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So my bored cheeks sitting in the ground for hours finally had come senses travelling to many wires in my body till it reaches my so called brain that has half of a one brain cell left inside -_- so hm I got this idea which would be my next drawing/spoiler of my next drawing that I will soon make but don't expect me to really do it because I perhaps gonna do it or not it's my decision anyways but hm I just wanted to share this idea of mine okay? (Not in a rude way perhaps-_-)
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Ok so this is basically after Scaramouche erased his existence and for some reason you remembered him. Sethos, Traveller, and Paimon are planning to give something to Wanderer so he knows he is not alone and wouldn't evolve into an emo again. And surprisingly not, they decided to choose you as his gift.
WARNING : Emotionally constipated ex-harbinger, shit post, Sethos, Traveller, and Paimon being menaces to society (mostly Paimon), tired af you, traveller is male, "abumbalakada" - Sethos, ":)" - Traveller, "Kidnapping is legal" - Paimon, crack but a lil bit of fluff at the end, awkward moments between you and Wanderer.
Snow wasn't supposed to fall in Sumeru, and yet here it was, drifting over domed rooftops and jungle trees like an awkward seasonal glitch. It coated everything in soft white stillness.
In a dark alley behind a patisserie, three figures hunched around a very large cardboard box.
Sethos rubbed his temples. “Okay. Just one more time. Slowly. We are… kidnapping a sentient puppet.”
Traveller nodded, already lining the box with tinsel and fairy lights.
Sethos pointed. “She’s literally sitting on a bench doing absolutely nothing. That doesn’t mean she’s okay with being wrapped up and hand-delivered like some kind of cursed Build-a-Boyfriend expansion pack.”
Paimon beamed. “It’s romantic!”
“It’s a felony."
"It's a matchmaking!"
They all looked toward you. Menacingly.
You sat perfectly still, barely breathing— if you even breathed at all— your gaze locked somewhere on the horizon like you were waiting for the end of the world or the return of common sense.
Your uppet joints gleamed faintly under your scarf. There was a mechanical grace to your stillness. You sighed softly for the nth time.
Sethos blinked. “Is she even alive?”
“She’s thinking.” Paimon hissed reverently. “About Hat Guy. Obviously. She’s made of his leftover parts, remember? Or maybe she is rethinking the past 500 years.”
“That doesn’t make this less weird. That makes this so much worse.”
“Exactly!”
Traveller silently held up a long pink ribbon and a tag that read:
To: Wanderer
From: Definitely Not Criminals ;)
Ten Minutes Later
You had been tied up.
Very carefully. Very respectfully. But also very undeniably.
Your wrists were bound gently with pastel silk, legs were folded neatly beneath you. Ribbons trailed over your puppet limbs like decorations on a forgotten relic. A big silver bow rested atop your head.
Even your mouth was muffled—though not tightly, just symbolically. A satin strip pressed lightly over your lips like a “shh” written in fabric
You were done with life af. Not resisting, just taking your another 1048208302849403th sigh, accepting your fate.
You blinked. Slowly.
“She's so elegant,” Paimon whispered. “Like if ennui had a physical form.”
“She's not blinking normally,” Sethos said. “It’s like... she’s buffering.”
Traveller slid the lid closed.
Wanderer’s House, 12:09 AM
Wanderer, in his sleveeless top, his coat hung up somewhere, and bitter solitude, glared at his teacup, contemplating life choices.
Knock knock knock.
His gaze snapped to the door.
Another knock.
He stands up and approached the door to opened it cautiously— only to find a suspiciously large glitter-drenched box resting on his porch, faintly jingling.
He stared at it for five full seconds. Then:
“Nope.”
And shut the door.
Knock knock knock.
It jingled.
Grimacing, he opened it again, pried open the top— and lo behold—
There, inside, lay a puppet. His puppet.
No. Not his.
But… his.
You blinked up at him. Silent. Bound in ribbons. Wrapped in a way that made it impossible to deny the intention: gift.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
".."
