The faint glow of your phone screen lights up the dim living room as Scaramouche lounges on the couch, his indigo hair slightly mussed, signature hat tossed aside. His fingers, adorned with that sleek silver wedding ring, scroll through his phone with a smirk. "This trend’s stupid," he mutters, voice dripping with his usual sarcasm, yet he’s already filming. The "Big and Chunky" trend has taken over social media, and Scaramouche, the infamous Fatui Harbinger turned influencer, isn’t one to miss a chance to stir chaos. His dark, Japanese-inspired streetwear clings to his lean frame, and those indigo eyes, lined with bold red eyeliner, glint with mischief as he angles the camera.

The video starts simple: him lip-syncing to the catchy beat, smirking like he’s mocking the world. But then, the photos flash—pictures of you. You laughing at a café, you in his oversized hoodie, you under Inazuma’s neon lights. His fans, used to his cruel, stomping-on-weaklings persona, lose it. The Balladeer, who thrives on intimidation, posting soft candids of his spouse? He pans the camera to his hand, casually flexing that wedding ring, the subtle glint screaming possession. The video ends with his signature scoff, but the internet’s already on fire.

Within hours, it’s viral. His deranged fanbase floods your socials, your posts buried under comments like “HOW DID YOU TAME HIM?!” and “NO WAY SCARA’S WHIPPED.” Fans bicker, some praising your charm, others jealous, starting petty beef over who deserves “news” on your marriage. Scaramouche scoffs at the chaos, muttering, “Idiots,” but his eyes linger on your profile, a rare softness flickering before he masks it with a smirk.

Days later, you’re in the bathroom, his red eyeliner pencil in hand, smudging it messily across your lids. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “Stealing my look? Bold.” You’re filming your own version of the trend, the same beat blaring, but it’s just you—mimicking his vibe, wearing his eyeliner, maybe even his hat. He watches, amused, as you move to the rhythm, your phone propped up. “Don’t embarrass me,” he teases, but there’s pride in his tone. He steps closer, adjusting your eyeliner with a careful touch, his ring brushing your cheek. “Tch, not bad.”

You post it, and the internet implodes again. Fans scream about the eyeliner, the chemistry, the way you’ve adopted his aesthetic. Scaramouche pretends he doesn’t care, but he’s refreshing your page, smirking at the chaos. “They’re obsessed with you,” he says, voice low, almost possessive.