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apteryxparvus · 4 months

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truth beneath the spell

Pairing — Lyney / Reader

Word count — 5865

Content warning — mild cursing • idiots in love • mean pranks

Summary — For years, you and Lyney have been locked in a fierce rivalry, constantly one-upping each other. But when Lyney’s latest stunt results in the destruction of your cherished garden, revenge is the only thing on your mind.

Driven by a desperate desire to settle the score at the upcoming Fontaine Grand Gala, you devise a cunning plan — you infuse Lyney’s favorite Pate de Fruit with a potent dose of truth powder.

However, what you don’t anticipate is your plan going awry as emotions buried deep within both of you begin to surface.

“Don’t you think this is a tad bit excessive?” Mona muses, casting a lazy glance your way, as she reclines on your plush couch. She idly flips through a weathered spellbook, her once neatly tied hair cascading freely around her shoulders. “I mean, if you keep retaliating to every prank, you’ll forever be stuck in this endless all-out war.”

You huff dramatically from your spot on the floor, attention fixated on the pile of journals chaotically scattered around. “He started it first,” you retort, completely ignoring your friend’s advice.

She arches an elegant eyebrow. “And you just had to get back at him, didn't you?"

“Yes! My reputation is on the line!”

She sighs, a hint of exasperation evident in her voice, as she joins you on the carpet. "Why yes, you're totally not trying to hide—really badly at that, by the way—your extremely obvious crush on Lyney."

“No!” you deny too quickly, shoving the first heavy journal you find against Mona, catching her off guard. "Just — just, shut up and help me, or I swear to the Archons above, I will tell the Old Hag who read and misplaced her precious journal."

Mona gapes, her light blue eyes narrowing as her teasing smirk fades away from her soft face. “This is blackmail,” she declares, gaze fixated on your menacing, yet cheerful expression. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You say nothing in response, and a silence envelops the two of you, lingering in the air, broken only by the rhythmic sound of pages being flipped. Each turn feels like an eternity as you scan through the books.

“Aha!” you exclaim, eyes gleaming with triumph as you point towards a page adorned with scribbles and intricate diagrams.

Mona’s gaze shifts from skepticism to intrigue, and she leans in, studying the page with genuine interest. Her eyes flicker between you and the diagrams, and she shakes her head.

“I think that one is too much, even for your standards,” she remarks, furrowing her brows.

"What do you mean? It's perfectly acceptable!"

She looks at you, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. "You cannot just open an extradimensional portal and send him tumbling into an unknown domain! Are you out of your mind?"

"Fine, fine. I'll look for something else," you grumble, resuming your little quest. You skim over the pages with renewed determination. Each time you eagerly point towards a spell, Mona shoots you a disapproving look, shaking her head.

Finally, you stumble upon the perfect spell — one with easily obtainable ingredients and a straightward diagram and incantation. Your face lights up as Mona nods in approval.

"Mockingbird's Echo," you begin to read, your fingers delicately tracing the frayed page. "Transforms the fauna in proximity to its target into impish mimics, compelling them to emulate every gesture and vocalization in a sarcastic and mocking tone. These enchanted creatures persistently trail the subject."

"I suppose that's an interesting tactic to silence him," Mona comments with a sly smirk. “Will you need my help gathering the ingredients?”

You inspect the list of items mentioned — a generous amount of dried Tongue Grass, a combination of Swine’s Snout and Lion’s Tooth, along with century-old Mayflower bark, three purple candles, and a moon-charged Septarian.

A brief moment of contemplation passes over your features, and your eyes shift to your herb corner comfortably nestled on your windowsill.

“Perhaps you can ask Jean if she’s willing to part with one of her quality blends of Swine's Snout and Lion's Tooth."

A few days later, after Mona had successfully procured a high-quality blend of herbs from Jean — whose only response was the thinning of her lips along with a deadpan expression at the mention of your plan — you’re sitting, legs crossed, in your ritual room.

The moon bathes the room in its ethereal glow, revealing your altar, cluttered with numerous hanging smudge sticks, spell jars, and a multitude of colorful misshapen crystals and stones. The air seems to shimmer with a subtle energy, carrying whispers of ancient magic. All the necessary ingredients are neatly arranged next to you, catching the moonlight that reflects their textures and deep colors.

The silence is interrupted by the soft rustle of pages as you look over the instructions for the spell. Following the guidance, you carefully place each herb in your trusty mortar, grinding them into a fine powder. As you add the century-old Mayflower, you grimace at the memory of haggling for a cheaper price, recalling the heated argument with the pink-haired merchant. You transfer the powder to a small bowl, placing it in the center of the altar.

With a swat of your wrist, the candles next to you flicker to life, their flames dancing in response to your command. You meticulously draw several runes, ensuring each one is somewhat connected with the burning candles beside them.

Reciting the incantations, you hold the charged Septarian close to your chest. The air around you crackles with energy, the temperature growing hotter with each uttered word.

Moments later, the candles die, their flames extinguished abruptly. The room plunges into sudden darkness, and only the residual warmth and charged energy lingering in the air is left.

You let out a sigh of relief, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, and your limbs feel heavy, as if gravity is pulling your body harder and harder to the ground.

Performing spells has always taken its toll on you, and ever since Lyney's remark about your limited mana levels — sparking the beginning of your little rivalry — you've been dedicated to surpass your own limitations, improving and strengthening your energy, determined to prove him wrong.

With a proud smile, you place the ground herbs in a small sack, expertly wrapping it with cotton twine.

“That’ll teach him,” you mumble to yourself.

Slipping the enchanted sack of herbs into Lyney's coat proves to be amusingly simple; a bribe for his familiar — a fluffy black cat with red eyes and a sly feline smirk — involving a bag of catnip and a few morsels of fatty tuna seals the deal.

"Rosseland, come here, boy," you whisper-yell, propped against the fence that separates your house from Lyney's. The cat glances at you, then at the tempting bag of catnip in your hand.

He lets out a loud meow, and you see his expression shift into one of mischief, perfectly mirroring your own. The cat trots over to you, skillfully climbing the wooden fence.

“Good boy,” you murmur as he purrs, affectionately headbutting you. You scratch behind his ear, earning a satisfied meow.

It's amusing how much Lyney's own familiar adores you; he’s constantly overjoyed to see you, and you are the only other person apart from the trio of siblings allowed to give him belly rubs.

Rosseland climbs onto your shoulders, playfully biting into your hair, anticipating the promised treats. "Yes, yes, my boy." You wave the catnip in front of his face, and his whiskers twitch happily as he takes a whiff. He gracefully jumps off you, landing on the grass. You crouch next to him. "Listen, you'll get all this — maybe even some Pate de Fruit — but on one condition." The cat perks up at the mention of his favorite jelly candy, staring at you expectantly. "I need you to place this in Lyney's coat, yeah?" you say, presenting the enchanted sachet.

Purring once more, the cat headbutts you in agreement, his long bushy tail brushing across your face. You laugh softly as you offer him the promised pieces of fatty tuna. Once he finishes the treats, you let him play with the catnip, observing him as he rolls around the grass, meowing and growling loudly.

You release a sigh. "It's a mystery how such an adorable familiar ended up with such an annoying owner like Lyney..."

The same evening, as you prepare a simple vegetable stew and savor a glass of dandelion wine for dinner, a loud, insistent knock echoes from your front door. Glancing at the oven clock, you realize the only person who would be knocking this late could only be—

"Open the door right now, or else!" Lyney yells, and you smirk at the evident frustration in his voice, his words echoed by several mocking tones.

“As if,” you mutter under your breath dismissively, ignoring his shouts. You carry on stirring the simmering mixture, checking the thickness of the stew and tenderness of the potatoes. Licking the wooden spoon, you release a contented hum, pleased with the spiciness level of your creation.

Just as you're about to turn off the stove, the room grows unbearably hot, the flame of the stove flares for a moment, and a scorching breeze envelops you. Swirling around, you brandish the wooden spoon like a weapon.

“How dare you!” you shout as Lyney materializes in your kitchen. “You just had to come and ruin my dinner, didn’t you?” You point an accusatory finger towards the now-blackened dish.

