saylor-twift

[saylor-twift]

call me woke or whatever you want but SOME (notice how i said some, not all!) of these people complaining about the lack of men in WuWa is starting to sound just a tad bit misogynistic.. like yeah there’s a lot of women, but some of yall are starting to sound like you just don’t like seeing women in power. just me? 🤷‍♀️

[saylor-twift]

you should totes tell me ur player id 😝

started playing wuwa about a month ago and i’m looking for friends!! my id is 505639368 and im active pretty often!! please let me know if you’d be interested in playing with me, im down to do anything 😽

[saylor-twift]

so apparently we’re all just having insane luck on the cartethyia banner huh? won my 50/50 and got weapon at early pity 🙏 🔥

[saylor-twift]

started playing wuwa about a month ago and i’m looking for friends!! my id is 505639368 and im active pretty often!! please let me know if you’d be interested in playing with me, im down to do anything 😽

[saylor-twift]

tell me i’m not isolated in my chronic yearning while i listen to nettles by ethel cain on repeat. wanderer is my willoughby 🥀

[saylor-twift]

why does every fem x fem fic constitute one of the ladies having a peen… i mean nothing wrong with some d but why is everyone so afraid of scissor city?? 🥀💔

[saylor-twift]

kind of ironic i’m a wanderer centric blog but i do not have him on my account. probably never will. i only pull for girls, i have collected 14 five stars over the years and they are all women 🫠

[saylor-twift]

WHAT THE HELL??? WE’RE SO FUCKING BACK IVE BEEN WANTING SKIRK SINCE DAY ONEEEEEEEE

[saylor-twift]

“english isn’t my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes” and it’s the most grammatically correct, complex combination of words in the english language i’ve ever read in a fanfic 💀

[saylor-twift]

i feel so validated 💖

WOMEN OF THE WORLD IT IS YOUR RIGHT TO HAVE A GODDAMN DIAGUSTING ROOM!!!!

[saylor-twift]

“How Rude!”

Here, catch! *throws this at you and runs away*

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: this is smut, but it’s just smthn silly I thought about last night

His hands are all over your waist and hips, your own tangled in his hair. His lips are on yours one, two, three times before they latch on to your jaw, sucking for one, two, three… archons, he’s so impatient. He’s really living up to his name as a Wanderer, too picky and choosy to just stay put on one part of your body for too long. It’s not like you mind really, if you could have his lips on every part of you all at once that might as well be a dream come true.

“Relax, just hold still… I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his hand drifting from your stomach to your thighs as if it were a naughty child escaping from detention, as if he didn’t want you to know he was doing it. “You’re so jumpy today.”

You huff amusedly in response, scratching the back of his head in a way that makes him shiver. Your cheeks are so warm you swear if someone held a hand just a few inches above your face, they could feel the heat like the hot plate of a stove. “Hold still? You’re the one that can’t keep his hands to himself.” You retort, and really, it’s all just for the amusement. You want to hear what he has to say in return. But even more so than that, you just want to hear his voice. “And yet..” he sighs dramatically, running a finger up to your belly button and back down, resting just above where he knows you want him the most, “you’re the one who asked for this,” he shoots you a beautiful, infuriating smirk, “so can you really blame me?” You smile back.

You glance up and to the side, tapping your finger to your rosy lips and pretending to ponder. “No,” you finally decide, “I cannot.” You then shuffle yourself downwards, switching from a seated position to lying on your back with your head comfortably rested against fluffed pillows, just how you like it. It makes him feel things, the way you prepare yourself for him. Hungry, knowing you want him as he wants you. You place your hands on his biceps, gently urging him upwards. “But you’re taking too long.” you say matter of factly. He easily complies, which always makes your heart flutter a little bit knowing that he is not nearly as complacent with anybody else.

“Well, I suppose I’d hate to keep you waiting, wouldn’t I?” he smirks, and his stomach tightens just a bit in anticipation as he lazily strokes himself, hovering just above you. You watch with hooded eyes and parted lips, hands resting on his shoulders and thumbs massaging the firm muscles beneath the skin. “You’re ready?” he confirms, his face switching from teasing to serious for just a moment, asking you to clarify one final time that this is really what you want. You nod with no hesitation. “Of course.” He nods, gaze drifting down to where the two of you will imminently connect. He presses just the tip alongside your hole, rubbing up and down one, two, three times before he finally pushes inside. One inch, then back out. Two inches, back out, three inches, until he’s finally settled at the base and you both are shaky and desperate for more. You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as he slowly yet firmly rocks into you. You bite your lip to keep yourself quiet, much more keen on listening to the delicious sounds that leave his own lips, right against your ear.

