Fatui!Scaramouche x Angel?Reader
Wc: ~2400!
Warning: Might be messy and inconsistent as I wrote this in different days + no proofread. Sorry!
CW: Initial cringy fluff, mention of abuse (it's not that bad I swear) Angst?
Every Seelie follows a specific path that ultimately leads to their Court.
This is the third part and also the last part! The first part. The second part.
A long time had passed since your legs healed, and you still found yourself refusing to leave his side.
You spent months in the capital of Snezhnaya. It was cold. But inside his private quarters, the fireplace gave an insular warmth that belonged only to you.
Scaramouche came back late one evening, stomping the snow off his black boots with a string of muttered curses.
“Bad day again?” You looked up from the book in your lap, tilting your head slightly. The pages were dotted with few letters that still looked like meaningless shapes to you…well, the book was a pictured one for kids, so you liked it.
“Yes, have I ever had a good one?” He scoffed sarcastically. He took his large hat off and dropped it carelessly to the side before approaching the bed where you sat. His indigo eyes bore into yours. “Move.”
“No. I sat here first.”
“Oh, you've grown quite a spine, huh?” He snickered frustratingly, though beneath the surface, he was strangely satisfied. He liked this. He liked that the once naive, fragile creature he had dragged out of an Eremite cage was finally displaying a sharp edge, even if it was turned against him. It proved you were changing. “Tch. Attention on me.”
Without waiting for your compliance, Scaramouche aggressively snatched the book from your hands and threw it across the room. And before you could protest, he climbed onto the mattress, shifting his weight until he was draped over you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
This had become a daily ritual. The terrifying Sixth Harbinger reduced to a clingy cat the moment the doors closed. He needed this, your unadulterated existence.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin on his soft indigo hair. “I'm glad I could see this side of you.”
He let out a huff against your skin but ultimately said nothing. Instead, he shifted closer, his fingers tightening into the fabric of your clothes as he deeply inhaled your scent until his tense shoulders finally relaxed.
The domestic stillness of his room made you bolder as the days bled together. One morning, you found him sitting by the mirror, he was meticulously touching up the striking, red eyeliner framing his sharp eyes.
◇◇◇
You approached quietly, curious about his action, "Can I try?"
“No,” Scaramouche paused, his brush hovering in mid-air. He glared at you through the reflection, his brow twitching. “This requires precision. You are dumbly clumsy."
"I'll be careful," you pleaded. "Scara?"
He scoffed sharply, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Yet, he turned his chair around to face you. He aggressively handed over the brush, “Fine.”
You bent forward, leaning over him. But his chair was low, and maintaining a steady hand at that awkward angle was proving to be a nightmare.
"I can’t-" you stretched slightly.
“Incompetent.”
"Shut up and just do it," he muttered stubbornly, shyly irritated. He tilted his chin up, exposing his face to you while his fingers dug into the fabric at your waist. "Don't make me ask again."
Before you could straighten up, his hands reached out, wrapping firmly around your waist. With an effortless yank, he pulled you right into his lap.
He refused to look you in the eye, his gaze locked onto the floor as a dark, intense crimson blush rapidly crawled up his neck and flooded the tips of his ears.
"Okay! I won’t let you down!" you spoke enthusiastically.
With focus, you carefully dragged the fine tip of the brush along the outer corner of his eyelid. Scaramouche didn't move a single muscle as the moment he looked back at your face, Scaramouche was completely captivated by the affectionate enthusiasm on your face.
When you finally pulled back, admiring your work, you giggled. "There! You look very pretty."
"Pretty?" The blush on Scaramouche's face deepened. He aggressively snatched the brush back, his face turned away from you. "Ugh! Did I ask for your opinion?"
"...You really are a fool," he whispered, sounding vulnerable in the quiet room before turning back to face you.
“I hate you.” He claimed as he pulled you into an embrace. “I hate you so much.”
“You…hate me?” You sulked.
“You are so dense!” He scolded…after calming his nerves, he gave you a light, gentle kiss on your forehead. “Don’t ever leave me. Got that?”
You thought that as long as days like these continue, the sacrifice of your 'self ' remain justified.
