Newbie7

Dinner was supposed to be peaceful.

Steam curled from the bowls like a gentle invitation. The noodles glistened. The broth shimmered. And across the table, Childe looked like he was preparing to assassinate his food.

Y/N had come for noodles, not a front-row seat to a Harbinger’s slow-motion breakdown. Watching him battle his dinner like it owed him money was starting to feel like emotional whiplash.

She was halfway through her meal, slurping noodles with the reckless abandon of someone who’d just won a lifetime supply and had zero table manners. Across from her, Childe was locked in a silent battle with his chopsticks—gripping them like twin daggers, brows furrowed, lips pressed so tight they could slice tofu and maybe his pride.

He jabbed. He poked. He tried to pinch. The noodles slipped through his grip like traitors abandoning ship. One flopped dramatically onto his lap. Another launched itself into the air and landed with a wet plop on the table.

Y/N paused, chewing slowly, watching him with the kind of amused horror reserved for witnessing someone try to parallel park a horse.

“You good?” she asked, mouth half-full. “Or are you just threatening the noodles into submission?”

“I know how to use chopsticks,” Childe snapped, stabbing the bowl again.

“You’re holding them like you’re trying to summon the Archons.”

“They’re slippery!”

“You’re slippery.”

Childe growled, hunched over his bowl like a man on the brink of a culinary breakdown. He narrowed his eyes, focused all his Harbinger energy into the chopsticks, and went in for the kill.

The noodles mocked him—glossy, tangled, and smug.

He tried to pinch a bundle, but they slithered away like greased eels. He adjusted his grip, repositioned his fingers, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a war chant, and lunged again.

This time, he managed to trap a single noodle. Victory was within reach.

But as he lifted it, the noodle slipped—again—and his frustration boiled over. His grip tightened too hard, too fast, and one of the chopsticks snapped loose from his hand and launched across the table like a missile.

It was chaos in motion.

Y/N’s instincts activated.

She didn’t just dodge—she arched her back like a startled shrimp mid-yoga, spine curving in a dramatic reverse C-shape as the chopstick whizzed past her face like a cursed relic launched from a noodle dimension.

She didn’t dodge because she was graceful. She dodged because her survival instincts screamed, “Not today, flying stick of doom!”—and her spine obeyed like a shrimp possessed.

Her chair tilted. Her hair whipped. Her soup spoon clattered to the floor in protest.

The chopstick embedded itself in the wall behind her with a thunk so aggressive it could’ve been a warning from the gods.

She snapped upright, eyes wide, breath heaving like she’d just survived a boss battle.

Childe froze, still holding his one remaining chopstick like a sad little sword. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again—like his brain was rebooting mid-soup crisis.

He hadn’t meant to launch a projectile. He’d just wanted dinner. And maybe—maybe to impress her. But now she looked at him like he was a sentient disaster wrapped in a pretty face and poor utensil choices.

And gods help him, he still wanted her to think he was cool.

“I—uh…”

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” she shrieked, voice cracking like a kettle mid-meltdown.

She pointed at the wall like it was crime scene evidence. “YOU JUST TRIED TO IMPALE ME WITH A WOODEN STICK! I NEARLY BECAME A KEBAB!”

“It slipped!”

Y/N had seen things slip—sanity, socks on tile, her will to live during tax season—but this? This was a projectile tantrum wrapped in noodle shame.

“I SAW MY LIFE FLASH BEFORE MY EYES! It was mostly noodles and emotional trauma!”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m going to haunt you,” she declared, dramatically clutching her chest. “Every time you eat, I’ll whisper, ‘Remember the chopstick incident.’”

Childe looked like he wanted to crawl into the broth and disappear. His ears were red. His pride was bleeding out. Somewhere beneath the shame, a small, traitorous part of him admired how she dodged like a shrimp possessed and then weaponized her fury with theatrical precision.

He’d faced Abyssal horrors with less intensity.

She jabbed a finger at him, voice rising again. “WHY DID YOU EVEN ORDER NOODLES?! You can’t even get a single bite without launching a utensil into orbit!”

Childe flinched like she’d upgraded to a soup elemental. “I—I thought I could handle it!”

“You thought?!” she screeched, arms flailing. “You’ve been battling that bowl like it insulted your ancestors!”

“I was hungry and hopeful!” he yelled back, face redder than the chili oil floating in his broth. “I didn’t know the noodles would be so… hostile!”

“They’re noodles, not assassins!”

“They act like assassins!”

“You act like a toddler with chopsticks taped to his fists!”

“I’m under pressure!”

“You’re under soup!”

Y/N didn’t just sit back down—she descended into her chair like a war general returning to the battlefield. Her hair was still mid-flail, one noodle clinging to her sleeve like a traumatized survivor. Her spoon lay abandoned on the floor, a fallen comrade in the Great Soup War of Five Minutes Ago.

She stared at Childe like he was a walking calamity swaddled in cheekbones and questionable utensil ethics.

“You know what?” she said, voice trembling with righteous fury and dramatic flair. “I’m confiscating your chopsticks.”

Childe blinked. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.” She snatched the remaining chopstick from his hand like a disappointed mother taking away a toy sword from a child who’d just stabbed the couch.

He gasped. “That was my last weapon!”

“You’ve lost noodle privileges,” she declared, tossing both chopsticks onto the table with the finality of a judge slamming a gavel. “You’re on spoon probation.”

“I can’t eat noodles with a spoon!”

“Then starve. Or slurp. Or make peace with the noodle gods. I don’t care.”

Childe looked betrayed. “I’m a Harbinger.”

“You’re a hazard.”

Y/N picked up her own chopsticks with the smug elegance of someone who’d trained in the ancient art of noodle warfare. She twirled a perfect bundle, lifted it gracefully, and slurped it with the kind of satisfaction that could only be described as spiteful culinary dominance.

Childe watched, defeated, as she chewed with exaggerated delight. “Mmm,” she moaned, eyes fluttering. “Tastes like victory and emotional stability.”

He sulked. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m enjoying it exactly enough.”

Then, with the kind of theatrical cruelty reserved for soap opera villains and dramatic exes, she reached across the table, plucked a noodle from his bowl, and slurped it—maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Childe recoiled like she’d just stolen his soul. “That was mine!”

“Not anymore,” she said, licking her lips. “Possession is nine-tenths of the noodle.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your reckoning.”

He slumped forward, forehead nearly touching the table, mumbling something about betrayal and soup-based trauma.

But really, he was just trying not to smile.

Y/N, now fully drunk on power and carbs, leaned back in her chair like a noodle queen surveying her kingdom. Her hair was slightly frizzed from the dodge, her sleeve stained with broth, and her expression radiant with chaotic triumph.

Then she spotted the chopstick still embedded in the wall.

She stood, walked over, and yanked it out with a dramatic flourish. “I’m keeping this,” she said.

“As a warning. A relic. A cursed artifact of your shame.”

Frankly, she was surprised she hadn’t done it sooner. Watching him eat was like watching a toddler try to perform surgery with spaghetti.

Childe groaned. “Can we just eat in peace?”

She turned slowly, eyes gleaming. “Peace died when you weaponized dinner.”

__________

Weeks had passed since the chopstick incident, but peace remained fragile. The trauma hadn’t faded—it had simply been framed.

The chopstick still hung on Y/N’s wall like a cursed relic from a dinner gone feral. Not tucked away. Not forgotten. Just… mounted. The plaque beneath it read: “In memory of peace. May dinner never be weaponized again.”

Childe had tried to reclaim it once, citing “emotional closure” and “personal property.” She didn’t argue. She just stared at him until he backed away like she’d unsheathed a ladle.

These days, whenever he came over, he brought spoons. Sometimes flowers. Once, a folded napkin with a peace offering written in soy sauce. He never touched the chopsticks unless she handed him one—and even then, it felt like a test.

Word had spread.

Scaramouche sent Y/N a miniature alarm bell with a note: “For your protection.”

The device was labeled “Utensil Proximity Alert”—rigged to chime whenever chopsticks were lifted within a three-foot radius. It had settings for “mild panic,” “active threat,” and “Childe.”

Signora refused to dine near Childe without a splash barrier.

The chopstick incident had become legend—whispered among Harbingers like a cautionary tale of soup-based warfare.

Y/N hadn’t forgotten the chaos: the dodge, the scream, the noodle theft. It was all still there, etched into memory with the clarity of soup-stained trauma. But the anger had softened over time, replaced by something quieter. Something almost fond.

Sometimes, when he looked particularly tragic—head down, shoulders slumped, sulking like a kicked puppy—she’d slide a single chopstick across the table. No words. Just the gesture.

And every time she did, she’d also reach for something to shield herself. A tray. A pillow. Once, she wore a colander on her head and called it “soup-proof.” It wasn’t overkill—it was experience. Because letting Childe near chopsticks was like handing a raccoon a fencing sword and hoping for etiquette.

He never argued with the shields anymore.

There was something sacred in the way she armed herself—like she was preparing for battle, and he was the disaster she refused to underestimate.

It stung, a little. But mostly, it made sense.

If she was still defending herself, it meant he was still close enough to be a threat.

And for Childe, that was almost comforting.

Also mildly devastating.

Watching her strap on a colander like tactical gear, eyes narrowed in soup-proof determination, he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just accept his role as the reason she needed armor.

At least she hadn’t upgraded to ladle-proof boots. Yet.

She passed it across the table like a ceremonial blade—blessed by starch, cursed by memory.

He accepted it like a knight receiving a blade he wasn’t worthy of.

The silence was ceremonial. The shield deployment, expected.

It had become their ritual—trust wrapped in starch and trauma.

He’d once taken down an Abyssal beast with a broken dagger and a glare.

Now he was losing to carbs.

The battlefield had changed, but the humiliation was eternal.

His gaze drifted to the wall, to the mounted chopstick and its solemn plaque: “In memory of peace. May dinner never be weaponized again.”

He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d ever earn a second inscription.

“In memory of restraint. May no spoon be flung in vain.”

Y/N caught him looking. She lowered her shield exactly three inches—just enough to glare. The look said, I’ve survived worse. I’m not surviving you twice.

“Don’t push it,” she muttered, and the tray rose again like a drawbridge sealing off emotional access.

And Childe, hopelessly devoted to every ridiculous second of it, didn’t.

Wanderer/Scaramouche x Fem!Reader

It kicked off with a brush.

And the kind of idea that smelled like mango toast and emotional recklessness.

The kind of idea that should’ve come with a warning label, a mop, and emotional insurance.

"Let’s paint!" Y/N declared, bursting into the room like a glitter-covered tornado—mango toast in one hand, and a fistful of reckless ambition in the other. Her eyes were wide with excitement—too wide. The kind of wide that meant someone was about to lose a sock or dignity.