He pulls out and pushes back in, easily doing so with how aroused you were. One, two, three times, and with each time he hits the base he presses himself against you just a little firmer. You open your mouth, allowing a sweet sigh to escape your lips at how delicious he feels, your head falling back against the pillow, and-

click! creaaaak…

You gasp sharply, jumping so hard your forehead bumps against his, and you scramble for the sheets, not quite sure where they are or what you want to do with them. Your lover dons a frightening glare, whipping his head towards the door to scowl at the disrespectful intruder. Standing in the doorframe, head only barely peeking out is none other than your poor, sweet, mortified friend. Her face is beyond red, both hands clasped over her mouth.

Wanderer makes a motion with his head and hand as if to say, “Well? Get on with it.” and your poor friend stutters over her words, frantically fumbling for the doorknob. “A-ah! I’m so sorry, I’ll just- I’ll just go now!” she blurts, shutting the door with a loud click. You can hear her frantic footsteps padding down the hallway.

You can only stare back up at your lover in shock, and a bit of amusement. He on the other hand is simply vexed, his brows furrowed in a mix of frustration and confusion. You laugh in shock for lack of anything other to do, and he sighs while running a hand through his hair.

“I… thought you had locked the door..?” you murmur in disbelief, smiling lopsidedly as you gently take his wrist from his head, bringing it back down to your side. He shakes his head, and you laugh internally realizing that he’s more embarrassed than anything else. “I thought I did.” he huffs, and begrudgingly moves himself from his comfortable position inside of you and strides over to the door, locking it and giving the handle a firm shake just to be certain. You can’t help but admire him as he walks, the muscles in his slender back and thighs tensing as he moves. You beckon him as he returns to you, to which he slides himself back into your arms whilst grumbling something under his breath. You decide not to question it, simply running your fingers through his hair.

“She won’t say anything about it, you know. She’s not like that.” you assure him, to which he sighs and lifts his head. “I figured she wouldn’t. Still, that was still not a pleasant experience.” he grumbles, and you resist the urge to smile and tease him; you know now isn’t the time.

…

“Don’t tell me you’re done already..?” you ask coyly, wiggling your hips and thighs in a way that causes his member to brush against your stomach, still undoubtedly hard. He flushes even more intensely, sending you a warning scowl. “Done?” he sits up a little more, grabbing you by the hips in a way that makes your stomach tingle with butterflies. “If anything, I’m far more motivated now. The door’s locked now, is it not?”

[saylor-twift]

super random thought but please tell me if anyone has ever written pirate beidou x mermaid ningguang fanfic??? it would make my whole week

[saylor-twift]

you complete him.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.7k

note. it is the second and final part of only with you. it can be read as a standalone.

summary. nudity & non-sexual intimacy; mentions of hanakotoba (japanese language of flowers).

☆ based on orange blood—orange flower (you complete me), still monster & mortal—by enhypen.

it is getting dark—you notice as the fiery orange sun is gradually being replaced by a pale waxing crescent moon in the sky. bone-chilling water lacks color now. it is challenging to grasp where the stream ends and the field of flowers begins; where your body starts to blur with his. 

you believe that being in the gloomier ambience makes wanderer appear more at ease. perhaps one can not scrutinize his body well enough, or he can let himself take his mask off untroubled, or rather it is because he is not able to lay his eyes on others, to feel the immense feeling of guilt due to his immoral acts of the past. 

wanderer used to believe, no, was coerced to believe that he is different, exceptional; that his formerly meaningless life could be of use for ruling. his body can take on more than the average human—that is, of course, if you say he is one—meaning, he could be made into a god; deity, worshiped for who he is rather than forsaken. he would be needed, called upon for guidance and remedy. he would offer his undying body to subjects of his beliefs. he wants to be loved and valued like the rest, too. 

give him time. time to comprehend that being vulnerable is a natural way of humankind. wanderer does feel vulnerable somewhat perpetually. he is as harsh on himself as much as on others, that much he can understand and admit to himself undoubtedly. it is people pointing that out to him that he does not take well. to the point that wanderer might spiral deeper into self-deprecation, ignoring signs of rage and compulsion building up to the brim of his core. either way, no matter where he goes, his sins will be unavoidable. he learned that the hard way. 

as it became even more darker, neither of you could see the art from flower tints on bare skin. you were shivering by yourself—sumeru refreshing winds did not mix well with evermoving waterfall splashes of the night. 

you ask wanderer to let you bathe him. does that mean erasing the tiny crimson-colored heart on his chest, he quivers. you know, well, you like to believe you know his thoughts as you shake your head slightly. is he relieved? 

you pour the water from the palm of yours down his neck, shoulders, and back. it runs slowly, soothing the non-physical pains of his. your hands are soft, gentle, moving in circles to rinse color remainders of you; your work. despite that, his world does not feel empty without them because you yourself are the colors dyeing wanderer entirely full. you are the blooming flower of his heart. and you speak in the language of flowers as well. 

as he goes through his memory of this very evening, he understands the connotations of each meticulously chosen flower for dye markings.  