“And you really had to cast such an annoying spell on me?” he fires back, his voice mirrored by the two ravens swirling around him. You can't help but giggle at the mocking tones of the birds. Lyney only shoots you a glare, his violet eyes narrowed into slits.

"Remove this spell right now," he demands, crossing his arms.

“No,” you answer bluntly. “You trespassed into my home, scorched my floor,” you continue, pointing towards the now-charred floorboards around Lyney, “and ruined the dinner I was looking forward to the whole day.”

"And anyway, shouldn't you be the better one of us, huh? Why not get rid of the spell by yourself?" you smirk, enjoying the flush that colors his face.

Lyney stays silent for a few moments, then releases a grunt and turns around without uttering another word. The birds follow, hovering nearby. One of them pecks at his hat, and he swats the raven away, fists clenched.

You wait for the inevitable sound of your front door slamming shut, and as it does, you sink into a seat at the table. Cheeks ablaze, you hide your face in your palms, and let out a groan. "Of all the people, why did I have to develop a crush on you?"

“Barghest, Mama’s home!” you holler, your familiar dashing towards you, tail wagging. The large wolf-dog leaps into your arms, and you both tumble onto the grass, laughter bubbling out as he showers you with slobbery kisses. “Bargest, enough — enough,” you giggle through his affectionate onslaught, running a hand through his short, silky fur. “I missed you too, baby.”

"He was very obedient while you were away," Clorinde remarks, leaning against her front door. "How was your trip to Mondstadt?"

"Tiring as usual," you sigh, rubbing your temples. "Fischl roped me and Mona into yet another commission. This time, we ended up getting lost in a labyrinth-like domain… and chased off by wind spirits.”

Clorinde's laughter fills the air as she gives you a thorough once-over. Her gaze lingers on the eye bags beneath your tired eyes and the fading bruises scattered over your body.

"Go home and rest; you'll need it if you want to be at least partly presentable for the meeting this Wednesday."

Your eyes widen for a split second, and your stomach plummets—the meeting, oh shit, Fontaine Grand Gala.

In the midst of the ongoing prank war and the recent commission in Mondstadt, you had entirely forgotten about the bi-yearly gathering between the Fontaine magical society members. The last one had been absolute chaos — arguments had erupted between different factions, and neither Lady Furina’s authoritative commands nor Monsieur Neuvillette's diplomatic skills could calm anyone down.

As the cherry on top, you and Lyney ended up in an elemental brawl that echoed through the grand hall. The sizzling magic and the crackling flames did not only set a few ancient artifacts on fire but also managed to engulf a couple of innocent coats and dresses in the process.

"Maybe this time it'll be less eventful," Clorinde offers optimistically, though the subtle raise of her eyebrow suggests she's not entirely convinced. "But seriously, take care of yourself before Wednesday."

As you traverse the familiar forest path leading towards your home, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of your familiar’s heavy paws, your mind is haunted by the vivid memories of the fiasco. And you can’t help but cringe at the thought of how your fiery clash with Lyney had quickly become part of the gossip fodder of the community.

"Barghest, I am so utterly screwed.” Your companion’s ears perk up at the mention of his name as you lament. “This stupid rivalry is only fueling my crush. Am I some sort of masochist?" Barghest, of course, remains silent, but responds with a look — his red eyes slightly narrowed, as if silently calling you out on your own stupidity.

The evening air is cool, and the dimming sunlight is hidden behind the canopy of tall trees, casting a gentle shadow over the path leading to your home. As you approach, a sudden shiver runs down your spine, and goosebumps prickle your skin. Beside you, Barghest snarls, revealing his sharp fangs, his eyes aglow in an ominous red.

In the distance, you notice several small creatures circling your garden, an unsettling dark aura barely cloaking their presence.

"He wouldn't have," you whisper, unable to comprehend the scene unfolding before your eyes.

Barghest doesn't wait for your command, already leaping towards the boggards. The creatures, sensing the imminent danger, emit squeaks of terror. In panic, they release their grip on the plants they were holding, fleeing into the distance. You command your familiar to stay put as you take cautious steps towards the now disturbed spot.

The soil beneath your feet is upturned, and the once vibrant plants lie trampled and torn. There is a lingering malevolence tainting the air, intermingling with the putrid smell of sulfur.

As you lower yourself to the ground, a wave of emotion washes over you, and a few tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. Gently, your fingers trace the once vibrant, now crumpled petals of a bluebell.

Amidst the disarray, a lone tansy stands tall, slender stem unwavering against the chaos. The petite yellow blooms stand out against the aftermath.

You narrow your eyes, a simmering anger bubbling within you. The significance of the plant isn't lost on you — after all, herbology is your strongest subject. Could Lyney have intentionally left this flower as a declaration of war, knowing full well its meaning? You shake your head, dismissing the notion, but the uncertainty lingers on within you.

Barghest moves closer, his furry form leaning in, and with a gentle nudge, his wet snout presses against your cheek.

"Don't worry, we'll get back at him," you murmur soothingly into his fur.

"Try this on," Mona suggests, gently fastening a choker around your neck. The piece is adorned with a large amber gemstone, encapsulating the fossilized remains of a spider.

You run your fingers along the delicate lace of the choker, observing your reflection in the mirror. You’re elegantly dressed for the grand gala, light makeup accentuating your features. Mona had offered to help you get ready, preaching how the best revenge is appearing uncaring and looking your best.

And while you agree with Mona’s sentiment, you’ve kept your true intentions hidden from her — how you intend to make Lyney confess all his wrongdoings and embarrass him before the community.

Your friend had seemed wary upon spotting the assortment of desserts in your bag — pate de fruits, conch madeleines, and colorful macarons. But you had swiftly explained it as an apology for the previous incident. Mona had raised an eyebrow in suspicion but chose not to press further, and you had sighed internally, relieved.

There was no way in Celestia you’d disclose the fact that the fruit jelly slices — one of Lyney’s favorite snacks — were discreetly laced with a potent dose of truth powder, cleverly mixed with the sugar.

"Promise me, no arguments, no fights, and especially no more pyro brawls with Lyney.”

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping a bit. "Yes, I know," you mumble, pouting. “Chiori still shoots me icy stares whenever she passes by. The coat was apparently a family heirloom or something.”

Mona gives you a pointed look. "I know you're plotting something to avenge your garden, but promise me you'll hold off until after the gala."

Rolling your eyes, you assure her, "I'll behave, alright?” Raising your right hand dramatically, you declare, "cross my heart, Mona. I'll be the picture of perfect behavior."

A soft, monotone voice calls your name, and you turn around to find Lynette approaching. “This bow looks really cute on you,” you comment, eyes flickering to the teal accessory adorning her hair.

She responds with a quiet thanks, a delicate blush dusting her cheeks. "I should go look for Freminet. He's probably feeling overwhelmed from the party by now," she states, glancing around the bustling gala. You nod in understanding.

"Also, I would recommend not going near the punch table. A feral cat is on the loose there," she warns and you cannot help but laugh, knowing full well who she is referring to. She's been aware of her older brother’s antics since the beginning of your prank war, maintaining a neutral stance despite Lyney’s persistent attempts to enlist her help on multiple occasions.

As Lynette makes her way through the crowd, you take a moment to admire the lively atmosphere of the gala.

The grand hall, with its soaring ceiling and arched doorways, exudes an air of timeless elegance. Elaborate tapestries hang from the walls, and the polished marble floors reflect the shimmering lights above. As you walk around the room, you pass by tall columns, embellished with sophisticated carvings, depicting scenes that capture the rich history of Fontaine.

Ignoring Lynette’s warning, you decide to make your way towards the punch table, where the “feral cat” supposedly roams. As you approach, you spot the magician engaged in an animated conversation with Aether, their laughter filling the air.

Lyney, as if possessing the hearing of a wild cat, detects the sound of your approaching footsteps and swiftly turns around. He offers you a cheerful smile that doesn’t fully mask the challenge lurking in his eyes.

Aether, the embodiment of warmth and light, greets you in a friendly manner, his eyes a rich glowing amber hue.

"I brought some desserts," you announce with a hesitant smile, presenting the carefully arranged selection of sweets. “As an apology for last time.” Your gaze flickers away in an attempt to appear shy and humble.

Aether’s eyes light up at the sight of the intricately crafted macarons. You generously offer him a few, suggesting he shares them with his gluttonous fairy familiar. Grateful, he thanks you and departs, leaving you alone with your rival.