“We are coming back to Mondstadt for an investigation,” he suddenly spoke up one evening, breaking the comfortable silence. “There are a few reports about meteorites falling from the sky, and the Tsaritsa sent me to research them.”
But everything ought to change...
◇◇◇
That was exactly what happened on the border of Mondstadt. Due to strict Fatui transport protocols and scheduling conflicts with the heavy equipment, you and he were split into two separate carriages.
‘Have we ever been to Mondstadt?’ But you simply nodded, offering a compliant smile. It didn't matter where he went. Mondstadt, Liyue, the Abyss, all seven continents of Teyvat, as long as you were behind him, you were content.
…
Your mind had been degrading at a rapid pace. The divine structure of an angel's soul could not sustain the corruption of human cynicism and selfish devotion, it was dying under the weight of your new nature. You would blink and forget what you had just eaten. You would look around a room and wonder how you got there. The only things that remained partially intact in your fading consciousness were him and the exact space where he resided. It might be because you stayed by his side at all times….So what if that changed?
It was supposed to be a minor inconvenience. A few hours apart. But your transportation never made it to the camp. A bunch of mindless Hilichurls struck your carriage down.
The moment the Fatui soldiers forced the carriage doors open to drag you out of the wreckage, your fractured mind panicked. The unfamiliar trees, the smell of smoke, the shouting men, none of them were him.
While the Fatui soldiers were busy clearing the remaining monsters, you rushed away. You started to wander blindly into the dense forest, driven by a desperate instinct to find the only thing you remembered right now.
By the time the smoke cleared, the soldiers realized they had lost sight of you.
When the news reached the main camp, Scaramouche was rightfully pissed. The sheer incompetence of his subordinates almost drove him to wipe the floor with them right then and there.
◇◇◇
But as he stared at the trembling soldiers, his rage slowly subsided into a cold, arrogant confidence. He remembered that you always found a way to come back to him. Yes. You always did.
When you were stranded in the forests of Snezhnaya the first time, you had found your way to him. When you were lost in the bustling, overwhelming markets of Nod Krai, you had stood by the food stall until he found you. No matter how far you drifted, your devotion always pulled you back to his side like gravity. You were his loyal shadow now. You wouldn't leave.
He dismissed the soldiers with a disdainful wave of his hand and focused his attention back on the mysterious, glowing meteorites. The mission took priority. You would appear at the edge of the camp sooner or later, looking pathetic and waiting for him to scold you.
Deep within the Whispering Woods, the air felt heavy and cold.
◇◇◇
“Why am I here again?” you asked yourself aloud suddenly.
You scanned your surroundings, but the trees looked like blurred streaks of green and gray. You couldn't remember your name. You couldn't remember what an “angel” was. Your body felt strangely weightless and numb. The world was losing its color.
You took another step forward, but your foot didn't seem to touch the grass. A soft, warm light began to emit from your skin, a dim radiance. Your sense of 'self' was gone, leaving behind only a lingering desire to find … To guide... To be near… who?
“So long, suckers,” Scaramouche mocked smugly, casting a dismissive glance at the Traveler and their floating companion as the other Fatui soldiers took the stage.
…
The star research was complete. The sky was a hoax, a fake, a grand lie and he had all the data to prove it.
But as he walked away, the triumphant smirk faded from his lips. It had been days since the last sighting of you. The comfort of your presence was entirely gone, and the voice in his head started to come back again.
The moment he returned to the main Fatui campsite in Mondstadt, he frantically ordered his troops to search for you. "Find her!" he barked, his voice losing its usual calculated coldness, bordering on panic.
But it was like chasing a wild goose. You had completely disappeared into thin air. No footprints. No witnesses. Nothing.
Scaramouche paced the floors of his tent, his mind spiraling. He hadn't been aware of your devolving mind and he sure hadn't realized that your quiet compliance was your soul breaking apart. To him, your absence looked entirely different.
Did you wait for so long just to get away from me?
The thought was enough to twist his grief into a sharp, poisonous rage. He thought you had changed for the better. Better in his definition: detached from the world, entirely devoted to him. He thought he was finally able to find the one who cared.
But it turned out you were exactly the same as everyone else who had ever come close to him. The mother who abandoned him. The bladesmith who fled from his responsibility. The little boy who broke his promise. You had played the part of an innocent angel just long enough to make him vulnerable, only to discard him when his back was turned.