you used bright pink camellias to show your tender love and unique beauty of his. pale pearly lotus petal to reveal the purity of his heart. dainty lilac primroses for your admiration towards him. sunny yellow daffodil to show him respect and hope for his future. cherry red poppy to wish him to go on with his life with fervid passion. indigo violets to remind him that sincerity and hope will come to him shortly. cobalt blue cornflowers were to make him feel free of impurities. 

wanderer remembers that you always talk in flowers while gifting them whenever you feel like it. he reminisces about how you gave him the sole sunflower the other day. he read in the book that you mean to only look and see him. the wisterias of last month were to evoke his memory that you will not let him go soon and he appreciates that. the light pink sakura twig on his kigumi table whispers “don't forget me” every morning as he goes out. 

yes, you are truly his beautiful flower of life, to say the least. 

you are cautious of his slight movements while washing him. he is attentive to how you help him—so he can be of service to you as well. two of you trade places, you move closer to the waterfall, going under that shower of nature. wanderer’s fingers gently brush through your wet hair. you smile. 

waterfalls are said to symbolize prosperity; cleansing, letting go of negative thoughts and feelings that have become lodged in one’s mind and heart respectively. you do feel free of it, still, all you care about right now, does wanderer feel the same. 

he did learn to distrust and loathe the whole world at the very early stage of life; he did make mistakes and wickedness, built on told lies; he does feel a swarm of cynical, pessimistic, and obstructive emotions. so, does the waterfall purify his judgement of mankind? does the waterfall purge him from evil? 

you were so at peace, that you did not notice how unhurriedly and tender his hands were caressing upwards your body, soaking it. wanderer is careful, it does send tingly sensations all around your skin. it was just another moment of sensuality between you both. 

you look into his eyes. they sucked you in deep, like into the abyss, and yet, they looked soft and shadowless to you. he knows the truth and he is mildly confused—how can you be so kind to him; how can you look at him lovingly like that, like nothing happened because of his actions; how can you let him touch you as he did not have any blood on his hands. 

to tell the truth, you are aware of everything. you know he is open to dislike everything at first; to spit the honest words harsher than he should; he is opinionated; he lacks genuine self-worth; he holds grudges; he is naive, be that as it may. yet he is effortlessly thoughtful; ready to help if anything does go the wrong way; resilient; cooperative; accepting of his sins and trying to repay them as much and as fast as he can (even if they can not be undone). 

so yes, you would say you know him well enough to be that close to him without any fear. the past does not define a person, only helps them shape who they are now—each one being a white papered-book at first and filling themselves with a vast collection of past experiences along the way. 

wanderer was forgiven many times. over and over again (and he does value those lessons, he does value learning). forgiven yet not forgotten. not how he wanted to be anyways. for all that, he is somewhat of a monster. a monster everyone made of him, he made of himself. is being evil truly the opposite of being a god? he is still noticed by the public, still in need for balancing the world. the devil is on the other side of eternity. one would need no gods, no rulers if the world had no evil and no discords. 

you felt clean; cleansed with the same hands of his that he had hurt another. it was an exchange of feelings through fresh water and flowers between you; prolonged precious moment of the night. 

later that twilight, you found yourself lying on the soft dewy grass of the very same flower field of gandharva ville. wanderer learned to imitate human breathing long ago and, although he had no natural body heat, you did feel warm when feign exhales from his lungs reached your moon-illuminated face every time. 

tonight is as pretty as the picture. the sky is not cloudy, the sea of constellations is so bright it begins to etch itself into your eyes. wanderer looks at you—how mesmerized by the stars you were, not knowing that secretly you wished to be the star yourself, the one he would want to look at, despite not believing the concept of them. 

you see the stars as something heavenly and full of tales of the teyvat, however, wanderer, on the other hand, is convinced that they are futile to pay attention to for their existence is not eternal. they burn down as mortals close their eyes someday, too. thus, if you were a star of this universe, you would perish nonetheless. you will still meet your end when your bloom withers. 'the only thing that is immortal is mortality.' and wanderer himself. 

once it happens, he will experience a certain deja vu, another one of his betrayals. does he even keep count of them anymore? he might start it anew. 

wanderer desired to be human so desperately, that he disregarded that the beauty of living is not the things he considered to be meaningful. it is not the name nor a heart that is the essence of his life, but something else. someone else. you. 

perhaps, he lived on that regretful and shameful path so he could find you when engulfing darkness sucked him empty; when you appear willing to tend to his scars, guide him to see himself as someone worthy of attention and care, and being alive. you are his hope for embracing self-doubt and fragility eventually. he is conflicted as he clings to you like a lifeline. 

you spent some time observing the clusters of stars while drifting to sleep. he kept looking, not at the sky, at you. he was reflecting. you look so sweet in your slumber that wanderer realizes that bitterness is not the only flavor he tasted all the way through his existence. 

wanderer’s soul is tainted with curses. not solely of immortality—of sins, of finite time to wander together with you. he does worry about it yet does not at the same time. he learned to enjoy the little things silently and by himself. he decided to live on, as of now. 

through the night, wanderer stayed close, body to body while you rested. when the sunrise began to show its first bright orange rays of shine, he left you snuggled in. all alone. it is fine by you since you will reach out to him and he will find you the next day for sure. 

because you complete him.