Scaramouche, who had just sat down with his tea and a rare moment of peace, looked up slowly. His expression was blank, but his soul was already screaming.

"No," he said flatly, brows twitching in disbelief.

"Yes," she replied instantly, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I don’t do art," he deadpanned, narrowing his eyes like she’d just asked him to juggle flaming cacti.

"You do now," she grinned, already stepping closer with the kind of energy that made the lamp flicker in existential dread.

He opened his mouth to argue, lips parting with the beginnings of a very dramatic protest—

But she was faster.

Before he could get a single word out, she grabbed his wrist with mango-powered determination and dragged him across the apartment like a sack of unwilling potatoes. His face twisted into a mix of horror and resignation, heels skidding across the floor.

"I haven’t even finished my tea!" he snapped, voice rising with every step.

"You’ll paint better dehydrated!" she chirped.

The living room was already a disaster zone.

Canvases were scattered like landmines. Paint jars sat open and leaking. Glitter bombs were stacked like party favors from a cult.

There was a suspicious mango-shaped blob on the wall and a trail of neon footprints leading to the bathroom.

Scaramouche’s jaw dropped slightly as he took it all in. His eye twitched.

"This is a crime scene."

"It’s a vibe," Y/N announced proudly, tossing him a brush like it was a weapon and she was about to start an emotional color riot.

He caught the brush mid-air, stared at it like it was about to ruin his life, then lifted his gaze to her—wide-eyed, glitter-drenched, and far too pleased with herself.

His expression said it all: He was not okay.

The other eye narrowed in silent judgment.

His lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line—like he was physically holding back a scream and a sarcastic monologue at the same time.

Ten agonizing minutes had crawled by.

Her canvas looked like a fruit salad had been murdered—colors splattered like emotional confessions, mango tones bleeding into neon chaos.

Meanwhile, Scaramouche’s was still blank.

He stared at it like it had insulted his ancestors and stolen his last shred of peace.

His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like he was trying to chew through his own frustration.

One eye twitched.

His lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line—like he’d swallowed a thunderstorm and was negotiating terms with his dignity.

He inhaled slowly, held it like it might anchor his sanity, and counted to three.

It didn’t help.

His frustration sat in his throat like a swallowed scream.

His patience was unraveling thread by thread, wrapped in sticky hues and emotional fruit warfare.

And somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered:

This is how it ends.

Not with fire.

Not with fury.

But with acrylic paint and emotional warfare in the living room.

Then she dipped her fingers in green paint and smeared it across his cheek with the confidence of someone who’d already accepted her fate and written her own obituary in glitter pen.

He froze. The brush slipped from his fingers like it had given up on him first.

His jaw tightened as his gaze locked onto nothing, like he was staring into the abyss and the abyss was painted neon.

If his soul had a volume knob, it was currently set to mute and seethe. And somewhere behind his eyes, a quiet scream was composing its own opera.

"You did not just—" he said slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a volcano trying to whisper before it erupts.

"I did!" she squealed, already sprinting away like a glittery criminal who’d just robbed a craft store and left mango toast crumbs at the scene.

He stood up so fast the chair nearly flipped.

His patience—already hanging by a thread—snapped like a cheap hair tie in a hurricane.

His soul left his body.

His inner peace filed for divorce.

"YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!" he roared, grabbing the nearest paintbrush like it was a sword forged in vengeance.

"You love me!" she called over her shoulder, laughing like a gremlin who’d just stolen a sacred artifact and replaced it with a glitter bomb.

"I WILL END YOU!" he bellowed, voice cracking like his sanity.

She ran like a menace on a mission, like a toddler who’d just stolen a permanent marker and knew exactly where the white walls were.

Her heart was pounding—not from fear, but from the kind of glee that only came with orchestrated emotional carnage. This was her favorite kind of disaster: loud, messy, and starring Scaramouche in full dramatic meltdown mode, complete with shouted threats and the occasional stumble over a glitter bomb she’d “accidentally” left in his path.

The sound of his voice cracking behind her only made her grin harder, because there was something deeply satisfying about watching his composure unravel—like a badly stitched doll coming apart at the seams. He was always so put-together, so sharp-tongued and tightly wound, and she loved nothing more than poking at those seams until the thread snapped.

She wasn’t sure what thrilled her more: the way his fury made his voice tremble, or the way he still chased her, even though he clearly knew she was making it worse on purpose. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was the fact that, no matter how chaotic she got, he never stopped showing up in the middle of it.

Scaramouche chased her with the fury of a man who had been emotionally sabotaged, physically glittered, and spiritually betrayed.

His paintbrush was gripped like a weapon. His robe flared behind him like a dramatic villain in a soap opera. His patience? Gone. Vaporized. Replaced by pure, unfiltered chaos.

"Give me your face!" he yelled, dodging a flying sponge.

"You already have it!" she shrieked, laughing so hard she nearly tripped over a glitter bomb labeled “DO NOT TOUCH (Y/N)”.

She zigzagged through the apartment like a caffeinated squirrel, knocking over canvases, kicking paint jars, and somehow managing to step in every single puddle of color.

"Oops!" she giggled, knocking over a stack of brushes.

"I swear to the Archons—" Scaramouche growled, slipping on a streak of neon pink and crashing into a pillow fort she’d built for “creative energy.”

She ducked under the table.

He dove after her.

She popped up on the other side like a whack-a-mole with glitter in her hair.

"You’re making this worse!" he shouted, voice cracking with rage and acrylic fumes.

"I’m making it memorable!"

She slid across the kitchen tiles like she was auditioning for a musical.

He followed, skidding sideways, knocking over a jar of herbs and yelling “WHY IS EVERYTHING STICKY?!”

She grabbed a spoon.

He grabbed a mop.

They circled each other like two emotionally unstable gladiators in a craft store coliseum.

"You’re insane!" he snapped.

"You’re sparkly!" she beamed.

And then she threw a glitter bomb at his feet.

It exploded.

He screamed—a sound soaked in glitter, betrayal, and the kind of emotional exhaustion only a mango-scented war could cause. She laughed at his dramatic fury, at the way his voice cracked like a paintbrush snapping under pressure, at the sheer theatrical collapse of a man who once prided himself on composure and now looked like a villain mid-breakdown in a craft store opera.

Then—he caught her.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t strategic.

It was pure, glitter-fueled vengeance.

Mid-sprint, he lunged. His hand clamped around her wrist with the desperation of a man who had been emotionally sabotaged one too many times.

She gasped—half in shock, half in delight—just as he yanked her backward like a man possessed by acrylic rage.

"No—!" she squealed, twisting mid-air.

Too late.

He tackled her to the ground like a dramatic soap opera villain who’d finally cornered his glitter nemesis.

They crashed into a pile of cushions and chaos, limbs tangled, paint flying, her legs flailing like a startled octopus, arms trying to escape the inevitable.

Laughter exploded from her chest—wild, breathless, and reckless.

And Scaramouche?

He was breathing hard, eyes wide, heart pounding like he’d just fought a war.

Because he had.

Because chasing her through puddles of neon and emotional sabotage was starting to feel like his full-time job.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, kicking and laughing, her heart thudding like a drumline.

"Nope. You started this," he growled, pinning her down with one arm and grabbing a brush with the other.

He should’ve been furious.

He was furious.

But underneath the rage was something worse—something softer.

Something that made his grip falter for half a second when she laughed like that.

Something that made him stare at her face longer than necessary before he dipped the brush in blue.

And then—calmly, methodically—he started painting her face.

A streak of blue across her forehead.

A dot of yellow on her nose.

A swirl of pink on her cheek.

She blinked up at him, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes wide—caught between the aftermath of laughter and the weight of something unspoken.

He was focused. Too focused. Like this wasn’t just retaliation, wasn’t just glitter-fueled vengeance, but something deeper, something deliberate. And just as the tension threatened to tip into softness, she burst out laughing—wild and reckless, trying to shake off the feeling curling in her chest.

But her heart was doing flips, traitorous and loud, because he saw her. Not just the spectacle, not just the glitter-stained mischief, but the whole mess of her—the tangled intentions, the defiant sparkle, the emotional wreckage dressed up in laughter. And instead of turning away, he stayed. He stayed and painted her face like a canvas he refused to abandon.

Scaramouche stared at her—glitter-streaked, breathless, laughing like she’d just set fire to his sanity and called it art—with the kind of intensity that made the air feel heavier.

She was the most infuriating, ridiculous, beautiful disaster he’d ever met, and it showed in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his grip didn’t loosen, in the way his heart refused to settle. He hated her for making him feel this much, for turning his composure into confetti and his patience into paint. And yet, even as his thoughts spiraled and his chest ached, he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop—and he didn’t want to.

Then—she flipped him.

With a sudden twist and a yell of “Payback time!” she rolled him onto his back, straddled him like a victorious goblin, and grabbed the nearest glitter jar.

"Don’t you dare—" he started, voice rising with the kind of panic reserved for glitter-related trauma.

But it was already too late.

She was moving with gleeful precision, fingers dipped in glue before he could finish the sentence, smearing it across his jawline with the confidence of someone decorating a victory cake.

Then came the glitter—an unapologetic cascade, dumped with flourish and zero remorse, coating him in shimmering betrayal like she was frosting him for emotional display.

"GLITTER BEARD!" she announced triumphantly

.

Scaramouche screamed. Not a dignified scream. A full-on, “I’m covered in sparkles and emotional damage” scream.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!"

"You look majestic!"

"I LOOK LIKE A FAILED HOLIDAY ORNAMENT!"

She collapsed beside him, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe, her body shaking with the kind of joy that only comes from successful emotional sabotage. He lay there, glitter-bearded and betrayed, arms sprawled like a man defeated by sparkle and sentiment.

Beside him, her heart pounded, cheeks aching from laughter, and somewhere between the glitter and the wreckage, she found herself quietly wondering how someone could look so good while being emotionally destroyed by craft supplies.

Scaramouche didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling, glitter drifting into his eye like confetti from a war he never meant to win. Thoughts spiraled—how had he ended up here, tangled in cushions and chaos with a girl who laughed like she was breaking and healing at the same time? Why did her laugh make his chest ache like a bruise he didn’t want to fade?

And why, despite everything, did he hope the moment never ended?

They lay sprawled across the glitter-stained floor, surrounded by paint jars, mangled cushions, and what used to be a functioning living room.

"You’re the worst roommate I’ve ever had," he muttered.

"You’re welcome," she said, smug, fully aware of the emotional mess she’d just masterpiece’d.

He tried to sit up, but his elbow landed in a puddle of pink.

"I swear, if this gets in my hair—"

"It already did," she said, pointing at the streak of blue behind his ear.

He groaned.

