Chapter Text
“i wish i could get a kiss.”
no answer. not even a hum of acknowledgment. just the soft, relentless clicking of your mouse and the occasional drag of the slider as you fine-tuned a sim’s jawline for the fourth time because something about it still felt off. the glow of your monitor washed over your face, sharp and pale, like the rest of the room didn’t exist beyond it.
scaramouche lay sprawled across your bed, cleats abandoned by the door, hair still damp from a rushed shower after his big game. he’d been there for fifteen minutes. he knew this because he’d checked his phone twice already, because you’d promised today was for hanging out, because he was sweaty and tired and stupidly soft in that way he only got after soccer.
“i wish i could get a kiss—uh.”
he tried again, louder this time, dragging the last sound out like a joke that wanted attention more than it wanted to be funny. the kind of tone people used in those dumb tiktok videos, where someone hovered obnoxiously over another person just for a bag of chips. he even tilted his head a little, like commitment to the bit might save him.
nothing.
you leaned closer to the screen instead, brows knitting as the lashes on your sim flickered an alarming shade of neon green. buggy. broken. you felt your patience snap at the same time the texture did.
“fucking— piece of fucking shit,” you muttered, already yanking open the mod tray with too much force, as if the game could feel your irritation and correct itself out of fear.
scaramouche watched you for a moment, quiet now, eyes tracing the familiar set of your shoulders when you got focused. he liked you like this. he hated you like this. both things were true at the same time.
you weren’t exactly techy, and you knew it. the more files you scrolled through, the worse it got. so you did what you always did and opened a youtube tab on the side, some tutorial with a thumbnail that promised help in all caps and red arrows.
“i wish i could get my girl’s attention—uhhh.”
this time he committed. full-body dramatics. he thrashed across your bed like he’d been struck down by divine neglect, kicking your covers into a tangled mess and groaning loud enough to be offensive.
that did it.
your head snapped toward him, sharp and sudden, eyes blazing in a way that made his stomach drop. he froze mid-flop, heart kicking hard against his ribs, suddenly very aware that he was sweaty, annoying, and maybe pushing his luck.
you didn’t say anything yet. you just looked at him.
and for a split second, scaramouche wondered if he’d finally managed to interrupt something sacred.
“what?!” you asked, annoyed.
the word came out sharper than you meant it to, clipped at the edges, dragged loose by frustration that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with broken mods and green glitching lashes that refused to cooperate. your hand was still clenched around the mouse, knuckles pale, cursor hovering uselessly over a menu you’d already opened three times.
scaramouche went still at the sound of it. then, slowly, deliberately, his mouth twisted downward into an exaggerated pout, the kind he knew you hated precisely because it worked more often than it should. his brows pinched together like he’d been personally wronged by the universe, eyes flicking up at you from where he was sprawled across your bed like a discarded jacket.
he didn’t say anything yet. he just looked at you like that, wounded and dramatic and waiting.
and despite yourself—despite the simmering irritation in your chest, despite the youtube tutorial buffering in the corner of your screen—you felt it crack a little. because you knew that pout. you knew what it meant. fifteen minutes of being ignored. sweat still clinging to his skin. all that restless energy with nowhere to go.
you exhaled through your nose, leaning back in your chair just enough to look at him properly, eyes dragging over the mess he’d made of your blankets.
“you’re being annoying,” you said, not nearly as convincingly as you wanted to.
his pout deepened, chin lifting a fraction like he was bracing for impact. somewhere in his head, he was already deciding whether this was the part where he doubled down or the part where he crawled closer and tried again.
and you could already tell which one he’d pick.
“geez,” you muttered, the word slipping out under your breath as you leaned back from the screen, eyes stinging from staring too long at something that clearly wasn’t going to cooperate.
you didn’t even bother pretending you were going back to the game. what for? the mods were fucked anyway, lashes neon-green and mocking you from the screen like they knew they’d won. and besides—your stupid, stupid, clingy, tsundere boyfriend was literally right there. on your bed. freshly done with his soccer game. annoyingly competent with tech. able to fix things like this with a few clicks and a look of smug superiority that would absolutely get on your nerves.
yeah. you had leverage.
the thought alone made you groan, fingers pressing into your temples as if you could physically knead the irritation out of your skull. you stood up from your gaming chair a little too fast, chair legs scraping softly against the floor, and before he could even process what you were doing, you turned and dropped straight down.
directly. directly. on top of him.
the impact knocked the air out of his lungs.