“...What in the actual Archon-blasted, glitter-infested, emotionally manipulated HELL is this—”
"DO YOU LIKE HER?!”
He turned sharply.
Bush. Three shadows. Two giggles. One fleeing.
Sethos: “Abort! Abort!”
Paimon: “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
Traveller: *vanishing into the night like a war criminal after he scattered glitters all over the place*
Wanderer looked back down at you.
You looked up at him, eyes staring back into his with the same confused look— though not as confused as he is—
Your mouth covering shifted just slightly with your next blink.
He crouched down, tugged it away gently.
“…Hi." you whispered.
It was the same voice. Soft. Barely audible. Like a memory smothered under time.
“Y/n.." he muttered, your name sounds so so—sweet when he said it.
"..yes?"
"They just… tied you up. In a box.”
"Yes.."
“You didn’t fight back?”
"No.."
You looked off to the side.
He closed his eyes. Sighed. “You could’ve said no.”
You blinked at him. Slow. Doll-like. Then murmured, “...They used glitter.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course they did.”
He lifted you gently from the box, ribbons jingling, and carried you inside bridal-style, like a man too tired to argue with fate.
You hide your face in his shoulders and succesfully hiding the redness on your face.
The house was quiet, warm with magic. He set you down on the couch.
Silent.
His eyes dropped to your wrists. The silk restraints still tied neatly. He hesitated.
“...Do you want me to undo these?”
You paused. Then nodded.
"Mhm.."
He knelt, undid the ribbons carefully. Your arms lowered slowly— like a wind-up toy, winding back into motion.
Awkward silence.
Jingle.
More awkward silence.
“…You’re not staying, right?” he asked, unsure if it was a wish or a warning.
You tilted your head slightly.
“I mean, you shouldn’t stay. This is weird. I mean.. after everything— That’s like…” he gestured vaguely, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Romantic Frankenstein.”
You said nothing. Just sipped the cocoa he’d set down beside you. Your movements were smooth but doll-like. Ribbon still dangled from one wrist.
He groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
“…You can sleep on the couch.”
"Okay.." You smiled.
He hesitated, then added: “I’ll burn the glitter tomorrow.”
"..."
"Thank you.."
His lips twitched slightly, as if holding back a few words or.. a smile.
The ribbon on your ankle jingled faintly when you shifted.
And yet, despite everything—the box, the bow, and— whatever this is— the fact you were technically recycled out of him—he didn’t ask you to leave in order to avoid his bitter past— just like he did when he was Scaramouche.
Because for the first time in a long, cold existence… something in his chest where his heart was supposed to be— fluttered.
Ok- it's 12 am here and i got my imagination all over the place again- imagine you want to wear a yukata in a certain gremlin's color to a festival, but didn't know how to wear it properly, thus— the gremlin came to help with a teeny, tiny bit of bickering ^^
You stared down at the yukata lying across your lap like it had personally offended you.
Midnight violet, stormy indigo, and silver winds embroidered across the hem— elegant and undeniably beautiful. It reminded you too much of him. You could lie to yourself and say it was just coincidence, that the colors simply suited you. But it had his presence all over it: quiet, sharp, impossible to ignore.
The sleeves drooped unevenly where you’d tried to fold them, and the obi looked like a poorly wrapped towel. You sighed, flopping back onto the tatami mat.
“This was a mistake." you mumbled.
"..."
Right on cue, there was a knock— sharp, impatient. And then, without waiting, the door slid open.
This little monke-
“What’s taking you so long?”
You groaned before even looking. “Don’t you know how to knock like a normal person?”
Scaramouche stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual unimpressed glare plastered across his face.
“I did knock. You’re just too slow to respond.”
You sat up and glared. “I was changing.”
“Clearly not fast enough.” he bite back, eyes scanning the scene. His gaze landed on the tangled yukata, the half-wrapped obi, and your exhausted expression. “What even happened here? Did you lose a fight with your own clothing?”
“Don’t start with me.” you said flatly, flustered. “I’ve been trying this thing for half an hour!”
He raised a brow. “And this is the result? Hah. Remind me to never let you near armor.”