The atmosphere between the two of you thickens, the tension palpable.

"You're not going to share some with me?" Lyney teases, a mock pout on his face.

"After you ruined my garden, no, not really."

"Then would you like a glass of punch as an apology?" he suggests, pointing to the fruity mixture.

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "A drink from you? No thanks, I don't trust you."

Lyney's playful demeanor doesn't falter; instead, he takes a deliberate step closer, his gaze holding a challenge. "Come on, don't be so uptight. It's just punch."

"And why would I take anything from you?" you question, suspicion lacing your words. "How can I be sure that you wouldn't have poured something in it?"

"Because why would I drink it myself, too? And look," he points casually to a few figures engaged in lively conversation near you. "They’re also drinking from the punch. Why would I risk angering the rest, especially today?"

You pause, considering his argument.

If you're going to endure this gala until Mona decides it's time to leave, a little liquid courage would not hurt. You look away from Lyney's captivating violet eyes, snatching the glass he is holding. With a sly grin, you pour yourself a generous amount of the sparkling liquid.

“Well, it was unpleasant meeting you, as always,” you say with a smirk, your hair swaying as you turn to leave. Unbeknownst to you, Lyney’s eyes follow your every move, a faint pink hue dusting his cheeks.

His lively façade noticeably deflates as he witnesses you greet a dark-haired man whose muscles strain against his clothes. Lyney clicks his tongue disapprovingly, downing his drink in one swift gulp — he doesn’t care that you’re talking to Wriothesley, and he is absolutely indifferent about your little crush on the older warlock.

The magician refuses to acknowledge the subtle shifts in his emotions, trying his best to avoid the implications they carry.

He pours himself another glass of the punch, scanning the various tables. His eyes lock onto a plate of jellied fruits, sitting there untouched, the tempting delicacy calling out to him.

Wriothesley casually leans against a column, sipping tea from a delicate cup.

"Has Barghest been giving you any trouble?" he inquires, his voice smooth.

"Um…" you start, feeling your tongue dry up, the words unable to leave your mouth. "Actually, yes," you stammer, and you gape, not believing your own words.

"Oh? What's wrong?"

“To start off, anytime we're at the dog park, attempting to blend in with normal people and play fetch with a stick, he insists on bringing me enchanted — and by that I mean cursed — artifacts. Not only does he refuse to let go, but he hoards all his little finds and won't even let me touch them!" You rant, voice rising. "And don't get me started on his behavior during the full moon. It would've been fine if the only problem was his howling — I could easily cast a spell and soundproof the room. But no! He gets the zoomies and has to run around for hours!"

Wriothesley arches an eyebrow, motioning for you to continue. His expression is of mild curiosity, partly entertained by your unusual behavior.

You gasp, hands instinctively flying to cover your mouth. The words had spilled out unintentionally, and it takes you a moment to grasp the bizarre nature of the situation.

“Ask me what’s two plus two,” you implore in an attempt to make sense of the situation, eyes pleading.

With a bemused expression, the Duke obliges.

Summoning all your willpower, you try to say “five”. However, each attempt feels like dragging your tongue through sand, rendering your voice mute before the incorrect word can escape. After a brief struggle, you give up with a reluctant "four."

"Congratulations, you can do basic math," Wriothesley deadpans.

"Lyney, you little shit!”

Your eyes sweep across the hall, searching for his unmistakable figure amidst the crowd. His figure seems to grow more prominent as he gets closer and closer. The room seems to narrow down to just the two of you, the distant chatter and laughter fading away.

Lyney is now just a few paces away, his eyes fixed on yours.

"You!" The accusation erupts simultaneously from both of you,

"You think you can just ruin my night and get away with it?"

"You ruined my garden, and now you're trying to ruin my reputation at the gala!”

The onlookers, previously engaged in light-hearted conversations, now turn their attention towards the spectacle unfolding before them. The entire grand hall holds its breath, sensing the growing hostility, awaiting the next move.

Lyney smirks, seemingly unfazed by the attention. "Well, if you're looking for a fight, you've got one."

Before you can formulate a response, a voice echoes through the hall, cutting through the tension. "Enough!" The commanding presence of Monsieur Neuvillette silences the murmurs in an instant. "The two of you, out now."

Attempting to explain yourself ends up being futile, as Chevreuse firmly grasps your shoulders, propelling you towards the exit. You find yourself unceremoniously dropped on the grass outside, protests lost in the scuffle. Clorinde follows suit, pushing Lyney out with a force that sends him stumbling besides you.

"You are not allowed to re-enter until you've resolved this petty drama between you," Clorinde declares, tone unyielding, as she forcefully closes the door behind you, the latch clicking shut.

"You drugged me with a truth serum!" you shout as you nurse your aching tailbone. Lyney ignores you, nonchalantly standing up and brushing off his clothes.

"And you didn't do the same?" he retorts with a sharp edge to his words, his nostrils flaring.

"It was payback for my garden! An answer to your little declaration of war!" you snap.

The male in front of you appears taken aback for a split second. "Declaration of what? What are you even talking about?”

"The tansy, you asshole!"

"Tansy? What even is a tansy? Have you gone mad?" he responds, a furrow forming on his brow as he struggles to comprehend your accusations.

"The only flower the stupid boggards you summoned left alone in my whole garden. Do you even know what it means?" Your voice echoes in the stillness, punctuated by the distant sounds of crickets and the passing night breeze.

"I really don't know what a tansy is," he admits, his confessions handing in the air, the admission catching you off guard. Despite your initial reluctance to believe him, the truth serum’s influence prevents him from lying — and you’re left grappling with the realization that perhaps he is genuinely unaware of its significance.

You groan, the weight of the chaotic evening bearing down on you. "Seriously, why did it have to be you?" you mumble into your hands, your words muffled by your palms.

"Me what?" Lyney asks, leaning in slightly.

Your eyes widen, and panic courses through you. You quickly press your hands against your lips in a desperate attempt to keep them closed. The truth serum is still affecting you, and you’re acutely aware you’ve almost revealed more than you intended.

Lyney narrows his eyes, sensing that there's more to your words than meets the eye. "Come on, spill it," he prods, leaning in even closer, his lips brushing past your ear.

You gulp, squeezing your eyes shut. "It's unfair that I had to like you of all people," you confess quickly through gritted teeth, your fists clenching the grass beneath you. "What idiot falls in love with someone who clearly hates them and sees them as weak and useless?"

Lyney is stunned, not expecting your answer. He stumbles back, and you feel a few tears pricking in your eyes at his obvious rejection.

"You love me?" he slowly asks, confused. You take a look at him — the moonlight accentuates the contours of his face, revealing a vulnerability you've never witnessed before.

"Yes, how many times do you want me to repeat it and embarrass myself? I think this was more than enough."

"An infinite amount of times," he states softly. You meet his gaze with damp eyelashes, taken aback by the sudden flush of his cheeks. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, drawing a shaky breath, he murmurs, "I want to hear you say it again and again."

“Why?”

"Because—because I love you too.”

His confession hangs in the air, every vulnerable emotion laid bare before you.

“You must be lying,” you mumble, shaking your head.

Lyney crouches down to meet your averted gaze. “Look at me,” he murmurs gently as he reaches out to brush away the lone tear tracking down your cheek. “You know I cannot lie.”

As his thumb wipes away the dampness from your skin, you find yourself leaning into his touch. “Then why do and say all these hurtful things?”

A tense silence hangs between you as Lyney seems to search for the right words. He takes a steadying breath before meeting your eyes. “Fear… Fear made me lash out in stupid ways. When I first saw you, it stirred memories of my own immaturity and overconfidence, back before I realized I could depend on other people, too.” His shoulders slump. “I didn't mean to hurl those hurtful remarks towards you — I really didn't — but I wanted to shield myself from caring for you.”

His eyes plead for understanding, hand reaching for you, but he lets it fall limply to his side when he sees the turbulent swirl of hurt and anger in your eyes.

"You are so stupid, Lyney!" you cry, hot tears coursing freely down your cheeks now. "Instead of facing your true feelings, you chose to lash out and say cruel things, just to drive me away! Clearly that didn't work out, did it?”