“urk!” he choked out, voice breaking in a way that was half dramatic, half very real, his body jolting under the sudden weight. the mattress dipped, springs protesting, blankets bunching up around the two of you in a messy heap.
but almost immediately—like it was muscle memory—his arms came up and wrapped around you anyway. not careful. not hesitant. just instinctive. his hands found your waist, your back, holding you there like he’d already decided this was where you belonged.
he wheezed once more for effect. “you’re trying to kill me.”
you could feel his chest rising unevenly under your cheek, warmth seeping through your clothes, the faint scent of sweat and grass clinging to him from his game. his grip tightened just a little, possessive without even thinking about it, like even if you’d fallen on him by accident, he wasn’t about to let you roll away.
and despite yourself—despite the mods, the glitches, the lingering annoyance—you didn’t move either.
“you’re saying— i’m fat.”
the words come out flat at first, like you’re testing how they sound in the air. then you lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed, already spiraling somewhere unreasonable.
“what?! no?” he says immediately, too fast, too loud. the denial trips over itself. the no lands weird—like he didn’t think it through before throwing it out there, like his brain lagged for half a second.
and that half second is all it takes.
“you’re saying i’m fat,” you repeat, slower now, more deliberate, the accusation blooming into something dramatic and stupid and very you. “because i’m killing you with my weight. with my body. on top of you.”
you punctuate it by shifting just a little, not enough to actually hurt him, but enough to make the mattress dip again. enough to remind him you’re there. solid. real.
his eyes go wide. “no— no, that’s not what i meant,” he blurts, hands tightening reflexively at your sides like he’s afraid you’ll either roll away or crush him for real. “i just— you surprised me. anyone would— i mean—”
he stops. starts again. fails miserably.
you can practically hear the gears grinding in his head, panic clashing with the very real awareness that this is one of those girlfriend moments where logic will not save him.
“so it’s my fault,” you say, voice tilting upward, wounded in that exaggerated way you know drives him insane. “i sit on my own boyfriend and suddenly i’m a weapon.”
he groans, long and pained, forehead dropping back into the pillow. “holy barbatos.”
“answer the question,” you press, leaning closer, your weight settling more fully against him. you’re warm from the room, from the chair, from irritation. “am i heavy.”
he looks at you again, really looks this time. not panicked now—resigned. thoughtful. like he’s choosing his words the way someone chooses which wire not to cut.
“…you’re not fat,” he says slowly. carefully. “you’re—”
you raise an eyebrow.
“—warm,” he finishes. then, after a beat, quieter, “and you dropped on me like a sack of bricks.”
“wow.”
“affectionately,” he adds quickly. “very affectionately.”
you stare at him for a second longer, then huff, the tension cracking just enough to let amusement leak through. your forehead drops to his chest, right over his heart, and you feel him relax under you, arms tightening again like he’s relieved you didn’t actually take offense.
“you’re terrible,” you mutter.
“you asked,” he murmurs back, fingers tracing small, absent shapes against your back. “and for the record? i’d let you sit on me even if you were trying to kill me.”
“i’m literally forty kilos,” you say, blinking at him like the number alone should be enough to convict him of treason.
he blinks back.
once. twice. exaggerated. stupid. perfectly synchronized with yours, like a busted mirror that learned comedy instead of self-preservation. you recognize it immediately for what it is—him trying to derail your accusation by being even more annoying than you are dramatic.
it almost works.
almost.
“baby,” he mutters, already sighing like a man accepting his fate. “oh, sweet barbatos—i’m never winning against you.”
his hands slide up your sides before you can protest, firm and familiar, tugging you down and flush against him again, your body settling half on his chest, half pinned between him and the wall. the mattress dips. he grunts softly, but this time it’s theatrical, one arm looping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll escape mid-argument.
you glare at him anyway, eyes sharp, unamused.
he smiles like he’s already forgiven.