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"You tackled me to the ground and painted my face like a mango clown."

"You flipped me over and gave me a glitter beard!"

"You deserved it!"

They stared at each other.

Then burst out laughing again, breathless and ridiculous.

After a moment, Y/N scooted closer and leaned her head on his shoulder, smearing a bit of yellow onto his robe.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t complain.

Just sighed like a man who’d accepted his fate.

"You know," she said, voice softer now, "this was kinda fun."

"You’re insane."

"You’re sparkly."

He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.

She caught the twitch of his lips, and her grin widened, playful.

"You’re smiling," she teased, voice light, like she’d just uncovered a secret he hadn’t meant to share.

"No I’m not."

"You are."

"It’s a grimace."

"It’s adorable."

He groaned again, louder this time.

"I’m moving out."

"No you’re not."

"I’m burning the glitter."

"You’ll miss me."

He didn’t answer.

Mostly because she was right.

Her head rested on his shoulder, warm and reckless, like she belonged there.

Paint clung to his hair, glitter dusted his sleeves, and the air was thick with emotional debris.

He could still hear her laugh—bright, unfiltered, echoing through the room.

And he stayed still.

Because letting the moment pass meant admitting it mattered.

And admitting it mattered meant facing everything he’d been trying to ignore.

That she got under his skin.

That she made the mess feel like home.

Wanderer/Scaramouche x Fem!Reader

She folds to stay whole. He bleeds to stay close.

Love is ritual, ruin, and the silence between paper wings.

A crane lies between them—creased by silence, stained by blood, held in the hush of what they won’t undo.

It stays broken.

So do they.

But neither leaves.

______________

She folds until her fingers split.

Not for beauty. Not for peace. Just to keep the unrest from spilling out and staining the room with everything she can’t say. The paper is thin, but it cuts deep—each crease a quiet confession, each crane a prayer that never lands. They gather around her like witnesses. Crooked. Frenzied. Stained. A flock of trembling ghosts, born from blood and compulsion.

Her hands tremble, delicate and erratic, like they’re chasing a rhythm she can’t hold. Each breath slips out shallow, barely enough to keep her upright. Her nails are cracked, rimmed in red, trembling at the edges of pain—but still, she folds. Still, she doesn’t stop.

She folds like she’s trying to vanish into the ritual. Like if she folds enough, she’ll disappear between the wings.

She doesn’t know how to be normal. Doesn’t know how to feel without flooding—without something rising inside her and dragging her under. Her emotions don’t crest; they corrode. Quiet. Relentless. Merciless. They wear her down like water against stone, and when she can’t hold herself together, she folds. Again. Again. And again. Each crane a splinter. Each crease a gasp. Each repetition a desperate attempt to stay whole.

The room is silent, except for the whisper of paper and the soft sound of blood hitting the floor.

She’s not crying.

She’s coming apart—slowly, silently. Splitting at the seams in ways no one can see.

Her breath is barely there.

Her body, unmoving.

But inside, something fractures with every fold—quiet, precise, merciless.

And the cranes keep multiplying. Not like comfort. Not like hope. Like ghosts. Like residue. Like she’s trying to build a graveyard out of paper and call it healing. Each one a monument to the ache she won’t name. Each wing a whisper of everything she couldn’t say out loud.

Scaramouche stands in the doorway, arms crossed like armor, jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone. His eyes flick over the room—over the blood-speckled paper, the trembling hands, the cranes multiplying like ghosts—and settle on her.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he says, voice low, almost brittle.

She doesn’t look up. Her fingers twitch around the next sheet, already halfway folded. “Go away.”

“You’re not fixing anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” she snaps, the words sharp, defensive, like broken glass. “I’m trying to feel normal.”

He steps closer. The floor creaks beneath his weight. His shadow stretches across the scattered cranes.

“Normal doesn’t look like bleeding through your own rituals,” he says, gaze locked on her hands—on the red-rimmed nails, the trembling grip, the paper that’s already beginning to tear.

She folds harder. The paper gives way with a soft rip. She doesn’t flinch. Just grabs another, faster this time, like she’s racing something inside her.

He crouches beside her, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Y/n,” he says, voice gentler now. “Stop.”

“No.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing toward the half-folded crane in her lap.

She jerks back like he’s struck her.

“Don’t touch it.”

“I’m touching it.”

“Scaramouche—” Her voice cracks, half warning, half plea.

He yanks the unfinished crane from her grip—rough, sudden, final—and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull smack and crumples on impact, folding in on itself like it’s mimicking her.

She snaps.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she screams, voice jagged and feral, fists slamming into his chest with the force of someone trying to make herself heard through skin and bone. “You don’t get to fix me!”

Her blows are wild, uncoordinated and desperate. He doesn’t block them. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, arms locking around her like he’s trying to hold together something already breaking.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says, voice low, breath hot against her temple. “I’m trying to stay.”

She screams again—louder this time, rawer. Her sobs tear through her throat, words blurring into noise. Her body trembles violently, breath hitching like she’s choking on everything she’s never said.

She shoves him—hard.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, chest heaving like he’s just been punched in the lungs. The room feels smaller now, heavier, like the cranes are watching.

“What do you want from me?” she yells, voice cracking open. “What the hell do you want?!”

Something inside him fractures—sharp, sudden, irreversible.

His breath stutters, chest rising too fast, too hard. His fists clench at his sides, nails digging into skin like he’s trying to hold himself together. But the restraint slips. The silence breaks. His voice erupts, raw and unfiltered, like it’s been clawing its way out for hours.

“I want you to let me in!” he shouts, louder than she’s ever heard him, voice echoing off the walls and folding into the silence.

“I want you to stop folding yourself into pain and calling it comfort—stop locking me out and pretending it’s mercy!”

She stares at him, stunned.

Blood slips from her fingers in slow, deliberate trails.

Her knees tremble, threatening to fold.

Her breath stutters—thin, uneven, like it’s trying to hold her together and failing.

“I can’t stand watching you destroy yourself and call it control,” he says, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “I know what that looks like. I lived it. And I’m not letting you do it alone.”

“I’m not normal!” she yells, voice splintering. “I don’t know how to be normal! I’m unstable, I’m violent—I ruin things! I ruin people! I can’t give you the love you want from me!”

And Scaramouche breaks—not with a sound, not with a scream, but with a silence so heavy it feels like grief. His breath falters—caught between inhale and collapse, like her words reached inside and pulled something loose.

His eyes dim, shoulders folding inward like paper too worn to hold shape. No fury. No explosion. Just the kind of silence that stains. That lingers. That makes the room feel colder and her breath feel borrowed.

It’s quiet, the way Scaramouche breaks.

Not with fury. Not with sound.

Just a slow unraveling behind his eyes—shoulders sinking, breath hitching like her words reached in and tore something sacred loose.

Watching her bleed and call it love isn’t what wounds him.

It’s knowing she believes it’s the only way.

“You think I want normal?” he says, voice low, breaking at the edges. “I came here because you fold cranes until your fingers split. Because you scream instead of cry. Because you shove me away and still want me to stay.”

Her lip trembles. Her hands twitch. Her voice is barely a whisper.

“I don’t know how to love without hurting.”

He steps closer, breath uneven.

“Then hurt me,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “Break me. Burn me. Do whatever you want—just don’t fold me out.”

His eyes flicker, wild and wrecked, like he’s daring her to flinch. Like he’s begging without saying the word. “I can take it,” he says, quieter now, almost trembling. “I’ll take all of it. Just—don’t leave me behind like paper. Don’t make me something you forget.”

She reaches for him—rough, trembling fingers dragging across his cheek. Her nails dig in, deeper than she means to. Skin splits, slow and deliberate. Blood beads, then trails down in thin, trembling lines, like the wound is choosing him. Like pain is the only language she still trusts.

He feels it—sharp, immediate—the sting surging through his skin like a warning. But he doesn’t pull away.

Her nails split his skin. His breath stutters.

But he leans in—slow, unshaken—like staying is the only vow he still knows how to keep.

Blood slicks his cheek, smears across her fingers—warm, unspoken, shared.

The silence between them hums, fragile and full, like a breath held too long.

He moves closer—like pain is the price of staying,

and her touch, even when it tears, is the only proof he’s still wanted.

His forehead rests against hers, breath tangled in the space between them. Blood slicks his cheek, smears against her skin—warm, inevitable, shared. The silence wraps around them, thick and sacred, unbearable in its weight. It hums like a held breath, like a vow neither of them dares to speak.

“You always—” her voice catches, trembles. “You always bleed for the wrong things.”

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable.

“Then teach me what’s right,” he says, voice low, bitter-soft.

A beat.

“Or keep cutting. At least I’ll know you’re still reaching.”

Then he wraps his arms around her. Tight. Desperate. Like he’s trying to hold together everything she’s unraveling. Like if he lets go, she’ll vanish between the folds.

“Break me if you want,” he says, voice low, frayed. “Just don’t disappear.”

His hold shifts—firmer, trembling—like he’s bracing for the part where she leaves.

“I can take the damage. I’ve lived in it. But I won’t survive watching you tear yourself apart.”

She sobs again—not from pain, but from the unbearable weight of being seen. Of being held. Of being chosen in the middle of her ruin.

Her body shakes. Her breath stutters. Her hands are still stained with blood and paper dust.

And he stays.

Because love, for them, was never gentle. It was aftermath. It was sabotage. It was choosing each other through the wreckage.

”moving with the precision of a squirrel mid-heist and the confidence of someone who skimmed a health pamphlet and declared herself a prophet. ” Made me laugh so thank you very much 🙏

Wanderer/Scaramouche x Fem!Reader

It was a normal conversation. Until it wasn’t.One second, they were talking about breakfast. The next, he casually confessed to a crime against wellness so profound it made her reevaluate the entire friendship.

Y/N was horrified.

Not mildly concerned. Not gently curious. Horrified—in the way one might react to discovering someone eats soup with a fork or thinks sleep is optional.

“You don’t take vitamins?” she gasped, clutching the edge of the counter like the world had tilted.

Scaramouche blinked at her from the couch, arms crossed, expression locked in his usual mix of disdain and existential regret. “Why would I?”

She stared at him like he’d confessed to murder.

“That’s why you haven’t grown in five hundred years,” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger. “Your bones are probably made of spite and missed nutrients.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out—just the ghost of a comeback and the distant echo of regret. He closed it again. Calculated the odds of surviving a jump out the window versus swallowing his pride.

“I’m fixing this,” she muttered, already storming toward the cabinet with the energy of a squirrel on a mission. Her movements were erratic but purposeful, like she was hunting treasure and vengeance at the same time. She narrated her search with dramatic flair, muttering things like “Where do they hide the good stuff?” and “I swear if these are expired, I’m suing the Akademiya.”