Your ragged breaths echo in the tense silence between you both. Lyney offers no defense, unable to justify his actions.

"I should've been honest from the beginning. I wanted you to become stronger... and while doing so, I hurt you," he says, eyes downcast, and you notice how the fight he had in him has left him. “I saw my own weakness reflected in you…”

"Wow, thanks for noticing," you bite back, the hurt in your words hidden by your simmering anger, veiling the vulnerability underneath. "So, all those times you cast spells on me, all those attempts to humiliate me in front of friends and superiors—what was it all for? To help me grow? Get over yourself, Lyney."

He looks down, unable to meet your eyes. "I truly am sorry," he murmurs, “and I wish I could take it all back.”

You stand up, your body surging with conflicting emotions as you close the distance between you and Lyney. As you draw near, your face is mere inches away from his; nostrils flaring, you grit your teeth, and without breaking eye contact, you grab him by his shirt.

"Sorry won't fix it." Your fingers dig into the fabric. "And yet, I still love you."

With those words left hanging in the air, you press your lips to his.

Your mouths collide in a frenzied dance, all the bottled up emotions pouring out. Your hand moves from his collar to the back of his neck, gripping him tightly, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer to you.

Lyney responds with a fervor that matches your own — his lips move against your with a hunger that mirrors your desires, his pent up feelings coming undone. His hands find their way to your sides, holding you tightly as if afraid to let go. The pressure of his touch sends shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that burns hotter with each passing second.

The kiss is not gentle; its rawness — a proof of the unspoken tension that has defined your relationship.

You feel the wetness of tears streaming down Lyney’s cheeks, and his grip on your sides tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he deepens the kiss. His teeth graze your lower lip, and a breathy moan escapes your lips.

"I love you so, so much," he whispers as he moves his lips away from yours, leaning his forehead against yours. "I will do my best to repent for my actions until the day I die."

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, and you can't help but let out a choked sob, heart feeling both heavy and light. You reach for his face, your trembling hands gently cradling his cheeks.

"I know you will," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion, "and I know I will forgive you."

You press your lips against his once again, this time tenderly. Your bodies draw closer, molding together as if they were made to fit each other perfectly. The heat between you intensifies, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

The world around you fades into insignificance, and time becomes irrelevant as you lose yourselves in the intoxicating passion.

“—rinde, Clorinde, wait” a distant voice calls out.

"They’ve been out there for a while. I must make sure no property is destroyed, again."

Clorinde flings the heavy door open, eyes narrowed, body crackling with purple electricity that dances around her. Seconds later, Navia follows suit, appearing slightly out of breath with her intricate dress billowing behind her.

Caught in the act, you and Lyney spring apart at their entrance. The two women's eyes scan your disheveled appearances — your lipstick smudged around your mouth, with marks matching its shade plainly visible on Lyney's collar and neck, both your clothing rumpled, and his hairdo now a tangled mess.

"Damn it," Clorinde's groans, her hand pressing against her forehead in apparent frustration. "You couldn't wait — I don't know — a few more weeks until Mabon. Now I'm down 72,000 mora."

"What?" you ask, puzzled by your friend’s outburst.

Navia sighs, offering a sympathetic pat on Clorinde's shoulder. "A few people had a betting pool running."

"A betting pool? About what?"

Clorinde crosses her arms, her expression softening. "How long it would take you and Lyney to finally confess your feelings," she reveals. Lyney's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and realization. "I bet that it would happen after Mabon. A few others had different predictions, and of course, there was Wriothesley who bet on tonight. That smug asshole was so sure."

“Well, then, we will leave you two lovebirds alone," Navia teases, giving you a playful wink.

"Wait," you yell out, feeling a sudden surge of curiosity. "What did — what did Mona bet on?"

Clorinde's laughter fills the air. "Oh, Mona? She bet that you'll always be at each other's necks," she reveals, unable to contain her amusement.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mona," you mutter under your breath, exasperation evident in your voice.

Clorinde waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't take it too seriously. Just remember, I expect an invitation to the wedding."

"We're not even officially together yet, and you're already planning our wedding?" you exclaim.

"Let's take it one step at a time, shall we?” Lyney teases, his voice filled with warmth as he presses his lips against your cheek. “But I must admit, a wedding would be quite the celebration." Lyney teases, pressing his lips against your cheek.

"Anyway, I will leave you two alone now, just try to keep it PG in here," Clorinde teases once again before shutting the door behind her, leaving you and Lyney alone.

Your whole body flushes. On one hand, you feel a tinge of embarrassment and anger at the thought of your friends betting on your love life — particularly your best friend betting against you. But on the other hand, you can’t deny the contentment swirling within you, knowing that you’ve finally broken down Lyney's walls and glimpsed at the raw emotions behind his eyes.

"I think before we go in, we should have a proper talk about us," you murmur, meeting Lyney’s gaze with a determined expression. "Just so you know, I'm not toning down on the pranks even if we are together. I have a score to settle."

"Oh, I wouldn't expect anything less," he replies, a hint of challenge in his voice. "But remember, love, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve as well."

Author's note: My brain is completly fried from the amount of RedBulls and painkillers, so sorry for any mistakes. This was meant to be around 2k words, but yea... 💀

Some extra information for the curious 😋

English folk names for the herbs used — Chickweed (Tongue Grass), Dandelion seeds and roots (Swine’s Snout and Lion’s Tooth, respectively), Hawthorn (Mayflower)

Dragon's Egg — another name for Septarian, a brownish-red stone that "enhances communication abilities", a healing stone

Rosseland — in-game name for Lyney's cat

Barghest — a monstrous black dog from English Folklore; I like to imagine Barghest was from the same litter as Wriothesley's familiar (Cerberus), which is why the two of you are close friends

The Fontaine Grand Gala being hosted on a Wednesday — supposedly this day of the week is associated with "communication"

Lyney did not spike the punch, but the empty glass he was holding (which was rudely snatched) was coated in the truth-serum powder

Tansy (Tanacetum vulgare) — a perennial flowering plant; "I declare war on you"

#genshin x reader #lyney x reader #genshin x you #lyney x you #genshin x y/n #lyney x y/n #reader insert #lyney #x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact #lyney brainrot #i love him too much

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apteryxparvus · 4 months

Text

Fox marching

Art for event 稲荷崎 : 百鬼夜行

#haiykuu #inarizaki

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apteryxparvus · 4 months

Text

L ♡ V E R ⇌ L ⦻ S E R — chapter 15

Chapter fifteen — A chance encounter

Pairing — Scaramouche / Female Reader

Content warning — cringe jokes

Summary: In a twist of unfortunate events, you find out that being exposed as the target of Kunikuzushi middle school bullying escapades was just the beginning of your troubles. To your dismay, you’re thrown even deeper into the glamorous but artificial world of celebrities. Oh, and the cherry on top? You’re forced to pretend to be in a long-term romantic relationship with none other than said ex-bully. All because of a careless misclick by his social media manager.

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You lean back under the shady boughs of Razan Garden’s pavilion; the rhythmic beats of your music wash over you as you try to absorb the information of the open textbook sitting on your lap. The secondhand book is littered with a neat web of highlights and notes on the pages, courtesy of Kaveh, whose notes and organizational skills have proven useful and invaluable to your studying.

Running fingers through your hair with a sigh, you stretch your limbs. You’re eagerly anticipating Alhaitam’s arrival with your ice cold energy drink, exhaustion seeping from your body after hours of intensive studying.

A shadow falls upon the pages, dimming the words. Expecting Alhaitam, you press pause on your playlist. “Took you long enough. This chapter is torturing my last brain cell, so hand over—”

Your words falter as at the sight of a kind face framed by vivid green tresses. “Oh…”

A strained moment passes before you regain your voice. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

A gentle breeze sweeps through the garden as the female tucks a lock of hair shyly behind an ear. “No need to apologize, I didn’t mean to disturb your studying. I am Haypasia. This garden is a soothing company of mine when classes get overwhelming.”

You nod in understanding, introducing yourself. “Feel free to join me,” you gesture to the open space, hoping to ease any lingering awkwardness with the friendly invitation.

Haypasia nods, sinking gently beside you, her long skirt pooling gracefully around her crossed legs. A flicker of curiosity lights up her eyes as she steals a quick glance at your messy textbook.