[saylor-twift]

notice how nobody ever writes angst fics about a cheating scara/wanderer? that’s bc he may be unstable but that mf loyal as hell 🤞

[saylor-twift]

EXPLORING THE 5 SENSES WITH SCARAMOUCHE. gn!reader | fluff

synopsis. a glimpse into your relationship with scaramouche through the 5 senses (touch, smell, hearing, taste, sight). series of ficlets.

content. suggestive in some parts (i.e. vague descriptions of making out) but mostly sfw, incredible amount of fluff, non-sexual intimacy, sillies in love, kissing, established relationship + pre-relationship for the last section (i.e. taste), scara is painting your bare back, nahida & scara have a family dynamic, modern au. not proofread.

a/n. happy (very belated) valentines’ day! wanted to explore scara in the late stages of a relationship + pre-relationship; more playfulness & more comfortable with himself. each section isn’t the same length but that's okay. enjoy :)

word count. 4.3k

masterlist

What does SCARAMOUCHE loving you look like in each of the 5 senses?

He can count a few specific times:

—

i. Sight. | PICTURES

Scaramouche has been acting strangely this entire week.

After being recruited (forced) into a photography club by a few of his classmates and the new club member, Nahida (under the name of “discovering more enrichment activities!”), his behavior has since seen an almost subtle but unexpected shift in change:

Click!

Case in point: You look towards your boyfriend: a camera in hand, and a small smile etched on his face. It was an endearing sight. Curiosity, you wrap your arms around his waist, looking over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

He didn’t miss a beat, quickly hiding the camera from your view as he retorts. “Posting on my story. What about it?”

You raised your eyebrow. “You hardly post on your account.”

“And what is so wrong with that? Here I thought you wanted me to post more.”

“Well, yeah.” You tucked your head in the crook of his neck. “But you are acting really funny.”

“That’s too bad, I think I’m hilarious.”

“Right.” You chuckled, way too focused on finding warmth in the fabric of his sweater. “At least take good pictures, yeah?”

You don’t take notice of the soft look in his eye as he stares at your relaxed form or the way his hand reaches for the camera once more, flicking up as he snickered.

Click!

You quickly snapped your head up, hearing his barely hidden laughter. But before you could ask, you feel his body freeing away from your arms, his warmth along with it. Instinctively, you reached out towards him. “What are you..?“

Unfortunately, Scaramouche was already taking off, putting some distance between you as he ran along with the camera in hand, sticking out his tongue as he did so.

You shook your head in disbelief. He can be so cute sometimes. And with a chuckle, you chased after him.

—

[Nahida🍀]

nahida🍀: Picture-taking is more fun than I expected! Did you take any photos yet? (*^ω^*)

scara👾: I did. But my model is being uncooperative right now

nahida🍀: What does that even mean?? Could I see?

scara👾: Do you really want to know?

nahida🍀: Why are you acting so suspicious (*_*)

scara👾: :p.

—

When Scaramouche feels around the wooden shelf, outstretched arm searching around, he finds himself wiping off the dust of a particular box.

He reaches out to uncover the top, filled with photographs, each a selection of nature, the exhibitions he has been on, Nahida and her unbridled curiosity for everything, and finally, ones of you.

He doesn’t concern himself too much in the past, finding it worthless to look back on memories that have come past. But these photographs he holds on to, it is a representation of something he couldn’t bear to let go.

It started with one photo of you relaxing, something mundane. Something not worth noting as he had seen this sight many times before.

But he couldn’t bring himself to part with the picture. An odd sense of warmth filled his chest. And soon, more and more popped into this box.

Each held something of importance, regardless of what the content was.

Maybe he had reached a point where he could innocently save pictures and not feel bitter. Perhaps he had reached a point where he treasured small moments such as these.

Digging out another picture from his pocket, he flips over the newest addition: You embracing his waist, head on his shoulder, looking as relaxed as you have ever been.

Again, that stupid warmth in his chest.

Maybe this time, he wants to keep it a moment longer.

At least there is something to look forward to whenever he is awake at god who knows what time, missing your warmth.

—

private account @/zushi2938849484 posted!

[attach photo]

@/zushi2938849484: Caught this one. I’ll be honest it is kind of cute when they try to be clingy. Just don’t tell them that though.

@/nahidasgarden: So this is what you have been doing! 💖

@/nahidasgarden: Also, why am I the only follower here? ^_^;;;;

Reply from @/zushi2938849484: Because you are oomf

—

i. Smell. | COOKING.