“my pretty girlfriend,” he says, voice syrupy now, deliberately soft in that way he uses when he knows he’s in trouble. “skinniest queen.”
you narrow your eyes further, suspicious.
then he ruins it.
“even jiafei couldn’t compare with you,” he adds, tone going full cunty—high, mocking, dragged out just enough to be offensive. he snorts immediately after, like he can’t even take himself seriously.
your eyes squint. hard.
“…where did you learn that,” you ask slowly, already knowing you won’t like the answer.
he groans, head tipping back against the wall. “ajax,” he says without hesitation. “don’t ask how. i’m fucking tired of his bullshit.”
you stare at him for a second, then huff, the corner of your mouth betraying you by twitching upward. your hand presses against his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat—steady, warm, unapologetically alive under you.
“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.
he hums, pleased, arms tightening just a little. “and yet,” he says smugly, “you’re still on top of me.”
you don’t move.
neither does he.
and somehow, the argument dissolves there—buried under stupid jokes, bad references, and the quiet comfort of being held like you weigh nothing at all.
you rolled your eyes at him, finally wriggling off his chest and settling beside him instead, shoulder brushing his, legs still tangled like neither of you bothered to fully separate. the bed creaked softly as the weight shifted, the mess of blankets bunched around your thighs.
“how was the game?” you ask, tone casual now, like the last five minutes didn’t happen.
he exhales through his nose, staring up at the ceiling for a moment like he’s replaying it all in his head. sweat-damp hair sticks to his temple; his shirt smells faintly like grass and soap and effort.
“long,” he says first. then, after a beat, “annoying.”
you hum, eyes drifting to the faint bruise blooming on his collarbone, the tired slump in his shoulders. you know that look—half proud, half worn down.
“coach varka was on my ass again,” he continues, one arm sliding behind his head. “kept yelling about positioning like i don’t already know. scrimmage ran over. my legs feel like they’re gonna fall off.”
he turns his head to look at you then, expression softening immediately, irritation melting away the second he has your attention. “but we won,” he adds, quieter, like it matters more now that he’s telling you. “scored multiple times.”
your brows lift slightly. “oh?”
“yeah,” he says, a hint of smugness creeping in despite himself. “guess who.”
you snort. “don’t say it like that.”
he grins anyway, lazy and pleased, nudging your knee with his. “what? i survived. i deserve a little praise.”
his gaze flicks to your monitor still glowing with the sims menu, lashes half-green and bugged out, then back to you. “and i rushed over here for this,” he adds, faux wounded. “no kiss. no ‘good job, baby.’ just accusations of murder by body weight.”
he sighs dramatically, then glances at you sideways. “so. do i get one now?”
“baby,” you sigh, already tired of that tone, the one he uses when he pretends you starve him of affection. you don’t even look at him at first, just stare at the ceiling like you’re gathering patience. “i don’t like it when you act like i don’t love you.”
that gets his attention immediately. he shifts beside you, quieting, the dramatic energy reined in just a little.
you hesitate, then give in with a small, reluctant huff. “i even got a reservation this weekend. because i knew you’d win.” the words hang there for half a second.
“…you did?” he says, eyes snapping to you, disbelief written all over his face.
you glance at him, lips pursed. “don’t make a big deal out of it.”
too late.
his face lights up like you just handed him a trophy personally engraved with his name. “wait— you planned ahead? for me?” he props himself up on one elbow, staring at you like you just revealed state secrets. “you knew?”
you roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the small pout tugging at your mouth. “i had a feeling. you’ve been training hard.” you pause, then add quickly, “that’s all you’re getting. don’t push it.”
he lets out a breathy laugh, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he’s overwhelmed in the dumbest way possible. “oh my god,” he murmurs. “i’m dating a menace.”
you scoot closer despite yourself, bumping your shoulder into his. “good job, baby. another win,” you say, softer now, pride slipping through no matter how much you pretend otherwise. “you’re literally the soccer archon.”
he snorts. “don’t say that like it’s not true.”
you lean in before he can add something smug, fingers curling lightly into his shirt as you press a firm kiss to his lips. it’s not rushed, not shy either—just solid, affectionate, intentional. the kind he’d been fishing for since he walked in.
he makes a small sound against your mouth, surprised and pleased all at once, then kisses you back like he’s been rewarded properly.
when you pull away, he’s smiling like an idiot.