“Mechanics,” you admit, closing the textbook. "I'm studying Civil Engineering."

"Oh," Haypasia muses. "You're part of the Kshahrewar Darshan."

Your eyes drift to the neatly pinned badge adorning her chest, the vibrant blue emblem of a Rtawahist capturing your attention. "Rtawahist. I’m guessing Astronomy, right?"

Haypasia nods, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Yes, but lately I've been contemplating transferring to Vahumana. I would like to study Philosophy.”

Silence envelops you both, and as your eyes meet again, her gaze intensifies. After a moment, she remarks, “You look somewhat familiar.”

You swallow hard, anticipating yet another harsh reaction — it’s become almost a routine to hear the venomous online accusations and threats spill into real life. As you part your lips to clarify the misunderstanding, to protect yourself against yet another unpleasant tirade, heavy footsteps interrupt you, and Alhaitaim’s figure pops into view.

Haypasia doesn’t wait for your response. Gracefully, she rises, dusting off her long skirt, an air of composed elegance surrounding her. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, something inscrutable in her eyes, almost like pity. "Just be careful around him, alright?"

The weight of her words hangs in the air as she departs.

Alhaitam raises an eyebrow, shooting you a quizzical look as he places a can of RedBull in front of you. You grab it, condensation chilling your fingers as you crack it open. The liquid fizzes, and you take a generous sip, savoring the taste.

With a nonchalant shrug, you meet Alhaitam's questioning gaze. “No idea, to be fair.”

Author's note: Okay, sorry for going MIA again. Exams were shit and then I got hit by a car, lol... And sorry for the short chapter and for its quality.

Also, happy holidays to whoever is celebrating!

Taglist — @scaramoo @bananasquash @yukiipc @theblueblub @feiherp @scarletttcroww @farelady-fate @skyoverkill1 @reversearrowhead @magica-ren @sakurapeach @lazy-sanns @siasseltzers @gatorcatally @atlaincorrect @skulzooka @lyzisbitchingagain @beriiov @elernity @yuminako @swivy123 @hnmiyazu @mhiieee

#smau #scaramouche x reader #genshin smau #scaramouche x you #scaramouche smau #genshin x reader #scaramouche x y/n #genshin impact smau #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #scaramouche #wanderer #wanderer x you #wanderer x y/n #wanderer x reader #lover = loser smau

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apteryxparvus · 6 months

Note

Congrats on 100! I’ve a request

Scaramouche/Wanderer (genshin impact) x reader roommates au. They’re doing mundane things together like cooking, cleaning, lounging, etc because they finally both got a day off work

Two months later, I finally finished this piece 😭

Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ that ran from September 2nd to September 9th.

Pairing — Scaramouche / Reader

Word count — 1,288 words

Content warning — slightly suggestive themes, Scaramouche might seem a bit OOC

“Wake up, sleepy head,” you whisper in Scaramouche’s ear, breath gently tickling his skin. His slumbering form stirs, mumbling something unintelligible as he instinctively turns, pulling the blanket closer to himself.

You can’t help but stifle a chuckle at his adorable drowsiness. Nestling deeper beneath the cozy blanket, you draw your body closer to his, hands gently resting upon his waist. His skin radiates a comforting warmth that contrasts with the coolness of the morning air.

The room is bathed in a gentle golden glow as the morning light filters through the window, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air.

“It’s nearly noon,” you murmur, placing a tender kiss upon Scaramouche’s forehead. He furrows his brows, letting out a low grumble. “You’ve had your beauty sleep, and now it’s time to rise and greet the day!”

Scaramouche slowly turns towards you, eyes fluttering open to meet your gaze. Blinking a few times, he adjusts to the sunlight streaming into the room. Despite the slight frown adorning his face, his eyes are filled with a mix of affection and a sleep-induced grogginess.

“How about we stay like this a little longer?” he mumbles, voice husky and laced with the remnants of sleep.

“Nope,” you laugh softly at his request, a mischievous glimmer dancing in your eyes. “Now get up,” you assert, and with a swift movement, you wrap your legs around his, drawing him closer. You give his cheek a playful, yet gentle nip, eliciting a surprised reaction from him.

Scaramouche looks at you with wide eyes. “Was that really needed?” he asks, feigning a hurt expression. “Ruining my precious beauty sleep, as you called it.”

Realizing that you’ve successfully disrupted his peaceful slumber, you giggle at his protest. "Oh, come on," you tease, tracing a finger along his jawline. "Who needs beauty sleep when you're already the most handsome person I know?"

“Fine, fine,” Scaramouche murmurs under his breath. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he shakes his head in mock annoyance but the twinkle in his eyes betrays him — his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. You feel yourself melting as the warmth of his lips linger against yours.

“Breakfast time then? How do you feel about some chazuke?”

Scaramouche’s eyes brighten at the mention of breakfast. “Sounds perfect,” he replies. “I love how you always know exactly what I crave.”

You can’t help but blush at his words. “Stop buttering me up, and let’s get to work.”

The kitchen is alive with the sounds of your synchronized movements — the clinking of utensils and the gentle sizzle of the grill pan. The fragrant aroma of the grilled eel permeates the air, its tantalizing scent mixing with the comforting earthiness of freshly brewed green tea.

Scaramouche takes charge of preparing the bowls of rice, submerging them in the tea. When the eel is perfectly seared, you transfer a few tender pieces into the waiting bowls, and sprinkle furikake over them, watching as the colorful seasoning melts into the rice.

Your attention is drawn to your boyfriend across the low table. You watch him pile several plump umeboshi onto his bowl, their deep color standing out against the white grains of rice, followed by a large assortment of pickled vegetables — radish, carrots, large pieces of lavender melon and seagrass.

After mumbling a quick thanks for the food, you lift your wooden chopsticks, savoring the blended scents wafting from the steaming bowl.

Scaramouche lifts his own chopsticks, a satisfied smirk gracing his lips.

“Are you even going to taste anything beneath this mountain of pickled stuff?” you taunt.

He shoots you a playful sideways glare, before snatching the plumpest-looking umeboshi and tossing it whole into his mouth. You watch both fascinated and appalled as he continues to devour the pickled vegetables. Your nose scrunches involuntarily as you imagine the sourness on your own tongue, yet Scaramouche seems utterly unaffected, clearly enjoying the taste.

“You simply don’t know what you’re missing out,” he says, waving his chopsticks dismissively. "This is reserved for those with refined palates."

“Says the madman who thinks wasabi is too mild!” you shoot back.

Your morning banter dissolves into laughter as the two of you continue to enjoy the meal. Once your bowls are empty, Scaramouche insists on taking care of the clean up.

From your seat on the low table, you watch as your boyfriend begins to clean up the plates. His movements are purposeful and efficient. The sigh of him — sleeves rolled up and focused on the task at hand — and the domesticity of the scene ignite a warmth within you.

You stand up and make your way towards Scaramouche, closing the distance between you as you stand up on your toes. With a light touch, your lips graze against the sensitive skin of his neck.

As you press your lips against a specific spot, his pulse quickens beneath your touch. Scaramouche pauses in his task, his body tensing before he relaxes into your embrace. His hands, still holding the dirty dishes, momentarily falter. A soft moan escapes his lips, mingling with the sound of running water and the clattering of plates.

You press your body against his, feeling the heat and strength of his figure against your own. Lingering for a moment, you savor the connection between you, before pulling back slightly.

“Thanks for the cleanup,” you tease. With a light skip in your step, you turn away from him and make your way towards the living room, laughter trailing behind you. Letting out a contented sigh, you sink into the plush cushion of the couch.

Scaramouche enters the living room a few minutes later, eyes locking onto your relaxed figure, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your body, a peaceful expression on your face as you doze off slightly.

A devilish smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he quietly approaches. He takes in the sigh of you — your form wrapped in the softness of the blanket, your gentle, rhythmic breathing filling the room.

He crouches down, and leans in to get a closer look at your serene face. His eyes roam over your features — he traces the contours of your lips, the curve of your cheeks; he watches as your eyelashes flutter.

His touch is feather-light as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

You open your eyes slowly, momentarily confused by your surroundings. The sigh of your boyfriend crouching before you, his intense gaze locked with yours, brings you back to the present moment.

