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chickenparm · 1 year

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Along the Way (Scaramouche/Reader)

something something scaramouche something something sucking titties something something crying something something sad sack of shit something something-

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Scaramouche/Reader-with-Breasts 3,410 Words - NSFW Suckin' titties, grinding, Scaramouche Crying™, heat-of-the-moment confessions

Despite his gripes about leaving Sumeru, about going back on his word to Nahida concerning his intent to stay within the country for the foreseeable future, Wanderer volunteers himself rather quickly once he catches word of your intent to return to Inazuma.

Whatever your purpose might have been, he doesn’t seem to ask. There’s an agenda of his own that brews just out of sight, and while you’re beginning to ease into tentative friendship, there isn’t much that can be done on your end to move beyond stark memories of being prone on the floor, staring through noxious gas as he laughs and laughs.

But as quickly as those memories surface, so too are they swept away by their very source.

A quirk of his lips when you cajole Paimon, something inside her still holding tightly to a wariness that encourages the pixie to take ill-timed potshots at your new traveling companion. The shift of his shoulder in a nonchalant raise in response to your question about whether he’d be alright with renting some rooms in Inazuma City. How utterly impassive he seems to be despite inviting himself along for the simple trip to a local festival.

Even Yoimiya, who has consistently shown a proclivity for dragging people out of their shells whether they like it or not, has no success in getting anything from Wanderer beyond basic pleasantries and nods of his head when she orders him around for preparations.

It isn’t necessarily out of character for him when dealing with people he either doesn’t like, or doesn’t particularly care about, but it still strikes you as odd with how he’s holding that front with you. Allowing him to follow you about like a shadow through Sumeru isn’t the promising foundation of a lifelong friendship, but he’s at least had enough history with you to let who he truly is shine through.

But even when you finish dinner for the evening and separate to go to your rooms, he merely lifts a hand to wave airily as a sufficient-enough dismissal of himself.

As Paimon curls on the bed, tucking herself against the wall to leave most of the expanse for you, she makes no note of Wanderer’s odd behavior. Rather than enter into a conversation he’d likely hear through the wall due to Paimon’s lack of subtlety, you simply decide to leave it be. Truly, if something were eating away at him that much, he’d mention it.

Right?

A sound conclusion, one that you hold as gospel when the lights dim and you settle into the plush mattress. It’s a comforting truth as you listen to Paimon’s gentle snores, the sound of the city outside beginning to quiet down, your own heartbeat slowing as sleep threatens to take you.

That simple explanation holds strong up until there’s a quiet sound from next door. If it were a grumble, a groan, even a moan - Celestia forbid - you’d ignore it rather happily. But the only way to describe it is a forcefully choked sob, barely audible as it’s muffled by both the wall between and what’s most likely his hand.

And there’s no sleeping through that.

Paimon doesn’t stir as you push yourself up, rubbing one eye while using your free hand to leverage yourself out of bed without jostling the mattress. Maybe you’re a bit too soft-hearted, especially when he’ll likely laugh in your face for suggesting he would ever stoop to the vulnerability of crying, but you can’t stop yourself from silently sliding the door open then closed.

A hiss through teeth, his breath shaking with the effort of concealment, and you’re certain he’s in some sort of trouble. From the sounds of it, the emotional sort.

With just the tips of your fingers, so lightly that if he doesn’t answer you can pretend you’d never strayed in the first place, you tap against the wooden door. Immediately, there’s the sound of fabric rustling, bare feet on tatami, a quiet inhale before the door opens just enough for a single eye to look through.

It glows in the dark, an amalgamation of indigo and lavender, ringed with the smudged red of his liner and a hint of wetness on his cheek that’s been smeared. In this, at least, you find comfort that he made only a polite attempt to hide his condition. If he had been so concerned with you finding out his distress, he never would have opened the door at all.

Words fail you, but they don’t come to him, either. Only the gentle matching of your inhale timed with his exhale, close enough that perhaps the air he discards is the very same that you bring into yourself. Long, thin fingers wrap around the edge of the door, pushing it open enough for a single body to come through. With a groan of floorboards, he backs away, and the intention is for it to be yours.