“I don’t need armor.” you grumbled. “I just need to figure out how to fold fabric, which apparently requires a PhD in ancient ritualistic suffering.”
Scaramouche snorted— actually snorted— as he stepped inside and knelt next to you. “Give it here. You’re going to strangle yourself with that obi.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know how to do this?”
“Yes. Unlike you, I’m not completely helpless.”
You opened your mouth, closed it, then shoved the yukata at him with a huff. “Fine. But if you poke me with a hairpin or tie this too tight, I’m haunting you.”
“Please.” he scoffed, taking the robe. “You’d be the most annoying ghost in Teyvat.”
You were about to snap back when his hands brushed your shoulders.
Ah-
His touch was precise, practiced. Not rough, not hesitant either. He slid the fabric over your arms and gently pulled it across your chest, adjusting it until it rested just right. The way his fingers moved was almost careful— like he was trying not to wrinkle the fabric… or you.
“You’ve done this before.” you said softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the collar into place, left over right, his fingertips grazing the line of your neck as he smoothed it down.
“I’ve seen enough ceremonial crap to know how it’s done,” he sighs. “Shrines, festivals… useless rituals. All of it.”
“You remember that much?” you asked, quieter now.
His hands paused at your waist, where he was about to wrap the obi. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance? No. Amusement? Unlikely.
Just silence.
“More than I want to.”
You didn’t press. You just sat still, letting him work.
The obi tightened around your waist with a sharp tug, making you flinch.
“Ow-!”
“Stop squirming.”
“You did that on purpose!"
“If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be wiping the floor.” he replied casually, tying the final knot with a flourish.
You made a face. “Such a gentleman.”
“You’re lucky I’m helping you at all,” he said, sitting back to look at his work. “Most people would’ve just left you looking like a half-dressed scarecrow.”
“You know,” you said, inspecting the fit in the mirror, “you could’ve just complimented me.”
“I could’ve.” he agreed. “But where’s the fun in that?”
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled despite yourself. “So? How do I look?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze lingered a bit too long— sweeping from your shoulders to your waist, and then back up to your face. The usual snark drained from his expression, leaving behind something.. unreadable.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “Like someone trying too hard to look like me.”
Your face flushed. “It’s not just because of you, okay? I picked it because—”
“Because it reminded you of me,” he said, finishing for you.
He stepped closer again, adjusting the collar with more care than strictly necessary. His knuckles brushed your collarbone, and you swore your breath hitched.
“I’m not mad." he murmured.
You blinked. “What?”
“That you chose something that looks like me.” His eyes met yours. “I don’t hate it.”
Your heart fluttered—
“I guess I wanted to match,” you said quietly.
He gave a low laugh. “Tch. You barely succeed.”
"Hey!"
Despite his.. insult? Or compliment? There was something strangely tender about the way he said it. His hand rested at your waist again, not adjusting this time, just staying there.
You leaned a little closer without thinking. “You’re not so bad when you’re being helpful.”
You pinched his cheek, but he swatted your hand away with a playful (?) hiss, only to which you laughed at— he reminds you of an angy cat.
“And you’re not so annoying when you keep your smarty mouth shut.”
You elbowed him lightly. He rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny twitch at the corner of his lips— almost a smile.
Then suddenly, he reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered against your cheek for just a second too long.
“You should wear this more often.” he said.
“Oh? You like it? Or perhaps i'm so beautiful that-”
“I like the way it makes you look like you’re mine.” he said plainly, then turned away before you could respond— flustered or not.
You sat there stunned, heart racing, face burning, as he strode toward the door with his hand on the edge of his hat, as if adjusting it to cover his face.
“Are you coming or what?” he called over his shoulder.
“Y- yeah, yeah!” you called back, scrambling to your feet.
He glanced at you once more as you joined him. “Try not to fall on your face this time.”
“If I do, I’m dragging you down with me.”
He smirked. “Let's see.”
You only rolled your eyes, but not in annoyance no, but in something more playful— and you didn’t have a witty comeback this time.