He didn’t know what she was hunting.

But he had a sinking feeling it was something stupid.

And he was right.

She turned around triumphantly, holding a bottle of neon-orange gummy vitamins like it was a divine artifact. The label read “Daily Multivitamin for Adults” in bold, cheerful font. Her eyes sparkled with chaotic intent. Her grin was wide, unhinged, and far too pleased with itself.

Scaramouche stared, unmoving.

She wiggled the bottle at him like it was a threat wrapped in citrus and affection.

“Time to nourish your soul, emo boy.”

He considered throwing himself out the window.

He had lived for centuries. Survived gods, betrayal, and the Akademiya’s paperwork—arguably the worst of the three. And now, somehow, he was being hunted by a five-foot-tall menace with a vitamin agenda and zero medical credentials.

Y/N was short, loud, and relentless—moving with the precision of a squirrel mid-heist and the confidence of someone who skimmed a health pamphlet and declared herself a prophet.

Her tone danced between playful threat and supplemental wrath, her face a gallery of mischief and deeply unsolicited concern.

She had declared war on his nutritional deficiencies.

And he was losing.

The vitamins were multiplying.

He swore she had a secret stash and a spreadsheet tracking his deficiencies.

Scaramouche had survived divine wrath.

But this?

This was intimate warfare.

Y/N was the kind of person who renamed his tea “short king juice” and mocked his height with a fake growth chart full of absurdly aggressive slogans like “Reach for the stars, if you can” and “Vitamin D = Destiny.” She once told a passing scholar his height was a tragic side effect of “chronic supplement neglect.”

And now she was stomping toward him like a menace fueled by citrus and spite—gummy vitamins clutched in one hand, righteous fury in the other—ready to perform a nutritional exorcism.

“You need to take one,” she said, cheerful and threatening, eyes wide with manic purpose and a smile that looked like it had teeth.

“I don’t,” he replied flatly, jaw tight, eyes narrowed in the universal expression of a man under siege.

“You do.”

“I’ve been this height for five hundred years.”

“Exactly. That’s a problem.”

Scaramouche didn’t flinch, but his silence was loud. His patience was extinct. His bones were theoretical. His dignity was under siege.

And Y/N, unfortunately, was not extinct.

“YOU HAVEN’T TAKEN A SINGLE VITAMIN IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE?” she yelled, eyebrows raised so high they nearly left her face, voice echoing like a mango-flavored reckoning.

“BECAUSE I DON’T NEED THEM!” he snapped, standing up like that would help, eyes blazing with the fury of a man whose calcium intake was being questioned.

“THAT’S WHY YOU’RE STILL FUN-SIZED!” she shot back, pointing dramatically at the growth chart like it was evidence in court.

“I’M NOT FUN-SIZED, I’M EFFICIENTLY BUILT!” His hands flailed. His dignity flailed harder.

“YOUR BONES ARE PROBABLY MADE OF REGRET AND MALICE!”

“GOOD. THEY MATCH MY PERSONALITY!”

She popped the lid and held out a neon-orange gummy like it was communion. “TAKE IT,” she demanded, eyes gleaming, lips pursed in righteous fury.

“I’D RATHER BE DEFICIENT THAN DEFILED,” he hissed, recoiling like she’d offered him poison.

“It’s mango-flavored!” she said, voice softening just enough to be suspicious.

“I HATE MANGO!” His nose scrunched in betrayal.

“You love mango!” she insisted, eyes narrowing with the certainty of someone who once saw him eat a mango in 2003.

“I TOLERATE MANGO UNDER DURESS!”

“THEN CONSIDER THIS EMOTIONAL DURESS!”

Scaramouche turned sharply, eyes flicking to the window like a man planning his own jailbreak. His expression was pure desperation: wide eyes, clenched jaw, the look of someone about to commit a crime against nutrition.

She saw it.

He bolted.

“DON’T YOU DARE—” she shouted, lunging after him, face twisted in mango-fueled outrage.

He yanked the window open with the desperation of someone fleeing citrus-flavored tyranny.

And then—

She tackled him.

From the side. Like a flying squirrel with a vendetta. One moment he was reaching for freedom, the next he was horizontal, pinned to the floor by five feet of chaotic determination and mango-scented wrath.

“YOU’RE TAKING THE DAMN VITAMIN,” she yelled, straddling his chest, hair wild, eyes blazing like she’d been chosen by the gods of wellness.

“I’D RATHER DIE DEFICIENT!” he shouted, face red, voice cracking under the weight of betrayal.

“THEN I’LL REVIVE YOU AND MAKE YOU TAKE TWO!”

They were already grappling—elbows, knees, and righteous yelling. She had him in a half-hug, half-headlock situation that felt suspiciously like affection. He twisted sideways, trying to shake her off, but she clung harder, one arm locking around his ribs like she was protecting a national treasure.

She shrieked as he shifted his weight, and in the scramble, the bottle—previously clenched between them like a hostage—slipped from her grip, slick with sweat and betrayal.

It bounced off the wall like it was trying to escape the drama.

He scrambled—hands slapping against the floor, knees skidding, one elbow knocking into a chair leg as he lunged like a man chasing freedom.

She pounced after him, no hesitation, no mercy—launching herself like a heat-seeking missile fueled by vitamins and vengeance.

He snatched the bottle with the desperation of a man defending his last shred of autonomy.

He held the bottle aloft like a war trophy, panting, hair disheveled, one sock missing, eyes gleaming with manic triumph. “I HAVE IT NOW,” he declared, voice hoarse with victory and emotional damage.

She halted mid-lunge, one hand still outstretched, expression twisted in theatrical betrayal.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He popped the lid with the flair of someone committing a crime. Pulled out a single neon-orange gummy. Stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Then—slowly, dramatically, with the weight of five hundred years of stubborn pride—he chewed.

Y/N gasped.

Audibly.

Her eyes went wide. One hand flew to her heart, like he’d just pledged eternal devotion—with a gummy and a solemn vow to hydrate.

“You—” she whispered, voice trembling. “You took it.”

He glared at her mid-chew, face twisted in betrayal. “I hate you.”

Her smile was all teeth and triumph. “I know.”

Scaramouche chewed like it was a personal betrayal. The gummy squished between his teeth with the smugness of defeat, tasting like mango and emotional damage.

Y/N watched him with reverent horror, hands clasped like she was witnessing a sacred rite. “You’re glowing,” she whispered.

“I’m gagging,” he muttered.

She gasped again. “That’s the vitamin working.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s nausea.”

“Same thing.”

They sat in silence. The bottle lay between them like a peace treaty forged in citrus and spite.

Then—

Y/N reached out. Picked up another gummy. Held it between two fingers like a bribe. “If you take one more, I’ll stop calling you ‘short king.’”

Scaramouche stared at her. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m bargaining.”

He stared at the gummy. It sparkled like it knew too much. Her grin stretched with the confidence of someone who’d already won. Her eyes shimmered with hope and citrus-fueled menace.

He took it.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Y/N gasped again, louder this time, like she was trying to summon a choir.

“You’re evolving,” she whispered.

“I’m regretting everything,” he muttered.

She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Next week we try fish oil.”

Scaramouche stood up so fast he knocked over the bottle.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I will flee this plane of existence.”

“I’ll follow you.”

“I’ll fake my death.”

“I’ll revive you with supplements.”

He stared at her.

She smiled.

The war was far from over.

Later that night, he found a single gummy tucked into his coat pocket. A sticky note was wrapped around it, scrawled in her handwriting:

“For emergencies. Or emotional duress. Whichever comes first.”

He stared at it for a long time.

Then—without ceremony, without witnesses—he ate it.

And somewhere in the chaos of citrus and sabotage, he realized:

She was the vitamin.

Xiao X Female!Reader

He never liked the heat.

But she kissed him soft after the spice,

and suddenly the burn felt bearable.

Steam, laughter, and lips that lingered—

maybe warmth was never the enemy.

Maybe it was her all along.

________________

The mountain wore its mist like silk—light and shifting, draped over stone and sky.

The hot spring festival breathed warmth into the air, music drifting like incense through the trees.

Steam curled around moss-covered rocks, slow and unhurried, as if the earth itself was dreaming.

Paper umbrellas bobbed in the breeze like petals afloat, and the scent of sweet rice cakes and steeped tea lingered—soft, familiar, almost tender.

Their hands found each other mid-step, her fingers threading through his with quiet certainty. Xiao didn’t resist. He let the warmth settle.

She didn’t speak much—just pointed out flower offerings floating in the springs, stalls selling candied ginger, sugar sculptures melting slowly in the heat. Her thumb brushed his knuckles every so often, absentminded and steady, like she was reminding him she was here.

They reached the shallow pool, where music hung in the mist—guqin and flute weaving through the steam like threads of breath.

Couples moved in slow circles, not dancing so much as floating—like the water had taught them to sway, like their hearts had learned to listen.

It wasn’t choreography.

It was closeness.

Y/N stepped into the water first, steam curling around her ankles like a welcome. She turned to him with a soft smile, fingers still laced with his.

“Come on,” she said, voice low and warm.

That was all. No persuasion, no teasing—just warmth in her grip, steadiness in her gaze, and the kind of presence that didn’t need words.

A beat of hesitation held him still. Then, drawn by something he couldn’t name, he followed.

Their feet sank into warm stone. Steam rose around them. She placed his hands on her waist, hers on his shoulders. They moved slowly—barely shifting, just enough to feel each other.

She rose onto her toes, just enough for her nose to nudge his chin. “See? Easy,” she whispered, breath curling against his skin.

He went still. Her warmth pressed into him—gentle, intentional—and something in his chest tightened, like her touch had found the thread he’d been holding too tightly.

He didn’t speak. Just let his hands settle more firmly at her waist, fingers flexing once, like he was grounding himself in her steadiness.

The music faded. The water stilled. And she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“It’s the spring,” he said, though his voice faltered—her kiss still blooming on his cheek like heat that wouldn’t fade.

It clung to him, gentle and persistent, like the steam, like the memory of her lips.

And maybe it wasn’t just the warmth in the air.

Maybe it was her.

“No,” she replied, brushing her nose against his jaw. “It’s you.”

Xiao didn’t move right away. The water clung to his skin, warm and weightless, and her presence pressed into him like a hush. Steam curled around them, soft and slow, and for a moment, he let himself breathe—really breathe. Her fingers were still at his waist, her cheek close enough to feel. He could hear the music fading, the laughter from nearby stalls, the distant clink of bowls and chopsticks.

He closed his eyes briefly. Let the quiet settle. Let her warmth linger.

Then he stepped back, just enough to meet her gaze.

They left the pool slowly, steam trailing behind them, the quiet between their hands still pulsing.