Saturday. 8:34 am.

“You are so clingy today,” Scaramouche grumbles as he leans back into your arms. The comfort of his pjs cushioned your weight as your head buries into his shoulder, almost melting in it. The sizzling of the pot lulls down a bit as you feel him reach to turn down the stove.

“Can you blame me?” With your nose pressed so close against the exposed skin, you can make out how he smelled of fresh laundry; the kind where it wasn’t too overbearing, something familiar. You missed this, you think.

No, you corrected: you missed him.

And you could tell, he missed you too. Especially because you could smell the barest hint of your body spray on his clothes. A sign of comfort for him (one that he doesn’t say out loud) but also a pride for you.

“…You smell different.” You begin, the edges of your lips rising.

“Are you saying I smell bad?”

“Well-“ You give him a look.

He quickly huffs, almost scooting out of your arms as he takes the majority of the warmth with him.

“Wait—No, I’m kidding.” You chuckled, tucking him closer and pressing one quick kiss on his jaw in apology. You could almost feel the subtle fond eye-roll he gives you. “Of course, you smell nice. But I didn’t know you could own a suspiciously similar spray to mine.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” He retorts, rather nonchalantly, despite how much of his body language—adverting his gaze away from yours in the act, the slightest lift of eyebrow in smug satisfaction—say otherwise.

So what if he did? What will you even do about it? It tells you.

Nothing, you smiled. Nothing at all.

The sizzle of the pot protests in response to your banter, drawing his attention from you and back to the dinner you were supposed to have later tonight.

While the dinner itself was nothing too fancy or pungent, it was a comfort food. Scaramouche had an eye for things that were easy to make and felt like home. Sentimentality and all, you found it endearing.

You watched as he shifted, stirring the pot.

The aroma was inviting, much like the way you nearly ease yourself into his shoulder, surrounded by the comfort of food and his warmth. The latter nulls you to a near-perfect ease, mixed with the breath he huffs out at your clinginess.

Again, can he really blame you?

“So, what are you making?”

A simple question.

One that you already knew the answer to. But you seldom mention it, not while you were already busy pressing your lips against his nape while you wait for his answer.

You hear a hitch.

“What are you..?” Then a breath of laughter. He shifts, carefully placing down the lid. “Guess.” He doesn’t move anywhere, but you can practically feel the snarkness radiating off of him. “You have three tries.”

You hummed. Good, he was indulging with you.

Your kisses got more bolder as you shifted from along his nape, then slowly to the exposed part of his shoulder, as courtesy of his loose clothing practically hanging off of him. Your first guess: “Ice cream?”

“Are you acting dumb on purpose?” He scoffed, the sound a little too restrained. Maybe some excuse of how your heat was pressing against him despite how hot the kitchen was. Overheating via body heat was a real concern. But you knew better, knew him better. “2 more tries.” He whispers.

Chuckling a simple “Sure,” you press on.

On the second try, your hand gently encloses around his, spoon still in his hand.

Watching his eyes flit down to your interwoven fingers wrapped in his, you can’t help but laugh at how his curiosity spreads across his expression. What are you doing? His gaze spoke.

He didn’t have to wonder for too long, however.

Not when you suddenly lifted his hand, bringing the spoon to his lower lip.

His eyes haven’t shifted from yours, not one bit, even while his lips slowly parted to make room for the spoon. Delight sparks your stomach as you watch his mouth seal around it, willingly and almost challengingly.

You stilled. This was a beautiful sight.

The morning looked right on him, bathed in the warm golden. Sunkissed practically. It highlighted many of his features: the curve of his nose scrunching just enough, the red eyeliner he dutifully wears, and the softness—the tense softness that was his gaze. He wasn’t too fazed by your admiration, in fact, he was practically glowing in your attention.

“So, not sweet.” You grinned, pointing out the fact that his face would have scrunched in disgust had the food been anything too sweet. “Ramen?” You breathed in.

You are further reminded of the body spray that surrounds his body; it is practically coming off of his wrist.

As if it was instinctive, your lips found their way to his hands, down to his wrist, confirming your suspicions: he sprayed this a few times. It was stronger here. A testimony to how much he wanted to be reminded of you.

“Hah, one last try.” This time, he shook his head. Chilled fingers reached your face as he slowly brought it up to his. Impatience in his movements. “Do you want a hint or something?”

The way both of your breaths now mingling in with each other spoke of many things, despite no words uttering out from your lips. It was sort of like a genie’s wish. You weren’t able to waste this last and final moment.

And so, you wished. You wished with how your hands eagerly pull him closer, wished with how he smells like home, the scent urging you to say something.

“Yes.” Just as quickly as you spoke, you felt his lips pressed against yours.

Everything was enveloping around you; everything that makes up him was engulfing your senses. The shampoo that he insists on using (if you had to pinpoint it, it smells like nature? You weren’t too sure), the fresh scent of laundry (It reminded you that you were living with him. Successfully and contently emerged with his life, tasks like laundry included), and finally….

