Be it by your wrist or neck - anywhere he could feel that familiar beat. And the most prominent ones visible on your wrist would be caressed by his thumb, counting the beat of your steady pulse by the slightest press of his digits.
âThis area between your wrist bone and tendon is where your radial artery is,â â Dottore explained absentmindedly while his hand enclosed your wrist. âAnd it is precisely the place that helps check your pulse, which in your resting state is currently beating at⌠approximately 73 beats per minute. Stable.â
âDottore, shouldn't you be mulling over some experiment at this hour?â
âI'm a scholar, dear, not an obtuse. And in every discovery lies hidden beauty one wishes to further⌠inspect.â
âIf âinspectâ is your academic way of saying âstare at it for hoursâ then sure,â â you mused in return to his usual rambling before catching his attention with a sudden smile. âThough I'll have you know, I also think I appreciate something of yours.â
The Harbinger raised his head to look at you in curiosity, your finger gently landing to trail over his jawline right underneath the sharp end of the mask. Tantalizingly slow, your index finger landed precisely on his lip.
âRight⌠over here.â
It is in those rare moments you catch the eccentric Doctor off guard, even if it was a light-hearted tease. Bad choice on your end, because now those lips you pointed at will not give you a moment of respite against your own. Now your pulseâs beat is accelerating, but Dottore is too occupied to count it.Â
⧠During the most ordinary of mornings, when you emerge beside Scaramouche, all dressed and poised to accompany him, the 6th of the Fatui Harbinger would shoot you a glance before scoffing with a smirk.
â... You're heading out looking like this? Did you even brush your hair, or did finches make a nest out of your head?â
You maintain your smile despite the slight eye twitch on your face. You did, in fact, spend hours tending to yourself and your wardrobe. Your hair was far from disheveled, but nothing escapes this Balladeerâs critique. Alas, the Harbinger often used such sharp words to annoy you affectionately. Your warning glare only serves to make him chuckle in victory.Â
âNo, this won't do either way. Come here, let me brush your hair. I won't be walking with someone who looks like they just got out of bed.â
After bickering and whining back and forth, you find yourself sitting by a dresser, where Scaramouche has long since memorized your brushes. He'd pat your shoulders to stay still and stop complaining, yet his fingers carefully glided through your hair. Only then would you find yourself succumbing to his care. Gazing through the reflection of the mirror, his expression is so calm yet profound.
In those odd moments of tranquility, he carefully tended to your hair, having long since memorized which products you preferred and which you disliked. Slender fingers gather your hair locks with a tender touch, ensuring each follicle is carefully inspected. You'd be surprised how mindful he was with a brush, never tugging too roughly to hurt you; even though just a minute ago, he was reprimanding you.
You'd jest with the Harbinger that his criticism was an excuse to caress your hair.
âDon't be absurd,â â Scaramouche retorted while keeping his focus on the brush. "I don't need an excuse when I see your strands of hair going haywire. A single glance at the bath sink is enough to send me.â
Guilty as charged. However, you decided not to press him any further, content on relishing the sincere gaze of admiration in his eyes while he observed the natural luster of your locks. In the meantime, the Puppet pondered to himself. Back in Inazuma, only nobles of the Shogunate had the luxury of having someone tend to their hairdos and accessories; an affectation he had once found strange in his youthful innocence. Even if that was centuries ago and much of his comprehension has changed, he couldnât sit idle. Tending to your hair felt less like service and more of a personal declaration to show who truly deserved a noble status in his eyes. Â
â... You don't often wear the hair accessory I bought you. Did you not like it? Hm, doesn't matter, I'll purchase you a better one suitable for your complexion next time.â Â
⧠In the rare moments that Pantalone has the luxury to lounge and not ramble about some elaborate business endeavor, heâd lie down on the bed beside you, humming a tune absentmindedly while holding your free hand in his.
Heâd caress the length of your fingers with near giddy delight, absolutely enamoured by the sight of them intertwined with his longer ones. Be it playing with your fingers, holding your hand, or adoring how it looks in his palms, it never bored him. However, his favorite hobby out of them all was to slip his rings on your fingers to see how they matched. Heâd take off his fancy silver rings, one by one, and slide some on your finger, pretending they are yours. Oh, how the fine silver gleamed beautifully on your skin, even if his ring sizes were slightly bigger on you.