The scent hit him first—chili oil, fermented spice, peppercorns sizzling in broth. The heat was sharper here, more aggressive. It clung to the air like a warning.

Xiao’s stomach turned. He didn’t hate food, but spice was different. Spice was betrayal. It didn’t just sting—it lingered. It clawed down his throat, curled behind his ribs, made his eyes water and his breath hitch. It was heat without mercy.

He’d learned to avoid it. Quietly. Strategically. A life of bland soups and mild teas, of watching others chase the burn while he stayed untouched.

But Y/N lit up at the sight of the stall—eyes bright, steps quick, voice already bubbling with delight.

“Oh, this stall! They make the best spicy noodles.”

She was radiant—light pooling in her cheeks, laughter soft as steam.

She glowed like the festival itself had chosen her to carry its warmth.

And he—he couldn’t bring himself to dim that.

Not with doubt. Not with fear.

Not when she looked so alive.

So he said nothing. Just let her tug him closer, let the scent wrap around him like a dare.

He paused again—just slightly, just long enough for her to catch it.

She squeezed his hand, gentle and knowing. “You’ve never liked spicy food, have you?”

“It lingers,” he murmured. “Burns slow. Stays longer than it should.”

She grinned, already placing the order—quick, certain, like she’d done this a hundred times. “You’ll survive.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched her hand over the coins, watched her fingers brush the bowl, watched the steam curl around her wrist like it was daring him to flinch.

She handed it to him. Their fingers touched again—brief, warm and grounding.

“Eat,” she said, soft and smug.

He lifted the bowl, took a cautious bite. The spice surged—sharp, insistent. He coughed once, low and restrained, like he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting with quiet mischief—just enough to make him wary, like she was about to do something he wouldn’t recover from, but wouldn’t mind.

“Want me to make it better?” she asked, and her smile was playful, not cruel—like she already knew the answer, like she’d been waiting for the moment he’d admit it.

Before he could answer, she kissed him—quick, soft, cool against the burn.

And everything stopped.

Her lips were plush and unshaken, faintly sweet with chili sugar she’d tasted without flinching.

The contrast struck him like a tide—cool silk against fire, softness blooming through sting.

His heart stuttered, then surged, thudding wild in his chest like it was chasing her heat,

like it had always been hers to command.

She felt it too—the flicker in his eyes, the breath caught halfway, the twitch of his fingers against hers.

He was always so warm, so composed, and now he looked like he’d misplaced his calm somewhere between her lips and the steam.

It was almost tender, watching him come undone over something so small.

So sweet.

So hers.

She pulled back, just enough to see his face.

He stared at her, dazed.

Her kiss still lingered—cool against the burn, soft where the spice had bitten.

Then, without a word, he took another bite of the noodles.

She raised a brow. “You’re really committing to the bit, huh?”

He chewed slowly, swallowed, then drew in a breath that caught on the spice—sharp and lingering, curling behind his lips like a dare.

Then he leaned in and kissed her again—instinctive, soft, lingering, tasting of fire and want.

She froze, breath caught in the steam.

His mouth was warm—tinged with spice, but the kiss held no urgency.

It was a slow offering, heat folded into sweetness, like he wanted her to taste the burn and the softness both.

The sting lingered behind his breath, but it wasn’t a warning.

It was a promise.

A shared flame, passed lip to lip, like a secret they were ready to carry.

When he pulled back, his voice was low. “It helps.”

She blinked. “The kiss?”

He nodded. “Better than the napkin.”

She laughed, sudden and breathless, the sound bright enough to shimmer through the lantern-lit air.

It felt like something had split open inside her—cracked wide with joy, spilling light into the quiet.

Not just amusement.

Something freer.

Something that tasted like relief.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her voice was soft, almost reverent, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss him again or shake him for being so unexpectedly tender. Her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself in the warmth he’d offered so freely.

“And you’re effective.”

She leaned in again, brushing her nose against his jaw. “Want another bite?”

He looked at her, eyes steady, voice low.

“Only if you’re still the cure,” he said—like the words had been waiting, tucked behind his breath, too fragile to rush.

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

The world didn’t tilt—just softened.

Something bloomed behind her ribs, slow and sharp.

Not just amusement.

It was joy.

It was want.

Her heart, finally catching up to his.

“You’re impossible,” she said, still laughing, still holding his hand.

“And you’re persistent,” he murmured, thumb brushing her knuckles.

The steam around them shimmered. The spring glowed. And Xiao, who had never liked the heat, stood in the haze of rising steam, a bowl in his hands, her kiss on his lips, and her laughter in his chest—echoing like a promise he hadn’t known he was waiting for.

He took another bite. The spice surged—bold and unforgiving, clawing through his throat like it wanted to leave a mark.

He let the heat settle, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing anchoring him.

Then he leaned in and kissed her again—slow, tender, unspoken.

It lingered, warm against her mouth, tasting of fire and want, but held with care.

Like he didn’t want to take—just offer.

When he pulled back, his voice was low. “Maybe I don’t hate the heat anymore.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Really?”

His gaze found hers, quiet and steady, like the heat had softened something inside him.

“As long as you’re the cure… it’s not so bad.”

She smiled, stunned and glowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.”

She laughed again—soft and breathless, the kind of laugh that cracked through her composure and spilled joy straight from the chest. It made him smile.

She kissed him again—slower this time, sweeter.

Like she wasn’t chasing relief, just savoring the warmth they’d built between bites and breath.

Letting it settle.

Letting it speak.

He met her halfway—

thinking maybe it was never about the spice.

Maybe the burn was bearable,

Wanderer/Scaramouche x Fem!Reader

Genre: Romantic Comedy, Sickfic, Roommate Chaos

---

It started with a cough. And a lie. And a mango-related escape plan.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” Y/N had declared, wrapped in a blanket like a feverish burrito, eyes glassy and vibrating with forbidden energy.

Scaramouche, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a growing sense of dread, narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Don’t touch anything, and absolutely don’t start a revolution.”

She saluted him with a spoon and shuffled down the hallway like a sickly soldier reporting for mango duty.

She was gone in thirty seconds.

First came the creak of the window. Then a thud. Then a muffled “I am speed!” followed by the distant sound of a scarf catching wind.

Freedom tasted like mangoes and poor decisions.

She vaulted out the window like a feverish ninja, hit the ground with a dramatic roll (that was mostly a flop), and took off down the street in mismatched socks and a scarf she’d declared “diplomatic regalia.” Her fever was high. Her logic was low. Her joy? Unhinged.

Then she heard it.

The apartment door slammed open behind her like divine judgment.

“Y/N!”

Oh no.

She glanced back—and immediately regretted it.

Scaramouche was storming after her, cloak flaring, eyes blazing, fury incarnate. He looked like a thundercloud had learned sarcasm, enrolled in anger management, and then dropped out to chase a fever-gremlin through Sumeru.

He didn’t know what was worse: the fact that she’d escaped, the fact that she was sprinting, or the fact that his heart was doing something suspiciously romantic every time she shrieked about mangoes.

This was not how his day was supposed to go.

He had brewed tea. He had fluffed pillows. He had tucked her in. And now he was chasing her through the city like a glorified babysitter with unresolved feelings and a growing list of regrets.

Her breath caught. Her legs pumped faster.

“Oh gods,” she muttered, half laughing, half panicking. “He’s in his wrath arc. I’ve triggered the wrath arc!”

She dodged a fruit cart, waved at a confused merchant, and nearly collided with a scholar carrying scrolls. “Sorry! Fever emergency! Mango diplomacy!”

“YOU’RE CONTAGIOUS!” Scaramouche roared behind her.

“I’M ICONIC!” she screamed back, voice cracking.

She turned sharply down an alley, heart pounding, lungs wheezing, and adrenaline singing through her fever. Her brain was a citrus-scented blender of chaos, romance, and poor cardio decisions.

He’s so mad. He’s so fast. His cloak is doing that dramatic flap thing. I think I’m in love. Also I might vomit.

Scaramouche was gaining. He hated that she looked back—fever-glazed, grinning, and somehow making his heart stutter like a broken lantern.

“He’s glowing! Why is he glowing?!”

“You’re going back to bed!” he shouted, voice cracking with righteous fury and emotional instability.

“I’m emotionally thriving!”

“You sneezed on a cactus!”

“It deserved it! It was judging me!”

She tried to vault over a barrel and failed spectacularly, landing in a heap of scrolls and shame. Before she could scramble away, a hand grabbed her wrist—firm, furious, and familiar.

She gasped, eyes wide. “Unhand me, you tyrant! I am a free citizen of the mango republic!”

“You live with me,” he snapped, voice tight.

“I cohabitate! There’s a difference!”

She twisted, flailed, kicked a crate, and tried to escape his grasp with the grace of a feverish raccoon. “I’m being kidnapped! Someone call the dendro police!”

“You’re sick!”

“I’m spiritually ascending!”

He scooped her up bridal-style, muscles tense, jaw clenched, cloak flaring like a dramatic punctuation mark.

She shrieked again. “Put me down! I’m contagious and slippery!”

“You’re a biohazard with legs!”

“I’m a mango-powered goddess and you fear my rise to power!”

“You tried to appoint a cactus to your cabinet.”

“His name is Ambassador Prickles and he respects me!”

Scaramouche stormed through the market, carrying her like a very loud, very unhinged sack of chaos. People stared. A merchant applauded. Someone tried to offer them a mango out of pity.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak. He was too busy internally screaming.

This is my life now. I chase chaos through the streets. I carry fever-gremlins like bridal offerings. I feel things. I hate it here.

She waved weakly from his arms. “Tell my story!”

“No one will,” he muttered. “I’m burning your sticker journal.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I might.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, giggling through the fever. “You’re so dramatic.”

He didn’t answer. He just held her tighter, heart stuttering, fury simmering, and prayed no one saw the way he softened when she mumbled his name like it was home.

---

Back at the apartment, he dumped her onto the couch with the precision of a man handling a live bomb.

She immediately tried to sit up. “I have ideas.”

“No,” he said, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. “You’re banned from ideas until your temperature drops below ‘chaotic.’”

“But I had a thought about mango-based diplomacy—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I could host a summit. I’ll wear a cape.”

“You’re not allowed near capes.”

She pouted, then sneezed so violently she knocked over the tea.

Scaramouche sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something about divine punishment. His day had started with tea and ended with a public mango chase. He was emotionally bruised. Spiritually exhausted. Possibly contagious.

And now he had to get her to take medicine.

He grabbed the bottle from the table and held it up like a cursed artifact. “You’re taking this.”

She recoiled instantly. “That looks suspicious.”

“It’s cherry-flavored.”

“That’s even worse!”

He unscrewed the cap with grim determination. “Open your mouth.”

“I’d rather eat a cactus.”