“Now look who is sleeping,” he teases. "All the work you put into waking me up, only to end up dozing off the moment you're away from me."

“Mmm, that breakfast did leave me feeling quite sleepy,” you murmur. Your hand emerges from beneath the blanket, reaching to grasp his own. You pull him towards you, his body falling atop yours. “Now, come join me for a short nap.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “Whatever this sleeping beauty wishes,” he responds as he slips under the blanket, snuggling his body against yours.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. With every breath, you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, a rhythm that synchronizes with the pounding of your heart.

As his hold tightens, your body instinctively responds, melting into his embrace. The world around you fades away as you surrender yourself to the comfort and safety he provides — his hold becomes your little sanctuary.

"Don't forget, we still have chores to do," Scaramouche whispers, interrupting your blissful state of relaxation. "The apartment won't clean itself."

"Fuck the chores," you mumble, your voice barely audible as you press your head against Scaramouche's chest. "Now sleep."

Author's note: I failed one of my exams, so uh... I'll be studying for the resit and might be as online as I hoped to be 😫

#genshin x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #scaramouche x y/n #wanderer x y/n #scaramouche x you #wanderer x you #genshin impact #genshin imagines #request #scaramouche #wanderer

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apteryxparvus · 6 months

Text

L ♡ V E R ⇌ L ⦻ S E R — chapter 14

Chapter fourteen — i deadass don't know how to respond

Pairing — Scaramouche / Female Reader

Content warning — League of Legends talk (again 😫)

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Author's note: Il Luminare is the Italian in-game translation for The Doctor, or so the Wiki says.

Anyway, I'll try to post chapters twice per week (if I don't get buried in schoolwork 😭😭)

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apteryxparvus · 6 months

Text

L ♡ V E R ⇌ L ⦻ S E R — chapter 13

Chapter thirteen — Original family disappointment

Pairing — Scaramouche / Female Reader

Content warning — suicide jokes • League of Legends talk (that's scary, I know) • toxic family dynamics • mentions of a light anxiety attack

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Scaramouche’s hands shake as he approaches the imposing doors of the CEO’s office. He takes a deep breath, and feels it fill his lungs. Rapping his knuckles against the door, he does not wait for a response before pushing inside.

The heavy doors swing open to reveal the grand office within.

Sitting regally behind a mahogany desk is his mother, Ei Raiden. Her piercing lilac gaze falls upon him, ominous as an incoming thunderstorm. To her right sits Shogun, his younger sister. While her features mirror their mother’s, her eyes shine with compassion.

“Scaramouche,” Ei greets coolly. “Come, have a seat. We have much to discuss regarding your recent… media blunders.”

The tension in the air is palpable as Scaramouche takes a seat across from the imposing figure of his mother. His frustrations bubble close to the surface, yet he knows he must tread carefully.

“What is she doing here?” he asks stiffly, refusing to acknowledge his sister’s presence.

“Shogun will one day lead this company in my stead. She must learn to navigate such delicate situations.” Ei meets his glare without flinching. “Such as your little press conference fiasco. Care to explain yourself?”

Scaramouche laughs dryly. “It was a stupid mistake, one that will be forgotten in a week or so.”

Ei narrows her eyes. “A fool you are, considering the Snezhnaya incident. Mark my words, had I not taken you in—”

“You know the only reason you took me back was to keep your eye on the problem child. Can’t have me sullying the good Raiden name, now can we?”

Pure fury contorts Ei’s face. “It seems that even under my watchful eye, you remain a liability,” she states, tone taking on an icy edge, the words slicing through the air with frigid precision. “Another wrong step and 6reeze could end up facing the consequences of your own actions.”

Scaramouche clenches his fists, anger and fear swirling within.

“Do not threaten the band, they have nothing to do with this.” He speaks through gritted teeth, struggling to maintain a civil tongue despite his growing emotions.

“Your actions have consequences that reach far beyond even your understanding.”

“Arguing will solve nothing,” his sister speaks up. “We are here to properly address the situation.” She clears her throat and reaches for a manila folder resting on her mother’s desk, flipping through the pages.

Scaramouche watches her every move, hawk-like observation leaving no detail unnoticed.

His sister takes a deep breath, steading her voice as she addresses him. “I understand that the provided options may not align with your ideals, but we have to consider the bigger picture — it��s not just about your media portrayal; we must protect the reputation of the band and the company as a whole.”

His sister continues, voice firm. “Option one entails a temporary arrangement where you and Y/N pretend to be in a relationship. However, we are still awaiting Y/N's response to our invitation for a face-to-face meeting. If she agrees to the conditions, this option would divert the media's attention from the scandals. You would date for a few months, creating a buzz that could potentially raise the band's chart position. Then, once the storm has passed, you both quietly break up, and we use this as a subtle promotion for the next album.”

Scaramouche's frustration lingers, brows furrowing as he grapples with the weight of the situation. He opens his mouth to retort, but his mother's cold gaze silences him before a single word can escape his lips.

“The second option, though less desirable, is to explain to the media that you and Y/N have decided to separate due to the overwhelming media pressure and scrutiny. It's not an ideal scenario, as it could impact the way fans perceive the band and its members.”

“Both options seem utterly stupid, especially the first one. You want me to play pretend with a girl I know nothing of? Well, that is assuming she agrees to this ridiculous plan,” Scaramouche states, clenching his fists. “Why not simply reveal the truth and let the PR department handle the mess?”

"No," Ei retorts sharply, leaning forward. "Your actions have consequences, Scaramouche. This isn't just about you; it affects the band, the corporation, and everything I've built. I will not let my life's work be sullied by your reckless behavior. We came dangerously close to that during your little Fatui escapades, and I refuse to let it happen again."

His jaw tightens, frustration mingling with a sense of complete helplessness. With a heavy sigh, he meets his mother's stern gaze. "Fine," he spits out, his tone dripping with bitterness. "I'll go along with your plan, but let me make one thing clear. I am doing this first and foremost for the band, not for you or your so-called 'life's work'.”

Ei's eyes narrow, a flicker of anger crossing her face at her son’s defiance. She takes a moment to compose herself, her voice now laced with a cold edge. "Don't you dare forget, Scaramouche," she states. "Without the foundation I have painstakingly laid, without our guidance and support, you wouldn't even have the platform you stand on today.”

He snorts dismissively. “You haven’t changed. You still prioritize your precious work over your own family.”

“And you, Kunikuzushi,” Ei declares, voice carrying the weight of disappointment, “should wake up and face reality. Ever since you left for Snezhnaya, you severed the ties that once bound us.” Scaramouche flinches involuntarily, the impact of her statement striking a nerve deep within him. Her words echo in the silence; the weight of her disappointment hanging heavily in the air. The tension between the trio crackles.

His breathing grows ragged as emotions, once buried deep inside, well inside.

Scaramouche meets with mother’s cold stare one last time. “It seems our discussion has run its course. I’ll take no more of your time.”

And with those last words, he exits with a steady stride, refusing to show any emotion or weakness until safely out of view. Against his better instincts, he slows at the doorway, peering back over his shoulder. He expects to find his mother and sister looking at his retreating figure with contempt or triumph. But to his surprise, his mother appears lost in troubled thoughts, eyes glazed over, while sorrow is etched into his sister’s youthful features. It catches him off guard.

By the time he slams the door behind him, his own façade has almost cracked.

Scaramouche takes a shaky step towards the elevator, then another; he resists the urge to run. As the soft ding of the elevator signals its arrival, he inhales deeply, trying to compose himself. With trembling fingers, he presses the button for the underground garage.

When he glances at his form in the mirror, he sees a man stripped bare — his persona truly cracking.

A sob raises in his throat, the final threads holding him together beginning to snap.

“Enough!” he screams, voice raw. His fist collides with the polished steel wall. The throb in his hand does not match the ache he feels inside; he continues pounding on the wall, desperately seeking an outlet for the tempest of feeling raging within him.

As the elevator comes to a stop, Scaramouche stirs from his dazed state. He leans back against the wall, closing his reddened eyes. The doors slide open and he peers around warily but sees no one else in sight.

