#i hate this guy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zushimart · 1 year

Text

fireworks. scara x gn!reader. modern au. a bit of angst (jealous!scara), but implied /pos ending. umm drinking (sort of drunk confession), vomiting, jealousy.

scara graced the party with his presence only at the aggressive encouragement (or what could have been called peer pressure) of childe – “a drink or two and maybe you’ll be able to tell them.”

“they don’t have to know,” scara had spat back, inadvertently admitting his feelings… something he’d skirted around telling childe even through a half-hour interrogation after he’d fallen flat and lifeless at the sight of you holding hands with a stranger.

while childe joked about what you and strange men could be doing behind closed doors, scara was trying to explain to him that he wasn’t heartbroken over 1800s-like chastity, but rather that you were on a date.

prompting childe to ask, “you’re into them?”

and he’d gone red, tongue tripping over itself in its silly excuses such as “it’s just concern” or “what if the guy’s a freak or a murderer or something?” and finally shutting up at the sight of childe’s upturned eyebrow.

but because his friend couldn’t help to make everyone’s business his own, scaramouche found himself at a house party on a saturday night on the promise that you were a) attending and b) still single (not that the latter had anything to do with his enthusiasm).

“just one,” he mumbles to childe over a plastic cup emptied a second later out of nervousness – his face twisting in disgust.

“have another,” childe shouts, having not heard him over the music, swapping their cups. scaramouche rolls his eyes, but tentatively takes another gulp, stomach warm.

and then he catches sight of you in the corner of the room, talking to a few familiar faces, but they’re all enemies to him in his childishness. he drinks the rest of his cup and asks for a refill. childe grins, thinking little of it, but four beers and two vodka shots in, he’s pulling the cup out of scara’s hands.

“hey, slow down –

scaramouche’s tongue feels too big for his mouth, “two or whatever drinks and i’ll be able to…” but he still can’t admit it in front of childe, “y’know,” he mumbles, shy. childe’s eyebrows come together in concern at the sight of him wistfully staring into the corner of the room where you stand and laugh with a few others; he wonders if he should stop him as he makes his way through the crowd towards you. childe nervously trails behind his friend like a chaperone.

“scara!” you greet him in surprise, “i didn’t know you were here.”

he bites his lip, skipping a hello and blurting out a “you look really… good… tonight.” he’s red in the face, hands clasped together in front of him.

you let the compliment roll off you in disbelief, offering a dismissive “woah, you’re drunk…” that morphs his face into one of deadpan disappointment.

“yeah,” childe laughs nervously, putting a hand on scara’s shoulder. “he’s a lightweight.”

“i thought he didn’t like to drink,” you say. childe shrugs and you recover for him, “here, scara, childe, these are some of my friends.”

scara can hear you talking, but the words have gone fuzzy in favor of staring into your eyes. he misses every mindless introduction, and ends up talking to you and only you about his week before finally someone interjects. it’s a respite, you think, before an unfiltered grimace of disgust scrunches scara’s nose – he talks over them, and an awkward silence despite the music descends upon them as he, with a voice insecure and vulnerable, admits, “you’ve been avoiding me recently,” he says. “but that can’t be true,” he laughs, “right?”

childe grows fidgety, staring at his friend with a gaze that could burn holes through his head. “woah,” childe blurts, stepping in front of scara who grumbles in protest, “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about… you know… too much to drink…” he trails off, but your smile and cheer had left minutes ago. childe watches with a wince as you drag scaramouche away, fingers digging into his shoulder, to a semi-secluded space at the bottom of the stairs.

“what is wrong with you?” you ask, but you’re not looking at him –– your gaze is reserved for your friends throwing concerned looks in your direction. he doesn’t answer, eyebrows drawing together at your disinterest in the conversation despite being the one to initiate.

he steps in front of your line of sight, “nothing,” he lies. “just being myself. s’too much, isn’t it? just say that.”

“no. something’s up. something different. i’m not avoiding you,” you say, “do you actually feel that way?”

anger grows big in his chest. he wishes he could keep the words behind his teeth, but they spill out of his mouth, “you do avoid me,” he says a little louder than he means to, “you don’t tell me anything anymore. you’re going on dates with people i don’t know… doing things without me… other stuff…” he prattles off. yeah, that’s totally why i’m upset, he thinks to himself, lower lip quivering.

you’re blinking at him like he’s lost his mind. “what?”