“You did eat a cactus.”

“It was a diplomatic snack!”

She rolled off the couch, blanket trailing behind her like a cape of betrayal, and dove under the coffee table.

Scaramouche stared at her—curled up among dust bunnies and old receipts, eyes wide and defiant.

“I’m not coming out,” she declared. “I know my rights.”

“You don’t have rights. You have a fever.”

“I have principles!”

He knelt down, voice low and dangerous. “If you don’t take this medicine, I will personally write a treaty with Ambassador Prickles to have you exiled from the mango republic.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

A tense silence. Then, slowly, she extended one hand from beneath the table. “Can I have mango juice as a chaser?”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“And a sticker.”

“No.”

“Then I’m staying under here forever.”

He muttered something about divine punishment again and went to get the juice.

By the time he returned, she was back on the couch, smug and slightly feral. She took the medicine with dramatic flair, gagged like she’d swallowed lava, and immediately downed the mango juice like it was holy water.

Then she flopped sideways, groaning. “I regret everything.”

He opened his mouth to deliver a snarky retort—but froze when she suddenly sat bolt upright, eyes wide and panicked.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I think I’m gonna—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Scaramouche moved fast. Faster than he’d ever admit. One hand grabbed the nearest trash bin, the other steadied her as she lurched forward and threw up with the force of a diplomatic breakdown.

It was mostly mango juice. And regret.

He didn’t flinch. Just held the bin, rubbed her back in slow, careful circles, and muttered curses under his breath that somehow sounded like comfort.

When it was over, she slumped against him, trembling and miserable.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to weaponize cherry syrup.”

He sighed, wiped her mouth gently with a damp cloth, and tucked the blanket back around her like she hadn’t just committed a war crime on his carpet.

“You’re a menace,” he said quietly. “But somehow, you’re mine.”

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, voice barely a whisper. “You make me feel like mangoes in spring.”

He stared. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “But I think it’s love.”

He didn’t respond. Just tucked the blanket tighter and pretended his heart wasn’t doing cartwheels.

But the words lingered.

He wanted to ask what that meant.

He wanted to ask if it meant him.

She drifted off against his shoulder, mumbling something about mango treaties and sticker-based diplomacy.

Scaramouche sat there in silence, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him.

“…Mangoes in spring,” he muttered. “What the hell does that even mean?”

He glanced down at her sleeping face, flushed and peaceful, curled into his side like she belonged there.

His lips twitched.

Genre: Romantic Comedy. Fantasy Slice of Life. Chaotic Domestic Comedy.

Zhongli tells ancient stories. Y/N interrupts with mochi, scandal charts, and bubble tea logic. Somehow, this is love.

A chaotic, glitter-stained slice of immortality.

Before the glitter, before the reenactments and scandal charts, Zhongli had only silence.

Centuries of it.

Silence in temples, silence in contracts, silence in the way mortals bowed without ever asking why. His stories were recited, revered, and never interrupted.

Until her.

Y/N burst into his life like a festival drum in a library. Loud, unfiltered, and utterly mortal. She questioned everything—his metaphors, his timelines, his poetic liberties. She drank bubble tea through two straws and demanded scandal charts with stickers. She climbed furniture mid-monologue and launched mochi like divine projectiles.

She was chaos in velvet and snack crumbs.

And Zhongli, ancient and composed, found himself pausing mid-sentence—not in frustration, but in awe. Because for the first time in centuries, someone wasn’t just listening to his stories.

She was living them with him.

And that, he thought, might be the beginning of a new kind of legend.

________________

The room was bathed in afternoon light, warm and honeyed, spilling through the open windows in long, golden stripes. Outside, the sounds of Liyue Harbor drifted in—distant chatter, the clink of porcelain, the occasional cry of a merchant hawking wares. The breeze stirred the curtains gently, carrying the scent of osmanthus and sun-warmed stone.

Scrolls lay unfurled across the low table, their edges curling with age, ink blooming in elegant strokes that whispered of wars and gods. A porcelain teapot steamed quietly beside him, its scent earthy and floral, grounding the space in ritual.

Zhongli sat with the posture of a man carved from history, his hands folded, his gaze distant.

Zhongli spoke like the earth itself—slow, deliberate, and impossibly old.

His voice curled through the room like incense smoke, rich with centuries and metaphors.

He was halfway through recounting the fall of the Xianzhou Dynasty, a tale of betrayal, celestial omens, and a prince who wept blood beneath a comet-streaked sky.

Y/N, mortal, loud, and currently upside-down on the couch with her legs flung over the backrest and a half-eaten mochi stuck to her cheek, was not listening quietly.

She listened like the story had personally wronged her.

“Wait—hold up,” she blurted, mid-sip of bubble tea, which she was drinking through two straws for no reason other than chaos. “You said he cried blood. Was that literal? Like, actual hemoglobin? Or was it some dramatic poetic nonsense?”

Zhongli blinked once. Then again. Slowly.

“It was symbolic,” he replied, ever patient. “Though there was a ritual involving cinnabar and—”

“CINNABAR?! That’s toxic!” Y/N sat up so fast she launched a mochi across the room. “Who decided ‘let me cry red powder to impress the heavens’? That’s not grief, that’s a health hazard. That’s a glitter allergy waiting to happen.”

She was now pacing in circles, gesturing wildly with her bubble tea like it was a sacred relic. Zhongli, who had once negotiated with gods and dragons, watched her with the serene expression of a man who had accepted his fate.

“You have a remarkable talent,” he said, “for turning solemn history into spirited critique.”

“I’m just saying,” she huffed, now climbing onto the armrest like a gremlin philosopher, “if you’re gonna tell me a story, I reserve the right to interrogate the plot holes. Immortal doesn’t mean exempt from logic. Or glitter physics.”

Zhongli chuckled—low, warm, and rare. It rumbled like distant thunder, and she beamed like she’d just won a debate with the moon.

“Very well,” he said. “Next time, I shall prepare footnotes.”

“And diagrams,” she added. “I want a map, a timeline, and a scandal chart. Color-coded. With stickers.”

He nodded solemnly, the weight of centuries in his posture—but his eyes betrayed him, lit with quiet joy and the shimmer of surrender.

She was chaos incarnate: a whirlwind of scandal charts, glitter-stained fingers, and bubble tea logic.

And he, the once-stoic god of contracts, would trade every temple’s silence, every plaque etched in reverence, just to hear her interrupt him again.

----------

Later that evening, the living room transformed into a glitter-stained stage. Y/N tore through the craft drawer like a woman summoned by divine drama, emerging in a velvet bathrobe, red glitter smeared across her collarbone, and a plastic tiara askew on her head.

“Historically inaccurate,” she declared, striking a pose beneath the ceiling fan spotlight, “but emotionally devastating.”

Zhongli, seated with his tea and the dignified posture of someone who had once mediated celestial contracts, watched as she flung herself dramatically onto the rug.

“I am the prince!” she wailed, tossing glitter into the air like confetti at a funeral. “My heart bleeds! My eyes bleed! My pores bleed! I am so tragic!”

“You are shedding craft supplies,” Zhongli said, sipping calmly. “And possibly staining the floor.”

“Let me suffer in peace!” she shrieked, rolling across the carpet like a glitter-covered log. “The heavens demand my anguish! And also snacks. I’m starving.”

He set his tea down and stood, brushing a few stray sparkles off his sleeve. “You are chaos incarnate,” he murmured, fondness blooming in his voice like spring over stone. “And I love you more than I love historical accuracy.”

She froze mid-roll, eyes wide. “You love me more than historical accuracy?”

“I do.”

“Even when I say the Geo Archon probably had a rock collection labeled ‘Besties’?”

“Especially then.”

She tackled him with glittery abandon, smearing red sparkles across his cheek and nearly knocking him into the bookshelf. He caught her easily, arms wrapping around her like tectonic plates shifting to accommodate joy.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, breathless and beaming.

“And you are the only mortal who’s ever made me laugh enough to consider rewriting a plaque in the Liyue Pavilion.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might. ‘Here lies the blood-weeping prince, tragically allergic to cinnabar and emotionally compromised by glitter.’”

She snorted so hard she hiccupped, and he kissed her forehead like it was the most sacred thing in the world.

Y/N blinked, stunned for half a second—then melted. She leaned into him with the slow, deliberate satisfaction of a cat claiming a sunbeam, her cheek nuzzling his chest like it was the only place history made sense.

“Okay,” she mumbled, hiccuping again. “You win. That was romantic. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Zhongli chuckled, low and warm, as his arms wrapped around her like tectonic plates shifting to accommodate joy.

Immortality had given him centuries of silence, reverence, and ritual.

It had offered him temples carved in stone, contracts etched in gold, and a thousand years of solitude dressed as duty.

But now it gave him her.

Her laughter, loud and unfiltered, echoing through his quiet home like a festival drum. Her glitter-stained fingers tugging him into reenactments that defied every sacred tradition. Her questions—unhinged, brilliant, and utterly mortal—demanding answers from a man who had once been worshipped in silence.

She was chaos in velvet and bubble tea, a whirlwind of affection and irreverence. And he, the once-stoic Archon, found himself smiling more than he ever had in all his lifetimes.

And that, he decided, was worth every glitter-stained robe, every dramatic reenactment, every mochi launched mid-monologue.

Wanderer/Scaramouche X Fem!Reader

It unsettled him—

not the flower,

dried and weightless,

a flick of color against his shoulder.

Not the voice,

bright and careless,

like laughter tossed into wind.

But the names.

“Hat Gremlin,” she sang,

as if he were some wandering spirit

plucked from a bedtime tale.

“Your Royal Poutiness,”

wrapped in ribbons of mockery.

“Oh! How could I forget—Whirlybird Supreme.”

Each one a spark,

a feather dipped in mischief,

light on the surface,

but sharp where it mattered.

She made it sound like a game.

But to him,

it was a silence with edges—

a space she refused to fill

with the one word

he longed to hear

from her.

Scaramouche’s eye twitched—

a flicker, barely there,

like a storm gathering behind glass.

His fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve,

knuckles pale,

as if holding back something louder than words.

“You know my name,” he said,

not quite a snap,

but sharp enough to cut through her laughter.

His voice—glass and silk,

fractured and wanting.

“Say it.”

She blinked—slow, deliberate,

as if innocence had settled behind her lashes.

Her gaze held him,

not mocking, not cruel—just playful,

like sunlight skimming the edge of something fragile.

“I did,” she murmured,

a smile tugging at her lips,

barely there.

“Three times, actually.

You just weren’t listening.”

Her voice was light,

but the words lingered—

soft as breath,

sharp as truth

she wasn’t ready to name.

“That’s not my name.”