Only when the door slides shut as his gentle push does he ask, “What is it?”

It’s only asked to fill the silence. Wanderer knows exactly why you’re here. In lieu of a real answer, you bridge the short gap between your bodies by reaching forward, your thumb sweeping along the red liner that had bloomed down to the arch of his cheekbone. Holding it in the moonlight of the open window, the two of you stare at the smudge on your skin.

The sound of his swallow is the answer to his own query, thick and forced around a blockage that only exists in the depths of whatever emotion he’d been feeling. With a quivering exhale through both nose and teeth, he turns his gaze away to the bed with obvious intent to fall back at rest.

The sound of his air hitting his lungs in a wheeze accompanies the way he falls boneless to the sheets. While he neither requests your approach nor tells you to leave, you make the decision on your own to crawl next to him, shoulder blades against the headboard’s night-given chill. The shiver down your spine at the sudden temperature breaks the liminality, letting you finally ask, “Is it hurting you? Being here?”

And the laugh he squeezes out couldn’t be wrung for even a single drop of humor, only a cynicism you haven’t heard since you’d touched consciousness’ in Pardis Dhyai. It lingers until he’s out of breath from the very bottom of his lungs, nothing left inside the give. Only then does he inhale and answer, “No. Yes. It’s not the place - it’s the memories.”

And you realize quickly you never should have brushed off what you easily could’ve recognized as his discomfort. Guilt wraps insidious little fingers around your heart as you look down at him, as you willingly trap yourself in eyes that watch your every move, and apologize. The flash of his teeth in a smile is sharp and quick, jaded and absent of what little good nature he had left to offer.

“The nightmares don’t stop. Even in Sumeru. I thought coming here might… might offer some relief.”

“Cutting yourself with a knife doesn’t stop the ache of a bruise.” Your admonishment isn’t needed, but the smile loses its sheen at your words.

The blade’s edge grin turns into something saddened - almost longing as he blinks slowly up at you. “But a bruise doesn’t seem so bad in comparison, when all is finished. Facing my past here, in this way, will take the edge off of something that only exists as a nuisance. A wasp versus a mosquito.”

An odd metaphor, and a backwards way of thinking. But you know better than to refute him; Wanderer is set in his ways. Turning to the side until your shoulder bears your weight, you tuck your legs to the side and reach for him. To his credit, he only flinches minutely as your fingertips graze the skin of his forehead that’s revealed between strands of silken hair. Then, all at once, you smooth those locks back to run your fingers along his scalp.

Too familiar, too quickly. But rather than brush you away for taking a liberty that was by no means yours to steal, his eyes flutter closed and a pleased sigh leaves him. The fists that had once bunched in the sheets are now loosely clutching the fabric, losing their tension as you drag your fingers through his hair at a slow, meandering pace.

“I wish you’d told me this before.”

A noncommittal hum, then, “I’m telling you now. It wouldn’t have changed anything but make you feel guilty sooner. Killing your mood isn’t high on my list of priorities, despite what you might think of me.”

“And what do I think of you?” There’s a snag, just at the end of his hair. As he mulls over your question, you use both hands to carefully pick it apart without pulling at the root. From your periphery, you almost miss the way his tongue moves across the inside of his cheek as he ruminates. The shadow distracts you from your work for but a mere moment, but it’s enough for his eyes to open.

Keep going, he seems to insist. Diligently, you resume the carding of your fingers, and in return he answers you. “You’re wary of me. You don’t trust me. When you lecture Paimon about me, it’s a front to cover your own distaste. The only reason you keep me around is at Lesser Lord Kusanali’s request.”

“Partly. But if I really didn’t want you around, don’t you think I would’ve stood my ground against Nahida when she suggested we work together in the first place?” Another halfway shrug that leaves his shoulder pressed against the line of your thigh. The odd chill of his skin isn’t nearly as bad as the wooden headboard had been, but it brings goosebumps nonetheless. Neither of you move to separate yourselves, letting him leech body heat from you as the length of his bicep presses fully with how he relaxes into you.