Finally, the smell of tea—his favorite. It was a classic move from him: to share something of his with you. You remember how he offered it once when you were sick, muttering out about a kid he once babysat was in a similar condition and found a liking to this recipe. It drew a familiar warmth in your chest; the heat of the tea mixed in with his laughter.

You twisted your head up at him, pulling away and wiping the remaining bits of tea off your lips. You smile. “Shimi Chazuke.”

—

…

He exhaled, prying you off with a pointed look. “Could you,”

You immediately nod, like the love-sick fool you are.

He offered you a gesture to the tea, then leaned in as if he was going in for another kiss. Instead, he snickers as you open your eyes: “Get out of the kitchen? I need to cook.”

You laugh.

Well, how could you say no?

—

i. Hearing. | PHONE CALLS

Ding!

Ding!

Ding-

[1:34 AM] You rub your eyes as you sneak a quick look at your phone: who the hell is calling at this time?

‘Kuni🤍’ bold on the screen brightens up your face.

Kuni🤍: Call me

You: Did something happen

Like clockwork and the sanity of a deep lovesick partner, your finger immediately hit the call and snuck the phone close to your ear.

“Hello?”

You hear breathing from the other side then a low rasp, wry in his tone. “Good morning Sleepy head.”

“Scara, it is 1 in the morning. Something up?” And you knew something was bothering him if he was awake at this hour.

There was a pause before shuffling emerged from your speaker: he was adjusting his chair.

“Finishing this thesis. Wanted someone to bother.”

His voice had an unmistakable thickness, evident of the exhaustion that had struck his body and made its way to his throat.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He sighed, the noise so soft that you had to crane your phone closer just to hear. You expected his typical lectures—ones ranging from the gossip of his coworkers�� drama, peer reviews of essays that he describes as ‘nonsensical’, and random history lessons—he sometimes liked to teach you quite a few of them too.

In fact, you became privy to many aspects of his life; a privilege from being in a relationship with him you suppose. It surprised you how much he liked to talk, despite being no fan of chatty people or mindless conversations. It was endearing, to say the least.

So, it surprised you even more when none of that reached your ears. Instead, he mutters simply, not his usual snark:

“I didn’t see you today.” I missed you.

…

You had to do a double-take just to check if you heard that correctly. Yet there was no other comment besides the slight hitch in his voice followed by the sound of computer keys clicking and more scuffling from the other side of the line.

“I missed you too.” You finally admitted, chuckling as if you were in on a secret between you two. “Sorry, I was kept busy the entire day. You alright?”

He doesn’t give you much of anything. Instead, you just hear more shuffling. “You weren’t there to bother me. Did you suddenly disappear or something?” He finally laughs, after a pause. “….Just tell me about your day. Anything. What kept your attention?”

You blink. Nonetheless, complied with his demand. After all, if he was asking so honestly, could you really say no?

It was easy to fall into listing your schedule—anything about the errands you had today, your classes, mornings—anything you could list off the top of your head.

He responded to a few, little laughs and scoffs here and there towards some of your commentary, but seldom cut in, satisfied simply with listening. Slowly, the side comments died into mumbles, an effort to respond but not quite lucid enough to be comprehensible.

“You know, you should go to sleep.”

He mumbled. “No.”

But then you heard it. A soft puff erupted into the microphone.

“Scaramouche?” You waited a few more seconds to confirm your suspicions. Another puff.

He was sleeping.

“Cute.” You whispered. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your lips. Did he really call you because he couldn’t sleep? You knew he liked his alone time but it was nice to know at least he wanted you to accompany him in some sort of way. “Goodnight, Scara.”

—

The following day, another ding emerged from your phone; another notification from Scara:

Kuni🤍: Thank you

—

i. Touch. | SKIN TO SKIN

“Pftt, relax.”

“I’m trying to.“ The brush presses against your back, the soft edges leaving a cool chill over your skin. “But your brush-“ you shiver as he puts another coat of body paint. “-is cold.”

With the brush strokes along your spine, you feel his breath fanning along with the hum of his voice.

“A little cold can’t hurt, right? Don’t tell me that bothers you?” He knows exactly what he is doing, especially with the way his legs are slotted around your waist, laughing as if he doesn’t realize how much of an effect he has. “I’m almost done, hold on.”

You laid still, your arms folded under you as you steadied breathing. “Once I do this to you, then you’ll see how damn cold it is,” it comes out more breathless than a sly retort. You hear the echos of a poorly hidden snicker, his finger playfully tapping your shoulder.

“Sure. Maybe I should make this as slow as possible, just for you.” The smile in his voice becomes more evident as he mercilessly presses more of the brush.

“How incredibly nice, Scara.” You huff.