She tilted her head, lips curling into a grin that made his stomach twist. “You sure? It suits you. Very divine. Very dramatic.”

He wanted to scream. Or shake her. Or do something reckless and impossible—like peel back the layers of her mind just to understand what lived inside that chaotic, maddening, beautiful head of hers.

It wasn’t just the names.

It was her.

The way she said everything with too much warmth,

like she didn’t know how to hold back.

The way she laughed—bright and reckless—

like she was trying to drown out the quiet.

The way she looked at him,

like she knew something he hadn’t figured out yet.

And the way she never said his name.

Not Scaramouche.

Not Wanderer.

Not even Kunikuzushi.

Just teasing.

Just deflection.

Just noise.

And somehow, that hurt more than silence ever could.

He didn’t know that when he wasn’t around, she said his name all the time.

To others. In passing. In stories where he was half myth, half memory.

In quiet moments, when missing him felt easier than admitting it.

“Scaramouche,” she’d whisper, fingers drifting along the rim of a teacup.

“He’s impossible. He’s brilliant. He’s…”

She never finished the thought.

But the rest lingered—unspoken, undeniable.

But when he was near, she couldn’t say it.

Because it felt too beautiful.

Too close.

Too much to hold in her mouth without trembling.

She loved his name. The way it curled in her mouth like silk. The way it felt like a secret. The way it fit him—sharp, elegant, tragic. But she was afraid. Afraid he’d hear it and see everything she’d been hiding. The softness. The longing. The way her heart twisted every time he looked at her like she was just another nuisance.

So she covered it up. With teasing. With nicknames. With laughter.

And he—who had been called many things, most of them cruel—just wanted to hear it from her. Not because he needed validation. But because he needed her.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows that danced across the ground. Scaramouche stood at the edge of the forest, irritation simmering just beneath the surface. Y/N had left him there, giggling as she picked flowers, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him.

“Why do you do this?” he muttered to himself, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Why can’t you just say it?”

The wind rustled the leaves, as if nature were mocking him. He turned, half-tempted to march back to her, to shake her until she understood. But something held him back.

He watched her, her laughter bright against the fading light, and felt the edges of his anger soften. There was a beauty in her chaos, a magnetic pull that drew him in.

Y/N glanced back, catching him staring. Her smile faltered for a heartbeat before returning, wider and more radiant. “Hey, Hat Gremlin! Come help me! Look at this one!”

He hated that she could still make him smile, even when he wanted to be angry. “Do you ever think of anything else?”

“Not when you’re around.”

There it was again—the warmth in her voice, the way she made every word sound like a melody. And yet, still, she danced around the name that mattered most.

“I’m right here,” he said, voice low. “Why can’t you just say it?”

Her laughter faded, leaving only the quiet between heartbeats.

“Because…” she whispered, eyes lowered.

“…if I say it, you’ll hear everything I’ve tried not to feel.”

Her voice was barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual chaos and charm. No teasing. No nicknames. Just the raw edge of something she’d tried to bury beneath every ridiculous title she’d ever thrown at him.

Scaramouche stared at her, the silence between them suddenly too loud. The wind tugged at the hem of her coat, lifting strands of her hair like it was trying to shield her from the moment.

“See what?” he asked, softer now. Not demanding. Just… aching.

She looked at him then—truly looked.

And the usual mischief in her eyes had vanished,

replaced by something quieter, more fragile.

A shimmer like dusk on water,

like a thought she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Not hesitation.

Not regret.

Just the delicate weight of being seen,

and not knowing what he might do with the truth.

“Because I care,” she murmured, her voice barely brushing the space between them. “And your name… it’s beautiful. It fits you in ways I can’t quite explain. Whenever I say it when you’re not around, it feels like something delicate—like a truth I’m not ready to hand you. If I say it to your face, I’m afraid you’ll hear everything I feel.”

He blinked.

“I call you names because it’s easier,” she continued, voice trembling. “Easier than letting you hear how much I love the sound of you. Easier than letting you see how much I feel.”

The air between them stilled,

settling like dust in a room that had just remembered how to breathe.

And Scaramouche—who had worn names like armor,

most of them sharp, most of them given without care—

stood quiet, caught in the hush she left behind.

Because out of everyone who had ever spoken his name,

she was the only one who held it like it meant something.

Like saying it might unravel her.

Like it might unravel him.

And somehow, that mattered more than he expected.

She shifted—

a flicker of movement,

like wind brushing the edge of something fragile.

Her voice rose, light and trembling,

a threadbare veil of mischief.

“Don’t get used to it, Whirlybird,” she said,

a smile ghosting her lips,

fragile as breath.

“That was a one-time offer.”

But before she could say another word,

he stepped forward—

quiet as dusk,

deliberate as breath.

And kissed her.

Not out of impulse.

Not to silence her.

But because her voice had trembled,

and her eyes had softened,

and he had finally understood

what she’d been trying not to say.

His hand found her jaw,

gentle, grounding.

Her breath caught.

The world stilled.

And in that hush—

between her fear of being seen

and his longing to be known—

their lips met.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

Alhaitham x Fem!Reader

Genre: Romantic Comedy · Slice-of-Life · Academic Shenanigans

Alhaitham had endured many things in his academic career—misquoted research, misfiled scrolls, even Kaveh’s emotional outbursts over curtain colors.

But nothing tested his patience quite like y/n’s inability to say his name.

“Al-haithen?”

“Al-ham-tham?”

“Al… hot sauce?”

He blinked. Slowly. As if that might reset the moment.

“It’s Alhaitham.”

“That’s what I said.”

“It’s not.”

“Al-hamster?”

“Please stop.”

“Al-height-ham?”

“That’s a measurement.”

“Al-handsome?”

She said it with the confidence of someone who’d just solved a puzzle, passed a test, and won a beauty pageant all at once.

Her grin was criminal—wide, unapologetic, and so smug it could’ve been declared a public disturbance. She clutched her notes like a trophy, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made Alhaitham seriously consider filing a formal complaint with the Akademiya’s Department of Emotional Sabotage.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then stared at her like she’d just rewritten his thesis in pink gel pen.

“That’s worse,” he muttered, ears betraying him with the faintest flush.

She leaned in, victorious.

“But accurate.”

He stared at her like she’d just committed academic treason.

She didn’t need to say anything else. The sparkle in her eyes did all the talking—bright, unrepentant, and so full of chaotic affection it made his logic circuits short out. He wasn’t sure if she was flirting or just naturally feral. Either way, he was doomed.

Her voice was flustered, her pronunciation cursed, and yet—he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed.

He wasn’t even sure he was annoyed.

Just… emotionally compromised.

And maybe—if he was being honest with himself—quietly entertained.

Because deep down, he suspected she knew exactly how to say his name.

She just liked watching him suffer.

And he—tragically, undeniably—liked watching her try.

She’d been assigned to assist him with a research project on linguistic drift in ancient runes. A simple task. Straightforward. The kind of assignment that should’ve involved quiet note-taking, precise transcription, and zero emotional turbulence.

But nothing about her was straightforward.

She tripped over words like they owed her money. She laughed at footnotes like they were punchlines. She annotated scrolls with doodles of grumpy scholars and once labeled a diagram “Al-haitham’s Brain: 90% Logic, 10% Suffering.”

Every study session felt like a hostage situation—except he was the hostage, and she was the chaos with a pen.

And yet—he hadn’t asked for a reassignment.

Not once.

Because deep down, he didn’t mind.

Not the interruptions. Not the mispronunciations. Not even the way she called him Al-hamster with a straight face and then asked if ancient runes could be translated into rodent squeaks.

He liked it.

Liked her.

Liked the way she made academia feel less like a fortress and more like a conversation. Liked the way her presence disrupted his carefully curated silence and replaced it with something warmer, louder, alive.

She was a walking contradiction—brilliant and ridiculous, focused and feral—and somehow, she’d turned his research into the highlight of his week.

And if her creative pronunciations gave him a reason to linger—just a little longer, just close enough to hear her voice twist his name into something absurd and affectionate—then he’d take it.

He’d endure every Al-ham-tham, every Al-haithen, every Al-handsome with academic dignity barely intact.

It had become a ritual, almost. A pattern he didn’t bother breaking. She’d say his name wrong, he’d correct her, she’d grin like she’d won something—and somehow, that exchange had become the part of his day he looked forward to most.

Because it wasn’t about the syllables.

It was about her.

The way she looked at him when she got it wrong. The way she smiled like she knew she was driving him insane. The way her presence turned routine into something he found himself waiting for.

He’d endure every mispronunciation with academic dignity barely intact.

Because each one was hers.

And each one meant she was choosing him—again and again, in her own ridiculous, radiant way.

So if pretending to correct her gave him another hour beside her, another excuse to stay in her orbit, then so be it.

He’d suffer the syllables.

Just to keep hearing them from her.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d stop correcting her altogether.

Because some things were better left imperfect.

Yandere!Xiao x Blind!Reader

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

The morning of the festival arrived with soft light and distant music, but Y/n stayed where she was, untouched by the celebration outside.

She sat by the window, fingers brushing the bracelet Xiao had tied to her wrist days ago. The knot held firm. Bound with care. Bound by claim.

She hadn’t removed it.

Hadn’t asked.

Hadn’t spoken his name.

But she’d thought about him.

More than she wanted to.

More than she expected.

And today, she was done pretending she didn’t feel it.

She didn’t know when it started—this quiet leaning toward him.

It hadn’t been sudden.

It hadn’t been loud.

Just a slow, steady shift. Like the hush before rain. Like skin remembering touch.

She didn’t love him.

Not yet.

But she couldn’t deny it anymore: something inside her reached for him.

And maybe that was enough.

She wanted to understand him.

Not just as a shadow at her side.

Not just as the quiet that lingered after she spoke.

Not just as the hands that adjusted her world without asking—tilting her shoes, warming her tea, locking the door behind her like a promise.

She wanted to break the wall between them.

To take a step closer.

To see what he was when he wasn’t hiding.

But maybe it was time to let the story breathe.

To stop tracing old lines and begin something softer.

Something hers.

Something his.

Something unfolding between them—quiet as the hush before rain, steady as memory pressed into skin.

Not perfect. Not planned.

But theirs to shape.

Even if it scared her.

Even if it meant surrendering the silence she’d grown used to.

She turned her wrist toward the light she couldn’t see, thumb grazing the charm—uneven, imperfect, shaped by someone’s hand.

It wasn’t beautiful.

But it was hers now.

And when the festival began, she would stop waiting.

She would reach for him.

Not by chance.

Not by mistake.

But with purpose—like tracing a shape she already knew by heart.

If he was going to stay, she had to see him clearly.

Even if it meant peeling back the quiet between them, thread by thread.

___________

The festival stirred with light and sound, blooming quietly beyond the walls.