“The only thing that will smooth over what happened between us in the past is time. I’m giving it time, and I’ll keep doing so for as long as you are. Forgiveness doesn’t happen overnight - there will always be something leftover from the wrong that was committed.”

Wanderer’s head tilts upward suddenly to look at you, your fingers at his temple dragging against his cheek now. The soft give encourages you to press further, and against your better judgment, you let the entirety of your hand come to rest at the gentle curve of his face. Though he isn’t warm beneath you, there’s a subtle darkening of his cheeks that can’t be easily passed off as clouds moving over the moon.

Cradled in your palm, the words on his tongue momentarily die. It takes a few tries for him to bring them back to life, encouraging embers to flicker enough to ask, “How long do you think it’ll take?”

The answer comes rather easily, threaded with an easy smile, “Getting closer every day.”

While those words linger in the air, syllables feeling impossibly heavy despite how honest they’d been, something beautiful comes into being. What might have been easily passed off as a sardonic widening of his lips melts into an expression that couldn’t be described as anything other than pleased.

And what a breathtaking sight it is, when his joy comes through without the delicate sheen of cynicism he wears like a second skin.

That very same smile lingers as his eyes flutter closed again, your thumb sweeping just beneath his eye, the very tip brushing against long lashes. The redness of his liner still lingers, smudged to his temples, smeared along the path your thumb had taken. Goosebumps raise beneath your palm, stark enough for you to feel in contrast to the criminal smoothness of his skin. Perhaps you’re closer than you thought.

“Should I stay? Would it… help?” When he doesn’t answer right away, your sudden anxiety over stepping through the boundary you hadn’t noticed takes over. “The nightmares, I mean. I don’t mind.”

Lids cracking open, he gazes through his eyelashes, “You don’t? What if I do?”

“Well, that’s why I’m asking.” Your face feels as if it’s on fire, burning beneath your cheeks as you turn your head away in favor of looking out the window at the steady glow of Inazuma. “I’ll just go-”

And an arm swings across his body, palm landing on the swell of your hip as he prevents you from rolling off the bed as you’d intended. His fingertips press into your skin firmly, leaving soft indents as he traps you there. “I was kidding. If I didn’t want you here, do you think I would’ve even opened the door?”

No, you suppose not. Letting your body relax again, your meager attempt to leave is abandoned, but Wanderer’s hand doesn’t leave you. The shorts you wear to bed don’t cover much, the long shirt meant to make up for it, but in your comfort it’s ridden up. His palm touches bare skin, branding you with five fingers and his intent to keep you here.

The movement had turned him, his head cradled against pillows but now facing your seated form. In a startling show of comfort with your presence, he tilts his chin down and his forehead presses into your stomach. It’s the closest you’ve been to another person for as long as you can remember, and the novelty almost distracts you from how his breath hitches in a sigh.

Perhaps that would be the end of it. He’d cling to you like this, bouncing your own body heat back at you as he greedily siphons whatever comfort would get him through the night. And in the morning, you might be tired, but perhaps his mood would lift now that the ghosts of his homeland aren’t screaming in his ears.

But then there’s a shift against your hip, his fingertips gently creeping up over the fabric of your shorts. Then a pause, almost as if he were questioning if this was fine, before creeping up even further. Beyond the band, beyond the dip of your waist, up over your ribs with a featherlight touch. Your ribs expand with a sharp inhale, and he pauses just short of something that would deliberately change exactly how the two of you see one another.

The fabric of your shirt’s been bunched up, high on your stomach and terribly close to indecency. Beneath you, watching carefully through his lashes, cheeks pinked and lips bitten between his teeth, Wanderer’s hand creeps high enough for his thumb to brush against the underside of your breast. Slowly, as if he intends to memorize the exact path he’s taken, he repeats the motion again and again.

Perhaps he was building courage, or he’s purposely taking his sweet time, but it’s almost driven you to the point of madness before he once more pushes for just a little more. The drag of his thumb across your hardened nipple, then the flick of his nail over it. The sudden sensation makes you jolt, pushing against him briefly as you inadvertently arch.