“…worth the wait,” he says.
you glare at him. “say one more thing and i’m cancelling.”
he shuts up immediately, arms sliding around you anyway, grinning into your shoulder like he already won twice today.
“wait— wait, scaramouche— you won. and you rushed here?” you push yourself up on one elbow, staring at him like the answer might change if you look hard enough. the thought clicks a second too late and makes your chest feel strangely tight. “you didn’t even celebrate with the others? god, the team’s probably tearing up your ass by now. you’re literally the captain.”
it’s not an accusation. not really. it comes out more like disbelief, like you’re trying to reconcile the image of him on the field—sweaty, triumphant, surrounded by his team—with the fact that he’s here instead, shoes kicked off, body sprawled on your bed like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
he doesn’t answer right away.
that alone tells you everything.
you watch him from where you are, the way he shifts closer without thinking, like distance between you is something he corrects instinctively. his hand finds your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse, grounding himself as much as you. there’s no rush in him now, no leftover adrenaline from the game. just that familiar, stubborn calm he gets when he’s already made up his mind.
“well,” he says finally, voice easy, almost dismissive, like the question itself doesn’t matter as much as you think it does. “you’re recovering from your fever.”
you blink at him.
“…that’s it?” you ask, incredulous. “that’s your reason?”
he shrugs, a small movement, but his grip on you tightens just a little. not possessive. not dramatic. just sure. like this was never a choice he debated.
“yeah,” he says. “that’s it.”
your brows knit together. “scara, that was a big win. you worked your ass off for that match. your team worked their ass off. you’re supposed to be there—”
“i was,” he cuts in gently. not defensive. not annoyed. just correcting you. “i played. we won. end of story.”
you open your mouth, then close it again, frustrated in that quiet way that sneaks up on you. “that’s not what i mean.”
he knows. of course he does.
he leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, eyes searching your face like he’s checking for heat that isn’t there anymore. “you were shaking this morning,” he says, softer now. “you couldn’t even hold your phone straight. you think i was gonna sit around celebrating while you were here alone?”
your throat tightens, annoyingly so.
“…you could’ve come later,” you mumble. “after. just for a bit.”
his lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “and miss this?”
you follow his gaze, confused, until you realize he’s looking at you. not the room. not the bed. just you, wrapped in his hoodie, hair a mess, still warm but alive and breathing and right here.
“yeah,” he continues quietly. “no thanks.”
you swallow. “the arataki’s are gonna kill you.”
he hums, unconcerned. “worth it.”
you stare at him for a long second, then let yourself fall back against the pillows, defeated in the dumbest, softest way. “…you’re so stupid.”
he smiles like that’s a compliment, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “only about you.”
“i love you, you stupid jerk,” you say, pouting at him, words slurred together with fondness and irritation in a way that only ever seems to work on him.
he doesn’t even blink. just stares at the ceiling for half a second like he’s buffering, then deadpans, voice flat and completely unhelpful, “oh my lobster is too buttery, and my steak’s too juicy.”
you stop breathing for a beat.
“…what.”
he finally turns his head to look at you, utterly serious. “it’s that tiktok phrase.”
you blink once. then again. “…what.”
“people say it when they’re complaining about something positive,” he explains patiently, like you’re the one being unreasonable here.
there’s a pause. a very dangerous pause.
“…and?” you ask slowly, syllables careful, measured. “what’s that supposed to do with our conversation right now?”
you can already feel irritation creeping up your spine, that familiar itch that always shows up when he starts doing this. because you know this humor. you know exactly where it came from. childe. that stupid ginger menace he swears he hates and yet somehow absorbs like a curse.
scaramouche shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, eyes bright with that awful smug spark you’ve learned to dread. “well,” he says lightly, “you’re telling me i’m stupid for wanting to be with you.”
your brows knit together. “i was being affectionate.”