Music spilled through the streets, tangled with laughter and the scent of roasted chestnuts. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting soft shadows across the stone paths. Children ran past with ribbons trailing behind them, their joy brushing against Y/n like wind.

She moved through it slowly, cane tapping in rhythm, fingers brushing the bracelet Xiao had tied to her wrist.

She didn’t know where he was.

But she knew he was near.

She could feel it in the way the crowd moved—too careful, too rehearsed.

In the absence of contact, like the world had been warned not to touch her.

In the weight of silence behind her, thick with attention she couldn’t see but couldn’t ignore.

She stopped near a stall draped in silk and paper lanterns, the colors vivid in memory if not in sight. Her hand lifted to the bracelet, thumb grazing the knot.

Then she tilted her head toward the quiet she’d come to recognize—steady, watchful, unmistakably him.

“Xiao,” she said, voice steady. “Come here.”

No one turned.

No one noticed.

But the air changed.

The sounds of celebration softened around her.

The joy blurred at the edges.

And the stillness behind her settled in, quiet and unyielding.

“I know you’re watching,” she continued. “I want you to be here. Not just near.”

She didn’t move. Not yet. She waited—quiet, still, listening.

And then it came.

A shift in the air. A warmth at her back. A breath close enough to feel.

She turned—not startled. Just certain he was here.

“I don’t want to guess anymore,” she said. “If you’re going to stay… then let me see you. Let me understand.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was listening.

She extended her hand—not blindly, not searching.

Just open.

After a long pause, his fingers found hers.

Warm.

Tentative.

Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she let her hand rest against his, light as breath.

Then, gently—almost imperceptibly—she pressed her fingers in.

Not to hold him.

Just enough so he wouldn’t slip away.

Just enough to say: don’t run.

“You tied it,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask. But I kept it.”

And somewhere inside him, something unraveled.

Not violently.

Not with panic.

But with the slow, deliberate ache of being seen.

Her voice had cut through the noise of the festival like silk through smoke—soft, certain, meant only for him. She hadn’t shouted. She hadn’t begged. She had called.

And he had come.

Now her hand rested against his, light as breath, fingers warm and steady. Not trembling. Not hesitant. Just there.

She had reached for him.

Not blindly.

Not by chance.

But because something in her refused to let him drift.

And that changed the shape of the silence between them.

The crowd moved around them, oblivious. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting flickering shadows across her face. He watched the way her head tilted slightly toward him, the way her thumb grazed the bracelet he’d tied to her wrist—his knot, his carving, his claim.

She wore it still.

She hadn’t removed it.

She hadn’t asked.

She had accepted it.

And now, she was accepting him.

Not with words.

Not with promises.

But with presence.

The thread between them didn’t just pull tighter—it bound. Quietly. Permanently. Like breath held between two ribs.

He didn’t speak.

As if words might unravel what he’d kept so carefully close.

Because if he did, he might say too much.

Might say mine.

Might say I would kill for you.

Might say you’ll never leave me.

But she didn’t need the words.

Not yet.

She had already reached for him.

Already stayed.

Wanderer/Scaramouche x Female!Reader

Genre: Comedy-Romance · Slice of Life · Medical Chaos

Y/n had one job.

Get a flu shot. Smile politely. Don’t cause a scene.

She’d even begged Scaramouche to come with her—“Just in case I panic,” she’d said, eyes wide, voice trembling. “I’ll feel safer if you’re there.”

He’d scoffed, rolled his eyes, and agreed with the kind of reluctant grace only he could pull off. Now he was sitting outside the exam room, arms crossed, posture regal, expression carved from disdain. He didn’t care about needles. He cared about being seen. About being dragged into mundane nonsense by someone who swore they’d behave.

Inside, y/n sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging stiffly, eyes locked on the tray beside the nurse. The needle gleamed under the light—long, metallic, and smug.

She swallowed hard.

Okay. Okay. You’ve fought hilichurls. You’ve survived commissions with Scaramouche. You can survive this. It’s just a needle. It’s not sentient. It’s not evil. It’s not—

The nurse smiled. “Just a quick flu shot.”

Lies. Deception. Treachery.

Y/n inhaled sharply and began whispering to herself like a deranged bard casting a protection spell.

“I am brave. I am strong. I am not a chicken. I am a majestic goose. I will not honk in fear.”

The nurse blinked.

Y/n blinked back.

Then the nurse reached for the syringe.

And y/n ascended.

The door slammed open so violently it rattled the frame.

Scaramouche flinched—actually flinched—and turned just in time to see y/n launch herself out of the clinic room like a gremlin possessed.

Her coat flared behind her like a cape. Her boots skidded on the polished floor. A startled scholar dropped their scrolls. Someone screamed. A clipboard flew.

She didn’t look back.

The nurse poked her head out, pale and wide-eyed.

“She… ran away.”

Scaramouche stared at her.

“She begged me to come with her,” he muttered, glaring at the horizon like it had personally betrayed him. “Begged. Said she’d be brave. Said she needed emotional support. I thought I was signing up for hand-holding. Not a full-blown hostage situation.”

The nurse blinked.

“She moved very fast.”

He didn’t respond.

He turned on his heel and sprinted.

—————

Scaramouche was not built for this.

He was built for elegance. For precision. For standing still while the world bent around him.

But now he was tearing through Sumeru’s medical wing like a man possessed, coat whipping behind him, boots slamming against tile, fury radiating off him in waves.

“Y/n!” he shouted. “You absolute menace!”

She was fast. Too fast. Panic had given her the speed of a caffeinated squirrel.

She vaulted over a bench. He nearly tripped on a potted plant. A researcher screamed as she barreled past, knocking over a stack of medicinal herbs.

“You said you needed me!” he roared. “You said you’d behave!”

“I lied!” she shouted back, voice cracking as she rounded a corner.

“You ungrateful little—stop running!”

She didn’t.

He chased harder.

His pride was bleeding. His ego was in shambles. And the worst part?

He was worried.

————

She turned a final corner, heart hammering in her chest, lungs burning, the taste of panic sharp on her tongue—and he was already there.

Scaramouche stepped out from the shadows like a wrathful ghost, coat billowing, eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered fury.

“You’re done,” he said.

Before she could pivot, dodge, or scream something witty, he lunged.

His arms wrapped around her waist with precision honed from years of combat and zero tolerance for nonsense. She shrieked, kicked, twisted—

It didn’t matter.

He hurled her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Put me down!” y/n screamed, flailing like a possessed marionette. “I swear I’ll bite you!”

“You already did last week,” he snapped. “It was pathetic.”

She squirmed harder. He adjusted his grip, one arm locked around her thighs, the other bracing her back like she was a sack of particularly annoying potatoes.

Scaramouche’s grip tightened as he glared down at her.

“You dragged me into this circus,” he snapped. “Swore you’d keep it together.”

Y/n kicked uselessly against his hold.

“I had a moment!”

He scoffed. “You had a meltdown. In public. With witnesses.”

She slapped his back. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re insane!”

“And you’re a menace with the pain tolerance of a spoiled mushroom.”

She kicked again. He tightened his hold.

“Stop flailing. You’re not escaping. You’re getting that shot if I have to sedate you myself.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would. And I’d enjoy it.”

---

He stormed back into the clinic like a man on a mission, y/n flailing over his shoulder like a chaotic sack of drama.

The nurse looked up, startled, then immediately looked down again. She was not paid enough for this.

“We’re back,” Scaramouche said flatly. “Restrain her. Or sedate her. I don’t care which.”

“I am a free citizen!” y/n screamed. “You can’t vaccinate me against my will!”

“You bribed me with Shimi Chazuke to come here,” he snapped. “This is your fault.”

“That was emotional manipulation!”

“And this is consequence.”

He dropped her onto the exam table like a grumpy cat delivering a dead bird. She bounced once, then tried to roll off.

He caught her ankle mid-flight.

“Try it,” he said. “I dare you.”

She hissed like a cornered animal.

The nurse cleared her throat. “Um… should I… proceed?”

“Yes,” Scaramouche said. “Before she tries to bite someone again.”

“I will bite,” y/n muttered. “I have molars. I know how to use them.”

“You have the survival instincts of a wet napkin.”

She glared. He glared harder.

The nurse, trembling slightly, prepped the syringe.

Y/n’s eyes widened.

“Nope. Nope. I changed my mind. I’m leaving. I’m moving to Fontaine. I’ll live in a sewer. I’ll eat moss. I’ll—”

Scaramouche grabbed her hand and held it firmly.

“You’re getting this shot.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll hate me more if you get sick and I have to nurse you with soup and sarcasm.”

She whimpered.

He leaned in, voice low.

“I’m right here. You’re not alone. And if you scream, I’ll scream louder.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. I have range.”

The needle went in.

Y/n let out a sound that could only be described as a dramatic gasp mixed with a dying bird call.

Scaramouche didn’t flinch.

The nurse, unfazed but visibly exhausted, gently removed the needle from y/n’s arm and placed a cotton pad over the spot like she was defusing a bomb. She taped it down with the solemnity of someone who’d seen too much and quietly retreated—possibly to file a trauma report or reconsider her career.

Y/n slumped against Scaramouche, exhausted from her own chaos.

“I want Padisarah pudding.”

“You’re getting celery and silence.”

And yet, despite everything—the screaming, the sprinting, the threats of biting and sewer exile—Scaramouche didn’t push her away.

She was curled against him now, limp with theatrical exhaustion, like a soggy dumpling wrapped in emotional chaos. Her hair was a mess. Her dignity was somewhere back in the hallway. And her voice, when she demanded pudding, was so pitiful it could’ve moved a dendro slime to tears.

He sighed.

Not because he was annoyed.

Because he was doomed.

She was a walking disaster with the pain tolerance of a spoiled mushroom and the survival instincts of a decorative fern. She panicked at needles, tripped over her own shoelaces, and once tried to bribe a merchant with a friendship bracelet made of beetle shells.

And he loved her.

Not that she should know.

She’d weaponize it. Turn it into a performance. Demand forehead kisses and emotional check-ins. She’d write poetry about it—bad poetry, with metaphors involving koi fish and pudding spoons. She’d quote herself. Out loud. In public. With dramatic pauses.

So instead, he stood up, muttered something about “getting this over with,” and walked out.

Thirty seconds later, he returned.

With her bag.

And a slightly squished container of Padisarah pudding—clearly swiped from the clinic’s snack stash, clearly meant to be ignored.

He dropped it into her lap like it was a tactical maneuver, not a gesture.

She blinked at it.

Then at him.

He didn’t look at her.

But his shoulder shifted—just slightly—toward hers. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to be there.

And when she leaned in, soft and smug and still a little dramatic?

He didn’t move away.