âYou know, darling, the amethyst colors from my rings suit you. Maybe I should commission matching ones for us?â â The Regrator mused to himself, while your other hand was busy holding a book. You merely turned a page in response, accustomed to his thinking aloud.
âHmm⌠No, perhaps golden rings should decorate each finger, like Mora in your hands!â
âNo, no⌠I think rare gemstones would add some color to you.â
âAh, who cares! As long as your hand is in mine, your fingers will always look cute on me. With or without accessories.â
Pantalone beamed with joy to himself, tracing the counter of your knuckles. His thumb particularly eyed your ring finger. For a brief moment, you shrugged and mumbled in response:
âJust donât accidentally buy the wrong size, honey. Youâll need to measure my ring size first.â
With his usual charismatic self, Pantalone kept admiring your hand, simply replying â âOh, no worries, darling. I have your ring finger size memorized long ago.â
âWell, if you say sâ Wait⌠Why ring finger specifically? Patalone? âŚPantalone!âÂ
Alas, your pleas fell on deaf ears as that cheeky smile never left the Regratorâs lips. Perhaps his mind was already adrift, imagining what the potential rings would look like when he kneels before you.Â
⧠Tartaglia stood solemnly still, his gaze heavy with a storm full of betrayal and despair. He never wished this upon you two, yet fate offered no reprieve. He had to raise his weapon against you, his knuckles clenched white as he tightened his grip â a deadly bundle of rolled-up newspapers.
âI am sorry, sweetheart⌠But you leave me with no choice.â
âAjax, put those newspapers down and stop being dramatic. Itâs not that big of a deal-â
âIt is! It very much is, and it pains me to see you be so cruel! Take your words back, or peace wonât be an option.â
You rolled your eyes and sighed begrudgingly. You have indeed brought this situation upon yourself.
You were trying on some garments, slipping into newly acquired pants. The mirrorâs reflection displayed your figure, albeit with a faint scowl on your face, while you observed yourself. You didnât particularly like the look of this attire, not because of the pants, but because of your figure.
âHmm, my hip-dips look even weirder here⌠This looks ugly. Iâll change,â â you mumbled to yourself, already reaching for another outfit. Unfortunately or fortunately, your beloved Childe was standing by the doorway, having heard every word.
Thatâs how the two of you ended up in this stand-off.
Perhaps itâs not the first time you felt inelegant in your own physique, and itâs definitely not the first time Tartaglia noticed the shadows of insecurities about the curve of your hips loom over you. Yet this man tolerated no such defamations, even from your own self. He adored your build, he adored your body, and he most certainly adored the hip bones. How many times did he let his head rest on your lap, embracing your figure while you casually caressed his ginger hair? How many times did he watch you try on various outfits while pride swelled in his chest, knowing you were his? And above all, how many times did he whisper lovingly into your ear while he caressed and worshiped each crevice of your flesh? The answer is countless â countless times.
âListen, you can dislike the fit of your clothes, but if you insult my favourite hip dips of yours one more time, I swear by the Tsaritaâs name, this rolled up newspaper will be my witness!â
âChilde, I told you, itâs not a big deal! I just donât think I look good when- Ow!â
The rolled-up newspaper did zero crit damage, but it came swatting onto your shoulders either way. Your evades were futile, so you tried to run away from your own beloved. Tartaglia, however, was not taking this lightly.
âYour bones provide structure and support! Your muscles give you mobility!â â He reiterated with each light hit while you complained. âThey are natural and ravishing. Donât you dare insult my favourite part about your body!â
âWell, what if itâs not my favorite- OW! Cease this child-like play, Ajax!â
âI will not cease anything until you apologize to your own self, right this instant!â
You may run, and you may shield yourself; nevertheless, it will end with him tackling you in a very tight embrace that will coax you to agree with his terms. If not with squeezing embraces, then perhaps with more tender ones where his lips kiss your worries away in a frenzied manner. Poor youâŚ
(Fun fact: this is my 20th fanfic with fatui compilation! As always, the previous ones are in my masterlist)
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