Now, the bristles run downwards—more deliberately this time, clearly relishing in the trust you hold for him and also teasing you in the process as you remain pliant under his touch.

“Didn’t you ask for this? I thought you would be more enthusiastic about me being up here.”

Clearly, you had meant to be more enthusiastic about this. You’ve seen it online on a forum somewhere: Intimacy in the form of body painting along with someone who you trust the most. It was a brilliant idea, you decided.

You remember bringing it up to him late at night, arms sprawled across his waist and his head resting on your shoulder. You shift a little, and inched your phone towards him.

He was cute, his eyes squinting at the screen, furrowing his brows as he tried to make out the picture. “Couple body painting?” he mutters, then, with the simple turn of his head, more interested in getting his sleep, he yawns out. “Do what you want.”

It didn’t take that long to convince him you suppose. Chuckling, you tucked him closer with a blanket, the latter of which takes it with a simple nudge in your direction. Cheers blooming in your mind: First step of the mission! You got his approval! Or well, sort of.

The next day, you both went out for a store run.

Store runs with him are almost constant. He keeps a list, beautiful calligraphy with notes on the margins, telling you how much you might need for the week: detergent, water, along with the indulgent snacks you both enjoyed.

With supplies stocked up in the cart and his attention fixed on the list he made, you made a quick detour to the art supply section.

You grip on the tube of neon, glow-in-the-dark body paint, mischievous rolling off of you in waves. The thought that you were able to not only admire him but create art on his skin was a pleasant thought.

So, when you finally got back to the cart, you were met with an eyebrow raise and a shake of his head.

“Where did you go?”

“To get these.”

He didn’t seem as invested in the idea as you were, more rather focused on finishing this shopping trip and finally relaxing. But it didn’t take long before he was.

—

“You are having way too much fun with this, you know?”

In truth, you may have overestimated Scaramouche’s potential for teasing. Once he realizes how much power he has over you, it becomes clear: he was the one to take it and run with it tenfold.

“Of course, I am.” Quick to respond, he leans in more closely, the tickling of his nose against your skin.

The rest of the room was dimmed, and the lack of what he was doing was catching up to you—more aware of what you feel instead. Once the sense of sight is gone, the rest of your senses are heightened dramatically. Every twitch he makes, every laugh that escapes him, you are anticipating his next move and trying to figure out what the hell he is thinking.

And unfortunately, with the quick hitch of his breath sending down shivers through your spine, the rest of your body jolts along with it. He snickers in response, his breath ever so present on your skin.

Fuck.

Then, just when you least expect it. You feel a touch of warmth pressing against your back—

His lips.

You feel how he trails down, chilled fingers pressed against your back while his lips warm up and swallow each laugh that vibrates along your body.

It was no doubt cheeky and it was agonizing long.

And you were indulging in every single bit of it.

“Now, stay still.” His lips curled up against your shoulder, letting go with a quick pop.

You huff lightly. “Of course, of course, your Highness.”

You will get him back for this. But for now, you were humming along as he takes his fill at all your reactions, lingering and kneading; a canvas in his hands and art marking his affections.

Yeah, you will definitely get him back.

—

i. Taste. | VALENTINES’ DAY CHOCOLATE.

You think you found your favorite taste.

Unhurriedly, you cradle the heart-shaped packaging to your lips, popping it into your mouth as you let the contents melt away. Chocolate spreads on your tongue and the bitterness fills your taste buds.

You almost want to gasp at the shock, if it wasn’t for the way Scaramouche’s hand locks with yours, savoring your warmth just as you try to savor the treat. It was new but it was not unwelcome.

You tug at his hand. It feels soft somehow, well taken care of. His slender fingers easily intertwine around yours, tightening slightly as you moved along, almost guiding you closer.

And what was worse? It feels almost needy the way he inches impossibly closer. You feel his arms wrapping around your nexk, tracing along your skin as if he were afraid you would let go.

You try to grip at your senses, trying to remember what had happened before this.

—

The memory of your best friend sitting beside you engulfed with bags hanging off his arms, notes littered around, chocolate-covered treats, and small plushies of all species packed loosely with bows—All were forwarded lovingly to him from his peers.

You remember laughing at him, stealing one of his chocolate bars from the bags, and chewing along the sides.

“Too bad you don’t like sweets, these are really good,” you mumbled.

And you swore his eyes followed the movement. Pausing for a quick fleeting moment before a flash of mischief struck his face.

The last bits of his rant fade away from his tongue. The absurd amount of confession letters, gifts of flowers at his workplace, and more importantly, the handbags given by classmates by his campus, now situated on your arms turned from points of irritation to something else entirely.

“Come here.” He leaned in.

You remember him sticking his tongue out, the last of his irritation melting away. Then as the sheets shriveled, he proceeds to quickly steal the bag of chocolate from your fingers.

“—Hey wait!”