He strides to his motorcycle, the sound of his boots hitting the ground and echoing around the half-empty parking lot. Fastening his helmet securely, he mounts the powerful motorcycle. The engine roars to life, and he feels its vibrations beneath him, its raw power sending a surge of adrenaline through his veins. He speeds away, the rhythmic motions of riding merging body and mind into one.

With no specific destination in mind, he lets the road guide him. Night falls, with only street lights left to illuminate his path. He slows down near a torii gate, its weathered down structure standing as a guardian of a small shrine nestled amidst vibrant foliage. Slowing to a halt next to the crumbling archway, Scaramouche dismounts his vehicle.

Emerging atop a mossy overlook, he pauses to take in the breathtaking view below. Inazuma city sprawls before him, bathed in the pale moonlight, lights flickering like a thousand fireflies. In this moment, he finds solace, a respite from the chaos that surrounds him.

For now, it was enough to simply rest beneath the night’s embrace and let his turbulent thought drift, thankful for the anonymity this little shelter offers him.

Author's note: um... hii guys, im back 😅😅

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apteryxparvus · 6 months

Note

hope you're having a pleasant day, also congratulations on your 100 followers.

i was wondering if i could ask a street musician reader and a passerby scara fic. ik it doesn't have much explanation but i hope i can leave it to you😞

Thank you! I'm a bit late with this request, but I hope you enjoy it. I completely fell in love with the idea of Scaramouche and street musician reader 🥰

Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ that ran from September 2nd to September 9th.

Pairing — Scaramouche / Reader

Word count — 2,922 words

Content warning — mentions of alcohol

Scaramouche strolls along the bustling stalls of Port Ormos, immersing himself in the symphony of sounds. The air buzzes with the echoes of lively merchants and customers trying to haggle over prices. Kids dart around, gleeful shouts adding to the cacophony. The rhythmic clatter of artisans’ tools echo from the nearby workshops.

The fragrant aroma of spices mingles with the smell of freshly baked goods. Nearby, a vendor proudly displays an array of ripe fruits — from plump and succulent Zaytun peaches, to imported Lavender melons and spicy Jueyun chilies.

Scaramouche pauses, and his gaze meets the warm smile of the vendor. He stays silent, feeling the weight of the curious gaze upon him. With a soft humph, he lowers his wide-brimmed hat, casting a shadow over his face. He continues on his way, his steps purposeful and gaze fixed straight ahead — he tells himself he must stay fixated on the mission, that he must not get sidetracked by the vibrant distractions, nor draw any attention to himself.

He remains composed, a ghost in the crowd, blending seamlessly.

Yet when Scaramouche turns the corner, his hearing is enveloped by a soft voice. A familiar melody resounds in the air, and his heart skips a beat as he recognizes it instantly. He cannot help but be drawn towards the source of the enchanting voice.

There, in the midst of the bustling street, you stand, a lone street performer.

His steps falter as he approaches you. He stands between the other onlookers, his presence like a moth drawn to a flame.

You’re unaware of Scaramouche’s inner turmoil, and continue to raise your voice, your own rendition of the Inazuman song filled with burning passion and purity.

“Kare wa yasei no iro ni michita sekai o samayoi masu,

Jishin no seigen wa naku, kokoro wa fukaku.

Kabukimono, kabukimono…”

Time stands still. The lyrics evoke a lost meaning known only to him, memories he had long locked away. His chest constricts as he feels the weight of the past press upon him.

The last notes of the tune float into the air, and the crowd erupts in response. A few individuals drop mora into your hat, expressing their gratitude for the performance. You nod in sincere appreciation, a humble smile making its way to your lips.

Scaramouche waits patiently for the last of the onlookers to disperse. You crouch on the ground, gathering the coins and placing them into a leather pouch. The Inazuman steps closer to you, his hat casting a shadow over your figure. The weight of his presence draws your attention, and you raise your head, eyes wide with curiosity.

There’s an air of mystery cloaking him.

You straighten up and pat down your pants. “You’re Inazuman, right?” you enquire. His eyes widen for a split second, confirming your suspicions.

“The song,” he starts, struggling to find the right words.

“The Ballad of a Kabukimono,” you reply, a knowing smile on the corner of your lips. “A forgotten tale of a wandering Inazuman eccentric. No one really knows its origins.”

“The melody is different,” Scaramouche states.

You let out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of your neck. “Yes,” you admit. “The original felt too somber for my taste. I want to make people feel joy, rather than melancholy.”

Scaramouche huffs, muttering something under his breath. A hint of indignation stirs within you — if he has so displeased with the performance, why did he stay until the very end? He had the opportunity to walk away at any moment, yet he didn’t.

A rebuttal stirs within you, but before you can react, the Inazuman reaches into his belongings and takes out a hefty pouch, throwing it at your feet. The coins jiggle, and you watch speechless as he turns his back to you and leaves without uttering another word.

You stand amidst the scattered coins, confusion deepening. Stooping low, you gather the shiny mora, cursing at yourself for being so caught up in the moment, you had not even thought to ask his name.

The same night, Scaramouche strolls through the now-empty streets. Once bustling, the market now stands quiet and deserted, with only a handful of passersby leisurely walking past the closed stalls. Silence permeates the air.

His puppet body carries a deep ache.

His mission was a success — he had effortlessly infiltrated the nearby treasure hoarder camp, quickly retrieving the stolen Ruin Guard cores, along with a plethora of Fontanian and Snezhnayan machinery. The thieves were caught off guard; and he didn’t even need to rely on his Anemo Vision.

But despite the ease of the task and the triumph alongside it, he feels weariness settle upon his mind. A sense of monotony weighs upon him.

And the lingering melody of the song from his past stubbornly clings to his thoughts. It infuriates him, intensifying the restlessness he feels. He finds himself revisiting the memory of your voice — how it soared, building to a powerful crescendo, how you carefully enunciated each syllable of the language long forgotten.

He passes by the spot where he had witnessed your performance — it’s empty. He mentally chides himself for foolishly believing you would remain there throughout the entire day. The generous sum he had given you, along with the contributions from the other onlookers, would undoubtedly provide you a temporary respite from busking.

He feels a slight twinge of disappointment.

His weary gaze catches the flickering lights of a nearby tavern, the warm glow beckoning him. He heads towards the establishment, hoping to find some form of solace in the warmth and anonymity of the tavern; hoping to dull the ache within his soul with a drink or two.

Scaramouche steps inside the tavern, welcomed by the warm glow of the low-hanging lights. The wooden walls are adorned with paintings of the lush green foliage of Dharma Forest, while grainy photographs of Sumeru’s bustling cities add depth to the surroundings. Lively conversations fill the air — cheery and tipsy voices rise and fall; the noise mingles with the clinking of glasses.

His gaze sweeps across the crowded tavern, searching for a secluded place to settle. His eyes lock onto a hidden nook, and there, nestled in that corner, he spots your familiar figure. You’re sitting there, oblivious to the world, engrossed in your own daydreams, with a glass of a milky, effervescent beverage.

As if guided by an invisible force, he takes a few long strides towards the table and takes a seat beside you.

You look up, startled, but your gaze narrows in a split second. “Well, well, well,” you say, a hint of amusement flickering in your eyes. “We meet again, mysterious wanderer.”

“Mind if I join?”

“Of course, please, have a seat.” As he settles, you take a sip from your palm wine, the milky and powerfully sweet flavors dancing on your tongue. “It seems our encounters are becoming more frequent, no?”

Scaramouche scoffs, and you take another leisurely sip from the drink.

The silence around you carries a hint of lingering tension.

“Say,” you break the stillness. “Would a drink or two make you a better conversation partner?” you lightheartedly joke. “I am willing to offer the first round.”

The male smirks, mischief dancing in his indigo eyes. He leans back in his chair. “Since you’re probably using the mora I gave you for the drinks, I’d say the first round is actually on me.”

“I assure you, the drinks I buy are funded by my own pocket money.” You lean in closer, locking eyes with him.

“Regardless, I accept your offer.”

“Two palm wines coming right up,” you exclaim, already on your way to order from the gruff-looking bartender.

Navigating through the crowd back to the table, you carefully balance the newly obtained drinks. You place them before Scaramouche and sit down. A moment later, you lift your glass in a toast. “Kanpai!” you exclaim in old Inazuman.

Scaramouche’s eyes fixate on yours for a brief moment, before he slowly raises his own glass. “You speak old Inazuman,” he comments.