Your sensitivity should make it so you’re the one whimpering at his touch, but the only sound comes from him in the form of a reedy huff of delight. It’s almost as if he hadn’t expected you to react to him, to have any sort of inclination to enjoy how his palm now cups you, cool fingers squeezing just enough to bulge the give of your skin between his widespread fingers the smallest amount.

“Wanderer-”

“Sh-sh-sh,” He halts you, shifting closer until he’s pressed impossibly close, his forehead pressed against your sternum as his fingertips swirl around your nipple once more, “it’s okay. I need this. Need you.”

But he doesn’t bother to ask if you’re willing to give. Though, perhaps your willingness is loud and clear with how your fingers thread through the hair at the back of his head, holding him close. The scent of him is inebriating from this close - ozone and something soft and floral. It’s uniquely him, something that could only be attributed to the man in your arms that hums thoughtfully before his mouth descends.

The sharp sensation of his teeth dragging along you doesn’t have time to settle in before it’s soothed with his tongue. The flat of it is pressed against your nipple, dragging with an agonizing slowness as he seems to simply taste your skin. A pleased little sigh leaves you, the only tension left in your body being the way your hand pulls him even closer to your chest.

The encouragement is all he needs, pushing you until your back is against the headboard once more. Even sitting, you feel prone beneath him as he settles between your thighs, your shirt pushed up to your neck as he wastes no time in latching onto you again. With the sudden fervour comes a whine of your own, hands gripping at his hair and shoulder to hold yourself steady rather than to keep him close.

No, certainly he isn’t going anywhere soon. Not with how his hips rock against the apex of your thighs, hardness digging insistently against you through the fabric of your flimsy shorts. Wanderer melts into you with full intention to mold himself to your exact shape, as if the expectation he holds is for the two of you to become one singular entity - at least for the evening.

Whether this selfish want continues on into the morning, that’s not easy to tell. But as he groans through a mouthful of your breast, other hand snaking beneath your lower back to leverage his cock against you, you can’t think of a single complaint to lodge against it.

At least, not while he gazes up at you with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, longing for something that he hasn’t truly asked for but still gleans from you in some small way tonight. And he does it so prettily, so desperately that holding yourself back from letting him take isn’t an option. So you take from him as well, tilting your hips and urging him to grind against something that feels intoxicating with the promise of what could be if you went a little further, got a little bolder.

But not tonight. Not while he’s clinging to you with desperation, not while he’s vulnerable enough to seek comfort in a physical way. If he simply wants to feel close to someone, then this is enough. It has to be, because it’s plain to see in the way he moans against your skin and presses every inch of himself against you that he’s not quite in the business to be exchanging on equal footing.

Right here, right now, Wanderer can only beg and plead, murmuring words against your skin that he’d certainly deny if you ever brought them up again. “Stay… with me. Love you-”

Whether he means it or not, he doesn’t backtrack. Not while the night shrouds what exactly that might mean for the two of you when you wake up to the sun and there are no shadows to hide feelings like that in. In this room, in this bed, beneath him as he rubs himself against you, you lose your tenuous hold on yourself. As he finds his own pleasure, shaking in your grip, it’s easy enough to believe that for a single moment, perhaps he was speaking the truth.

Limp in your hold, his head lolls to the side to rest his cheek against your sternum. Worn out, emotions frayed at the edges, neither of you can bring yourselves to adequately judge whether the choice that’s been made was for better or worse. The slow drag of your fingers against his shoulder blades lulls him into sleep, gentle breaths against your collarbone that show his habit of mimicking human breathing is something he’s ingrained in himself to the point of subconscious.

While bringing up potential romantic feelings would be unwise, you at least resolve to make a stronger effort to make him feel wanted. The change that’s happened tonight doesn’t need to be as heavy as it’s threatening to be - perhaps all you really need to do is hold him a little closer, be a little gentler.

And if he does love you along the way, that wouldn’t be so bad, either.

#scaramouche #wanderer #genshin impact #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #one-shot #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #read the a/n for content tags #i can't help writing this dude in soft vulnerable moments #you literally cannot stop me #the thought of scaramouche being all up in his feels is the only reason i rise from my crypt

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