You recall laughing. Echoes of laughter are reflected in the way you chase after him, tugging at his shirt to snatch it rightfully back until you both are a heaping mess on the floor, legs tangled and breaths so close.

You remember having a good look at his appearance. The smudge of his eyeliner—the crimson that is usually lining his eyes now smeared just a bit and a similar red brightening his cheeks as he laughed—something only you were akin to—tugging at his lips.

At that moment, you couldn’t help but think that he was beautiful. Unfathomably so.

And a part of you wondered, dangerously: What would it be like to smug the red on his lips?

You remember the slow heavy breaths you took, hands pinned right against his head, and the slow realization that you might want just to kiss your longtime friend. You weren’t meant to be this close. Especially not in an uncompromising position like this.

Peering down at him, your brain dizzying as you met his eyes, staring up at you: the last fit of his laughter dying down as he also came to the same conclusion.

A snort escaped him.

And you couldn’t help but trace the way his lips looked. Red looked good on him; happiness, even if cheeky, looked good on him.

“What are you going to do now?” he whispers. There was a hint of uncertainty mixed with his usual sarcasm.

You remember stalling, weighing down the options to pass it off as a joke, something to keep as a memory as you mourn what could have been.

Or take your chances. The fact he wasn’t pushing you off spoke more than you couldn’t imagine. Maybe, for a brief moment, he was anticipating the same, watching your move just as you have been doing to him.

You breathed out, hoping to give him a way out should you have read him wrong. “Look, if you are uncomfortable, you can just push me off-“

Red was the look that flashes when he looks away, clearly frustrated that you aren’t reading his mind or body language, cutting you off with a swift, “I never said that.”

“So…” You couldn’t help but lean closer, your resolve waning once his eyes captured yours, the same electricity igniting in his gaze, challenging you.

“What does it look like I want?” His gaze was pulling you down with him as his voice dropped to a whisper, vulnerable.

You felt like melting.

The touches started slow, a blend of teasing that you were used to and other charted untouched territory as his hands lifted to meet your face, hesitation in his grip like a question waiting to be answered.

You nudged, closing the gap, answering tentatively.

The cards were long forgotten, the gifts were the least of your concerns—and yet, words were not enough to describe the feeling of your heart pounding against your chest.

Melting.

He tasted like familiarity: The shared mix of dark chocolate.

Though he claims to hate the sensation of sticky treats, the overt sweetness too much on his gums; each time you pulled away, he chased after your lips once again. Like a rush forced upon him, now an addict chasing his fix. And he glares when you halt his pursuit, tugging him back to finally look at his appearance.

Bitterness was the taste he was familiar with.

But with the way his hair ruffled a mess, lips swollen, shirt disheveled, and eyes practically dripping with softness: you couldn’t help but think that it left a sweet aftertaste. Nothing overbearing but enough to be memorable.

“…You taste like chocolate.” He breathed out.

Your chest swelled. He doesn’t seem to mind the flavor. Your finger nudged another chocolate against his lips, slowly returning to the warm press of his kiss as if starved once again. “Happy Valentine’s Day Scaramouche.”

You found your favorite taste and you would be a fool not to savor it. 

[saylor-twift]

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[saylor-twift]

“i love you too. plenty” ARGHH why is that such a cute phrase?? idk why the word “plenty” after that sentence just makes so much sense and fits so well and is so cute ty for doing great work 🙏💖

"Bye bye, I love you!"

Wanderer flinched at your words. His back that was facing the door tense and his hand that was reaching out to twist the doorknob was trembling it was was essentially midair. The air was thick and quiet as you eyed him in curiosity, waiting for his response, or what you would've assumed would've been lack there of. Typically when you said sweet things to the man, he'd brush you off with little grunts piercing glares.

"What'd you just say?" He asked cautiously, still facing the door. His voice sounded strange. Weaker. Softer. Possibly the nicest you'd ever heard him sound.

"I said goodbye and I love you," you repeated. And his reaction was the exact same, with him flinching like you'd tried to hurt him, "Is something wrong with that?"

A shrug was his answer. Trying and failing to play the entire ordeal off as nonchalant, but it was clear that those three words had caused him a bit of distress. A hint of guilt passed over you. You didn't want to pressure him to do or say anything he didn't want to.

"I didn't mean it like that if that's what you think. It's just a habit-"

"-no." He cut you off with a trembling, breathy whisper. He finally turned to face you, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy. He was wearing an expression that you couldn't quite decipher. A mixture of sorrow and adoration, "I-i love you too. Plenty."

He seemed to be testing the words on his tongue, almost as if he'd never said them before. There wasn't much time for you to be able to even register that he'd said it back. He tipped his hat to cover the raging blush that now spread across his face and walked out the door with even another glance back.

AN: I come from a family where we always say: "I love you," whenever we leave. As I've learned from doing it to people outside my family, apparently, it's not common. So I decided to write Wanderer's reaction to a reader who does the same :)