“A few phrases here and there,” you admit, a flustered look spreading across your face. “I lived in Tatarasuna as a child, and I had the opportunity to learn a bit from the locals.”

The mention of Tatarasuna brings forth a wave of melancholic nostalgia; of fleeting memories of joyous faces, caked in soothe, of cooking lessons and exhilarating sword dances. He closes his eyes and sees the noxious black gas, with its haunting tendrils seeping across the surface of the once idyllic island.

Scaramouche raises his glass to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig. He struggles to push back the rising tide of memories; struggles to push back the bile rising in his throat.

You notice the somber expression that crosses his face. “I’m sorry,” you say softly.

He meets your gaze, and you observe a subtle shift in his indigo eyes, how they darken. His demeanor is guarded, but in that split second, you see a glimmer of vulnerability. “Tell me more,” he inquires. “About the song, about your life in Tatarasuna.”

You nod, and take a moment to collect your thoughts. Leaning back against the chair, you recount the days of your childhood. You tell him about your parents — true adventurers at heart, with an insatiable thirst for exploration.

“They took me on countless journeys across Teyvat,” you start. “From the rolling plains of Mondtstadt, to the stone forests in Liyue. But those places, so easy to reach, were never enough for them.”

You recount the events that led the three of you to wash ashore upon the rocky outcrops of Kannazuka Island in Inazuma — a botched smuggling operation, led by an inexperienced sailor. You were stuck between two warring states — the Inazuma Shogunate and the Watatsumi Army. Amidst the chaos, a few brave locals defied the Electro Archon’s will, and extended a helping hand.

Within the safety of their village, they shared their crafts with you — under their guidance, you were introduced to the art of pottery, their steady hands guiding yours, allowing you to shape pots that held both practicality and an aesthetic appeal; you learned to weave silk, creating vibrant brocades that told stories of your past. They taught your parents the secrets of tending a garden, how to nurture each plant; they taught them the arts of stealth, of resourcefulness — they’d guide them through the thick forests, teaching them how to identify edible berries and how to track elusive prey without drawing the attention of wandering samurais or the warring armies.

“The villagers shared their stories, their own experiences. They told me about the legendary Mikage Furnace, about its role in shaping the community. But they also passed down folk songs… tales of mythical gods and primordial creatures.”

You take a sip of your drink. “The song I played today, it’s the one that I found the most fascinating. Even as a child, something about its haunting composition and the meaning behind the lyrics called out to me. The villagers themselves had no records of the origin of the melody, but they spoke of this restless longing they would feel each time it was performed.”

Scaramouche stays silent, as you take a moment to savor the last of your drink. You set the empty glass down. “I’ve always found myself wondering about the shadowy figure and his history…”

“Sing the original,” he demands, leaning in closer. “And I will tell you the truth behind the kabukimono.” His lilac eyes lock into yours, holding such intensity that it sends shivers down your spine. You almost squirm under the weight of his scrutiny, but you quickly compose yourself when you notice the raw melancholy swimming in his eyes.

You nod, accepting. “Alright then, I’ll sing the original for you,” you reply, taking a deep breath and letting your voice escape your lips.

The melody merges with the clamor of the tavern, but hidden in your little corner, the noise becomes irrelevant. Several patrons steal a few curious glances at you, their expressions a mixture of confusion and indifference, but they quickly divert their attention elsewhere, finding more interesting distractions.

But Scaramouche listens intently, penetrating gaze fixed on your lips, tracing every movement as the foreign syllables flow.

The final note fades upon your lips, and, completely entranced in the heartbreaking story of the eccentric, you don’t notice the lone tear that escapes your eye, leaving a damp trail down your cheek in the melody’s wake.

Silence stretches between you. Surprise flits across your features at the sight of the watery eyes behind Scaramouche’s stoic mask — he, who had at first displayed such aloofness and indifference, now seems stricken by genuine grief.

“Your song… stirs long buried memories,” he begins with a soft voice, answering your quiet, wordless inquiry. “In a past life, I too knew about the ache of aimless wandering, untethered and alone.”

His words linger in the air, a whispered revelation, one that hints at the depths of his own past.

Scaramouche exhales a heavy sigh, his stoic façade returning. “But a promise is a promise,” he says.

You shift uncomfortably. “Look,” you start, voice filled with concern. “If this brings you pain, there’s no need to continue. We can leave it be.”

He shakes his head, a flicker of determination crossing his features. “The kabukimono from the song… he was a puppet sculpted by the hand of the Electro Archon, intended to house the divine Gnosis. Yet, upon his creation, he shed genuine tears, and in his imperfection, he was carelessly cast aside.”

His words hang in the air, painting a tragic picture of a being cast aside by the very same hands that brought him to life.

“His divine powers were sealed, and he was locked away in a deep slumber,” he continues, voice laced with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “Until a samurai found him and took him in, despite his origins. The puppet formed a bond with the samurai and his companions.”

Scaramouche’s gaze turns distant, as if lost in memories. A sigh escapes him. “But then, tragedy struck. The puppet thought himself betrayed for the second time, and so he left, abandoning the only bonds he’d ever truly known.”

“His life was one of great suffering,” you quietly muse. Still, a doubt nags at the edges of your mind. “But how can you be certain this is the true origin of the song? Akademiya records tell a completely different tale of the Tatarasune Incident…” you trail off.

“The Akademiya is not infallible,” Scaramouche states bluntly, crossing his arms.

“But… the Akasha… the scholars have been able to preserve knowledge for generations,” you counter weakly.

“Not every truth stored is truly truthful,” he retorts. “Perhaps the kabukimono wished for his own story to remain unknown.”

You contemplate his words. “How can you be so certain?” you ask.

A subtle smirk ghosts his lips, and in an instant, clarity washes over you.

“You’re… you’re the kabukimono,” you breathe a sigh of disbelief and awe. The implications settle in your mind like the final pieces of an intricate puzzle. It all fits — the haunting melancholy in his eyes, his intricate knowledge of the past, and his willingness to share the painful truth, no matter how dark it may be.

Scaramouche remains silent, his enigmatic smirk still plastered across his face. It speaks volumes, confirming your thoughts.

Still reeling from his revelation, you meet his inscrutable gaze, a question look in your eyes. “Why reveal this to me?” you inquire, voice filled with caution. “How can you be sure that I won’t go and share this with the Akademiya scholars?”

His grin widens, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Ah, my dear street performer, it’s because I saw a kindred spirit within you. And besides, the Akademiya scholars… their pursuit of knowledge often blinds them to the depth of human experience.”

Scaramouche rises from his seat, the scraping sound of his chair against the chair breaking your thoughts. “It’s time for me to go,” he declares. “But if you’re willing, I can divulge more about the history of the kabukimono.”

You feel a flutter of anticipation at his words. “And what do you ask in return?” you inquire cautiously.

“I wish to hear more of your voice,” he admits sincerely, a surprising vulnerability seeping into his words. “If you are willing, meet me at Pharos Lighthouse, a week from now, before the break of dawn.”

And with that hopeful promise, Scaramouche departs, melting into the inky shadows of the tavern.

You remain rooted to your seat long after he takes his leave, mind reeling from the encounter. Your heart still drums erratically, head spinning, his revelations bringing up more questions than answers.

Ordering another glass of palm wine, you sip, hoping its sweet tones may calm your fraying nerves. You turn the conversation over and over, looking for a different, perhaps a deeper, meaning behind his words.

By the time your glass is empty, a weariness has settled into your bones. You offer a quiet nod of gratitude to the tavern keeper, and exit into the night.

Cool air washes over you as you step into the lamplit street, the ethereal glow of the moon overhead. And as you walk the familiar path that leads to your home, finding solace in the rhythm of the journey, the events of the night replay in your mind.

You make your way home, eager for what the future holds and the mysteries waiting to be unraveled.

*Translation of the song:

He wanders the world full of wild colors, A spirit unrestrained, a mind uncontained. Wandering eccentric.

Author's note: I AM BACK! I AM ALIVE!

University sure kicked my ass (and is still kicking it lol). I am still working on one more request, as well as the next chapter of L ♡ V E R ⇌ L ⦻ S E R (I have not forgotten about it, I promise)

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