“exactly.” his grin widens, unbearable now. he stretches his arms out wide, dramatic, shameless. “baby, you got the jackpot in your arms. raiden scaramouche?” he gestures to himself like he’s being introduced on stage. “teyvat’s national treasure.”
you make a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. “god, i hate you!”
you squirm, trying to shove him away, but he’s already laughing, already folding around you like this was the outcome he planned from the start.
“ah— hey, wait, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking into exaggerated sobs that are very obviously fake. he dodges your hands easily, leaning down to press loud, messy kisses all over your face, cheeks, forehead, anywhere he can reach. “i love you! i love you so much!”
“you’re so annoying,” you protest, breathless, trying and failing to push him off as he crowds you completely, warm and solid and everywhere.
he hums against your skin, pleased, unrepentant. “yeah,” he murmurs between kisses, “but you’re still in love with me.”
“no, i’m not,” you insist, breathless already, twisting your head side to side as he keeps trying to kiss you and keeps succeeding anyway. “i’m even—” dodge, poorly executed, “—considering a breakup.”
the words barely land— if anything, they seem to amuse him more.
he laughs, low and warm, the sound vibrating against you as he leans in closer instead of backing off. his hands come up, cupping your jaw with a familiarity that should be illegal, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s done this a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more. before you can protest, before you can come up with another stupid threat, he kisses you.
not teasing. not quick.
deep. slow. deliberate.
it knocks the fight clean out of you.
you melt immediately, like your body has been waiting for the excuse. the dodging stops. the thrashing stops. your hands curl into his shirt instead, pulling him closer as you kiss him back just as hard, just as shamelessly. somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny voice screams traitor, but it’s drowned out by the way he tastes, the way he always knows exactly how to undo you.
when he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe.
“yeah?” he murmurs, forehead still touching yours, voice smug and soft all at once. “and the breakup?”
you swallow, still dazed, lips swollen, pride hanging on by a thread. “yeah,” you say stubbornly. “i’m breaking up with you.”
he doesn’t even blink.
“i don’t think so.”
“yeah, i do,” you shoot back, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, like maybe if you sound convincing enough you’ll believe it too.
he answers by kissing you again.
this one’s even worse. messier. hungrier. like he’s proving a point with his mouth instead of arguing it out loud. your brain short-circuits completely. by the time he pulls away, you’re clinging to him, thoughts scattered, breakup forgotten somewhere on the floor.
he smiles at you like he’s won something.
“breakup still up?” he asks casually, like he hasn’t just dismantled your entire argument with his lips.
you stare at him for a second, then scowl, mortified at yourself. “no, shut up!”
he laughs, genuinely this time, delighted.
“you’re not breaking up with me,” you continue, flustered, flipping the script because it’s the only move you’ve got left. “why are you breaking up with me?”
that gets him.
he throws his head back, laughter spilling out of him, arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you might actually mean it this time. “oh my god,” he says between laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “you’re unbelievable.”
you huff, still embarrassed, still tucked against him like you belong there. “…answer the question.”
he grins down at you, eyes soft, utterly unthreatened. “never,” he says easily. “you’d miss me in ten minutes.”
you open your mouth to argue.
he kisses you again before you can.
“no, in a minute.”
“wait— a millisecond.”
you whimper it out like you’re on the brink of something tragic, collapsing back against him with all the drama you can physically muster. your hand flies to your chest, fingers splayed like you’ve just been mortally wounded.
“you’re not breaking up with me,” you continue, voice wobbling on purpose. “that’s such a cruel joke, scaramouche.”
you faceplant into your palm, full commitment to the bit, shoulders shaking as you let out the fakest sob known to mankind. it’s loud. exaggerated. absolutely shameless.