"Pathetic," he whispered to the empty room, his tone was hateful and bitter.
"Good riddance."
The next morning, as he rode out of Mondstadt to return to Snezhnaya, a small (color) Seelie floated out from the treeline.
…
Unlike other Seelies that nested in their stone courts, this one stayed strictly behind him, following him day and night. Through the freezing winds of Snezhnaya, through the dark corridors of the Delusion factory, it was always there.
To Scaramouche, its presence was an insult. It was a cruel irony of nature, an annoying, persistent reminder of the "angel" who had abandoned him. It felt like the world was actively mocking his vulnerability, sending a mindless guiding spirit to haunt the puppet who had dared to think he was loved.
As rage inside him boiled over. On dark nights in his quarters, when everything became too heavy, he would lash out at the creature.
He beat it with his bare hands, dispersing Electro energy, tearing through its fragile light. He would capture it in his palm, aggressively strangling the spirit until its glow practically vanished. He threw it against the stone walls, cursed at it with every foul word he knew, and demanded it to leave him alone.
Yet, no matter how violently he tore it apart, the spirit never left his side. The moment his hands dropped, the fractured light would slowly drift back together, floating weakly back to his shoulder. Emitting that same warmth that used to put his mind to sleep. It accepted every ounce of his hatred, completely unbothered by his cruelty.
He hated it. He hated how much it reminded him of your impossible softness.
It was a long, torturous road ahead. The rebellion in Inazuma, the acquisition of the Electro Gnosis, the ascension to godhood in Sumeru as Shouki no Kami, and the ultimate, crushing defeat at the hands of the Traveler and the Lesser Lord.
It wasn't until much later when he had agreed to search the roots of the world, and his consciousness was finally granted access to the Irminsul tree did the truth finally unravel.
☆☆☆
As the infinite streams of data flowed through his mind, specific records materialized before him. A record of Dottore, who stripped Niwa’s heart from his chest, framing the man to manipulate the pure Kabukimono. A record of the young ill child. A record of an angel whose divinity had fractured from a self-inflicted erasure of identity, driven entirely by a devotion to a puppet who told her that her purpose is trash.
He remembered the little light, his hands trembling violently as the weight of every strike, every curse, and every horrific action he had inflicted upon the spirit rushed back to haunt him. It wasn’t an insult from the world. It had always been you. The only thing you had remembered was him, and you had spent centuries letting him tear you apart, a punching bag for his anger.
Even when he went so far as to delete himself from the Irminsul records, rewriting history to erase the very existence of Scaramouche and Kabukimono, the world forgot. The Fatui forgot. The gods forgot.
…
But the Seelie still managed to find and follow him.
When he awoke in Sumeru as a blank slate, the tiny spirit was already hovering quietly over his head.
As he reclaimed his memories and chose to walk forward, no longer the Harbinger, the little creature danced softly in the air. Sensing his silent will to finally put behind the past, it didn't just passively hang on his shoulder anymore. The Seelie flew ahead, looking back as if waiting to guide him one last time.
It led him away from the rainforests of Sumeru, across the stone plains of Liyue, and all the way back to the whispering forests of Mondstadt. It brought him deep into the woods and, coincidentally, the exact spot where they had first met.
The Seelie stopped where you once slept.
Out of nowhere, a simple court manifested for the Seelie to reside. It was a simple stone pedestal, waiting just for you. The little spirit floated toward it, turning around one last time to cast its warm light over his face, as if a final, comforting goodbye.
With a gentle, fading glow, the Seelie slowly sank into the stone pedestal, finally finding its eternal rest.
The Wanderer stepped forward, expecting a chest to appear, the typical reward for following the guide. He expected unnecessary stuff like Mora or sigils. But instead of any treasures, the stone court offered only a singular Cecilia flower.
He knelt down, his fingers trembling as he carefully picked up the white, delicate flowers. It was a flower that only bloomed where the harshest winds blew, thriving in solitude. A perfect symbol of a pure, unchanging heart and a silent, lifelong devotion.
And the rest is left for your imagination.
Thank you for patiently follow this series!! Initially it was scrapped but i managed to retcon it into this!!!
Hope it brought tear to your eyes...