𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 | Scaramouche x !Reader ~ enemies to luvers..

The waves of longing | 20

The clouds darkened and carried the grief of parting, it threatened to let all of its tears crash onto you below. It was indeed a gloomy day but a welcomed one--which just so happened to be the day that you would depart to go back to Snezhnaya. You haven't been to your homeland Snezhnaya in a long time, the fleeting land of white and the ever overpowered Tsaritsa that loomed over it will forever haunt your being, no matter how far away you are.

You wondered if you would have to see the Tsaritsa again, the last time you saw her, she sat idly on her throne and looked down upon you with her cold stare giving you your compelling sentence. Thinking about it to this day still makes you quiver in fear at how her gaze was ice itself, soaking up the air in your lungs and freezing your body numb.

While the other squad members were boarding boxes and crates onto the ship, you stood near the harbour deck and leaned on the hard wooden railing, your hair being brushed out by the chilling breeze that came with the shore. The breeze itself felt strangely familiar, that your body briefly went to chase after it to cling to that sense of familiarity for longer.

However you stopped and let your mind run in circles about new possibilities and your doubts about this whole trip, you thought of every possible thing that your mind would offer you, but no matter how many times you pushed something related to the trip into your mind--it would always be in the shadows of Scaramouche being on your mind.

Without Scaramouche being glued to your hip anymore, you felt quite uneasy. You didn't know what it was about it, but having Scaramouche by your side always felt reassuring, you knew nothing would happen to you with him by your side. Or to put it simply, you just didn't want to be away from him anymore, your body longed to be back by his side--for his fingertips to drag over your arms--for his eyes to burn holes in your body-- anything as long as it involved Scaramouche. It clenched your heart at how badly you wanted Scaramouche to praise you, use your body to his dismay,  for his arms to snake around your backside, for him to whisper how you're the only one for him...wait a minute. when did you start desperately wanting Scaramouche to touch you?

You couldn't believe yourself for thinking about him in that kind of light, that short man who most likely slept with countless men and women. How different would you be to him to everyone else he slept with if you let him have his way? Is this how everyone else fell victim to him?

You couldn't blame them though. Scaramouche was addictive, and you wanted more of him to intoxicate and drug your senses and self-worth.

Your questioning was cut short by the voice of the man who started it all. Childe was slowly approaching you as he waved his gloved hand in the air, the dark sky that was crowded with other darker clouds made him stick out like a sore thumb, his red hair made it nearly impossible to miss him. As he got closer to you, you subconsciously slid your arms to drag on the railing to make room for Childe, he willingly took up your offer and rested his taller form over the railing--he had to crouch down more but he let his head rest against his hand as his dead eyes looked for life in your eyes.

"Not the best weather for sailing, am I right?" he chuckled a little in his wording as a way to ease into a more relaxed conversation with you. You didn't answer him though, you only give him a small smile and turned your gaze back to the calm waters of the harbour. Childe saw how your eyes skimmed past where the ocean met the sky, he saw how your consciousness was here physical but really you were elsewhere. He deeply inhaled and propelled himself to fix his posture up right, he turned his body around so that now his back was leaning on the railing while his arms were crossed one over the other.

"He can't get out of your head, can he?" he murmured quietly, his red bangs drifted with the winds over his own eyes--not once giving you a glance. Your hands tensed on top of the railing. He read you like an open book, did you really make it that obvious?