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hello! i’ve been loving your recent works lately and had to request! could we have a scaramouche argument fic as angsty as possible but with comfort? thank you!
But I hate you, I really hate you
so much I think it must be true love <3
Info: Characters include Scaramouche, GN reader! Hurt/comfort, very angsty. Use of Kunikuzushi.
Warnings: Toxic relationship, arguing, jealousy, controlling behavior, swearing, possibly abuse???
A/N: Thank you so much for your request! I hope you enjoy this :) Sorry it took a while! I may have taken it a bit far but I hope it's still somewhat similar to what you hoped.
He snorts, a sound both humored and disgusted - all at your expense. You hate it when he treats you this way, as if you were a source of entertainment. A cruel joke. A toy.
"Kuni, I swear it. There is nothing going on between-", you begin desperately, but he cuts you off before you can finish. "I know what you're going to say and I don't care," he growls, violet eyes growing dark.
You have grown to expect this fury from him. You're used to his wrathful words, and the way he forever seems unsatiated if he has not caused you pain in return for his own. Scaramouche swallows his grief long enough for it to turn to poison on his tongue, then spits it back at you tenfold. It's painful to know your day hinges on the mood of your fitful lover, prone to mercurial bursts of rage.
On this day in particular, his problem is less with you and more with Childe. However, this doesn't stop you from being on the receiving end of his cruelty.
Perhaps it had begun from the very start of the day. Childe was friendly by nature - and yes, perhaps even you could admit he was a tad bit sweet on you. Still, he knew to respect your boundaries (and the dark glare of your lover). He must have thought nothing of leaning to whisper in your ear, assuming it was perceived as friendly by all others around him as well. In the end, the mistake may have been yours. You giggled at the joke he'd muttered and the tickle of his breath against your ear, pressing your fingers bashfully to your lips to muffle it. Apparently, to your rather insecure lover, this was evidence of your infidelity.
"Is he what you want? Really?" With these words, he pushed himself into your space until he was flush against your chest. Your back pressed against the cold stone walls behind you, grinding painfully into your spine. "You want that filthy Snezhnayan cunt taking up your time? You think he could possibly be as good as me?" His hand grasped your wrist tightly and pressed it above your head, his nails digging crescents into your skin and leaving white in their wake. "Answer me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, "Do you want him?"
His voice was a low growl, threatening you to watch your words. "No," you spat back. Despite his presumptions, it was the truth. His words may lash you and his tone may sting, but it would never convince you to stop fighting back. "I think this is far less about me and far more about you. You're truly that insecure? You can't see me with another man for fear of what?" You wrenched your wrist free and wriggled away from his grip. "That he'll whisk me away? That he'll be better than you? You're afraid, Scaramouche. At least be honest with yourself."
His eyes flash black, and the expression on his face is foreign even to you. The gritting of his teeth together and the animalistic growl that tears from his lips speaks of rage. However, this time, the rage is not directed at you. He deliberately tears himself away from you, burying his head in his hands as if burdened by something heavy. The further he strides away from you, the more you feel your anger lessen.
Sometimes, his words can make you feel the same way a mouse must feel as it is caged beneath the claws of a hawk. Now, you feel as if it is you who has wounded him. You try to tell yourself not to give in to his sorrow. He should feel hurt, you said to yourself, for what he has done to me.
You try to imagine yourself feeling unburdened by him. Your mind runs rampant with images of yourself, perhaps strolling through the beautiful streets near your shared home - alone. You would be independent, solitary, and utterly lonely. The realization of it brings a new grief along with it, and you suddenly feel there is nothing you can do to fight against him. Not in this fight.
Your arms come around him from behind, squeezing him tightly against you. He stiffens at first as if he may have to defend himself, but steadily you feel his tense shoulders relax under your grip.
For a while, it's a stalemate. You hum a gentle tune against his shoulder blade, hands expertly tracing his covered skin as you had a million times prior. You know him too well, and these moments exemplify it. He never means to hurt you, you know this. However, he can't simply let go of his anger like you can. It takes root inside him, and in some ways, it is all he's ever known. He was forced to be angry, hateful, and volatile to survive. For some reason, even with your gentle nature, he feels he must survive. That every day is another battle.
Then, as if opening himself to the light, he releases a breath. "I don't want you to leave me, [Name]," he admits with a breathy, humorless laugh. He shakes his head shamefully, allowing some of his weight to lean on you. You shush him softly, continuing to rub against his sore muscles. "I know," you whisper back, and it is all he needs to hear and more.
To be understood is a beautiful thing. You refused to apologize for calling him out for it; he truly had been cruel. However, you also refused to abandon him. Your Kunikuzushi. You knew he could be so much better than he was, if only given the room and time to do so.
So, even with the heavy silence in the air, you just kept on knowing him. You knew he had so much more he wanted to say, but didn't know how to say it. You also knew he didn't want to be pressured, and it would only make him pull away further. You didn't push him; you refused to be someone who could call themselves a stranger to him. You cringed at the mere thought of it, the agony it would bring.
Perhaps if you simply kept holding him this way, the apologies would flow freely from his lips. The hope kept you going.
One day, you thought, one day.