Fatui harbingers x male reader
Teyvat is like a Tree. As rooted to earth as a tree.
Y/n is like water. Water can push it's way even through walls, and when trapped, water makes a new path.
Credit to the person who has created the artwork in the co...
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The early evening light cast a soft glow through the frosted windows, filling the room with a pale warmth that contrasted the cold world outside. Y/N sat in front of the vanity, the delicate tools of his trade laid out before him—brushes, powders, and a small bowl of crimson-red pigment for his lips. The new kimono Arlecchino had gifted him hung nearby, its fabric shimmering like a jewel in the fading light.
But Y/N couldn’t bring himself to move. His eyes were fixed on his reflection, but all he could see were the marks—the scars that crisscrossed his back and arms, a brutal reminder of a past he wished he could forget. They weren’t fresh, but the memories of how they had been etched into his skin felt raw, as though the pain had only just subsided.
He hadn’t realized Arlecchino had entered the room until he heard the soft creak of the door closing behind her. She approached silently, her heavy boots barely making a sound on the polished floor.
“I came to help you get ready,” she said simply, her voice low and steady.
Y/N tensed slightly, avoiding her gaze in the mirror. "You don’t have to… I can do it myself."
Arlecchino stepped closer, folding her arms loosely across her chest. “I know you can. But I want to help.”
Her offer was genuine—there was no command in her voice, just a quiet insistence. Y/N hesitated, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the brushes on the vanity.
“I… don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said softly. “You’ll see things you shouldn’t.”
Arlecchino raised an eyebrow, though her expression remained calm. “You mean your scars?”
Y/N flinched, and his heart raced. He hadn’t spoken about them to anyone—not even Arlecchino. He swallowed hard, keeping his eyes trained on his reflection. “They’re ugly. I don’t want anyone to see them.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. Arlecchino took a slow breath and then, with a steady hand, reached out to touch his shoulder, the weight of her presence somehow grounding him.
“I’ve seen scars before,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering. “In this world, we all have them—some are just more visible than others. Yours don’t change who you are.”
Y/N bit his lip, feeling the familiar sting of shame rise in his chest. He had always been careful—always kept the marks hidden beneath layers of silk and paint, because showing them meant showing his weakness. His vulnerability. The result of years of abuse that had left him scarred in more ways than one.