“what?” he parrots back, embarrassed as tears begin to sting his eyes.

“i know this isn’t why you’re upset with me… like, why would i even have to tell you about my love life?” you sigh. “i was gonna tell you about the one date i’ve been on the next time we were together… it didn’t even go well, anyway,” you say, looking to floor, eyes tinged with a look of longing so familiar he feels the contents of his stomach swirl. “scara, what’s this really about?” you ask.

he wants you to look at him like that. like you want him. like you want him so bad it hurts. bile rises in his throat knowing that you’re thinking of someone else.

the sound of his heartbeat fills his ears and the stress of the night comes down on him like a falling piano. “my stomach,” he blurts, “sorry.” the next moment, he’s stumbling up the stairs as the world spins, leaving you to chase after him.

he leaves the bathroom door open as he vomits into the open toilet, gripping the seat like it’s his own. front row ticket, he thinks through the brain fog at the sight of your shoes in his peripheral.

“you drank too much,” you say, and it makes him mad.

“you think so?” he spits, only to hurl again. then, you’re on your knees beside him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. it’s then that he notices you closed the door behind you, trapping him in your own personal pocket universe – music muffled by thin walls, bass just barely shaking the floor. he pushes your reaching hand away from him and wipes his mouth with a sleeve, wondering, can i think straight?

“did childe do this? did he pressure you?”

he can’t think straight. fat tears finally well in his eyes and he cries in front of you for the first time. “it’s your fault,” he babbles like a kid.

“my fault?” you ask with a laugh, realizing a second too late as you lean over to flush the toilet that–– he’s serious.

“why can’t you look at me,” he hiccups, “only me. no one else.”

and a silence burdens the both of you, the room suddenly too small, too stuffy, too hot to think. you open your mouth to speak… once, twice, and finally, a third time: “dude, are you… jealous?” and if looks could kill, it would’ve been scaramouche, in the bathroom, with his eyes. his glare is piercing.

“i’m not jealous,” he blurts, “i don’t get jealous,” but the tears blurring his vision a second time tell a different story. he whimpers, “how could i be jealous?”

it takes a conscious effort to keep your jaw from dropping.

“what am i doing wrong?” he asks, looking up from behind his hands.

“do you… like me?” you ask under your breath as you stand up, butterflies swelling up your throat.

he’s queasy again at the sight of your retreat. “i’m sorry.” he bites his lip hard, eyes training on the grout that lines the grimey tiles.

“messy,” you mutter, grabbing him by the collar and forcing him up with you, “you’re so messy for telling me like this.”

“i didn’t tell you anything,” he snaps, voice shaking. he breaks from your grip and pushes past you to the sink, running cold water to splash on his face. drinking from the faucet like a dog, water drips onto his shirt. he wipes his mouth, takes a deep breath, and looks at himself in the mirror. “i want to go home.”

“ask me nicely and maybe i’ll take you.”

he turns his glare to you. “i’ll walk myself, then” he says.

“you’re so difficult,” you say, walking out of the bathroom first. he trails after you like a kitten, steps uncertain and arms drawn close to his body like he’s cold. you mouth ‘going home’ from across the room to childe who nods, watching as you pull out your keys and depart out the front door without saying goodbye to your friends.

he’s quiet in the front seat, putting on his seatbelt only when he’s told to. he’s quiet the entire ride home, refusing to respond to your teasing and quips. he’s quiet on the way up to his apartment, steps echoing in the stairwell. he pushes away your steadying hand on his waist and tries to close the door on you the moment he gets it open.

“i’m fine,” he mumbles, “i’m not a fucking baby.”

“you cry like one.” he looks at you with that same glare, and it’s almost comical the way his bottom lip begins to tremble. “call me tomorrow,” you say. “tell me if you were serious.”

he falls quiet again, holding the door and averting his eyes.

“okay?”

a second, two seconds, three seconds before he meets your gaze and mumbles, “okay,” before gently closing the door. he leaves you in the quiet, washed in the fluorescent light of the hallway, thinking of the sizzle of his explosivity and the following trail of smoke like the lingering smell of fireworks after a dazzling show.

#tw emeto #ok well tbh this is cringe #but i wanted to post bc its been in my drafts FOREEEEEVER #hope u like~#scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #i hate this guy #kunikuzushi x reader

366 notes · View notes