“why would you even joke about that?” you say, peeking at him through your fingers. “that’s so— like, borderline abusive.”
he’s already gone.
completely gone.
scaramouche is laughing so hard he has to turn his head away, one arm over his eyes like he’s trying to survive it. his chest shakes beneath you, breath coming out in broken bursts, every attempt at composure failing miserably.
“you’re laughing?” you gasp, offended beyond belief. you sit up just enough to stare at him, eyes wide, betrayed. “you’re laughing?”
you clutch your chest again, doubling down. “and here i am— having my heart broken.” a dramatic sniffle. “i literally—” fake sob, voice cracking on cue, “—literally just got handed a death penalty.”
that only makes it worse.
he wheezes, dragging a hand down his face, tears actually gathering at the corners of his eyes now. “oh my god,” he manages, breathless. “you’re insane.”
“oh, i’m insane?” you scoff, pointing accusingly at him. “you’re the one emotionally destroying your girlfriend for entertainment.”
he finally looks at you again, still grinning, still laughing, eyes warm and bright in that infuriating way that tells you he’s enjoying every second of this. his hand comes up, cupping your cheek like he’s trying to calm you down—or maybe just contain you.
“baby,” he says between laughs, voice fond and ruined. “you said you were breaking up with me.”
“AS A JOKE,” you snap immediately. “a playful joke. a whimsical threat. a narrative device.”
he snorts. “a narrative device.”
“yes,” you insist, nodding firmly. “and you took it and executed me with it.”
he leans in, forehead pressing against yours, laughter finally tapering off into something softer. “dramatic.”
“heartbroken,” you correct.
he kisses the tip of your nose, quick and affectionate, like punctuation at the end of the chaos. “you’re not dying.”
you squint at him. “…emotionally, i am.”
his smile softens, hands sliding to your waist, grounding you without even thinking about it. “good,” he murmurs. “means you care.”
you huff, but you don’t pull away. not when he’s holding you like that. not when his laughter still lingers between you, warm and stupid and safe.
“…you’re the worst,” you mutter.
he grins. “yeah. but i’m your worst.”
“maybe you’re breaking up with me because you finally see the light in haypasia!” you gasp suddenly, loud and theatrical, like the realization has just struck you out of nowhere.
you even slap a hand over your mouth for effect, eyes wide, scandalized. “oh my god.”
his body goes rigid beneath you. actually—no. recoils is the better word.
his face twists instantly, nose scrunching, lips pulling back like you just said something deeply offensive to his soul. he lets out a full-body shudder, shoulders jerking as if the thought alone made his skin crawl.
“don’t,” he says immediately. not laughing now. not amused. genuinely revolted. “why would you put that in my head.”
that reaction only fuels you.
you push yourself up on your elbows, staring down at him like you’ve cracked the case. “oh my god,” you repeat, louder. “it all makes sense now.”
“it does not,” he snaps, already trying to sit up, like physical distance might protect him from this accusation.
you shove him back down by the chest before he can escape. play fight. no real force, just enough to keep him there. he huffs in protest.
“after four years together,” you continue, voice trembling dramatically, “you’re—” another exaggerated gasp, hand flying back to your chest, “—leaving me for that woman?”
he groans, long and miserable, dragging both hands down his face. “you’re sick. actually sick. you just recovered from a fever and now this is what you do to me.”
“haypasia,” you press on anyway, savoring it. “the girl from art club. the one who was openly—and i mean openly—devoted to you. the one who chased you knowing damn well you had a girlfriend.”
his jaw tightens. “i ignored her.”
“ignored her lovingly?” you challenge.
he drops his hands and looks at you like he’s questioning every life choice that led to this moment. “what does that even mean.”
“maybe you like girls who draw,” you say thoughtfully, tilting your head. “maybe she sketches you in charcoal, like one of those fontainian girls. maybe she calls you her muse.”
his face contorts again. “i hate you.”
“maybe,” you continue, undeterred, “she understands your artistic soul.”
he physically shivers. “stop.”
“maybe,” you add softly, dangerously, “she calls you ‘kuni’.”
that does it.
“absolutely not,” he says, sitting up this time with force, hands gripping your waist to move you aside just enough so he can look you dead in the eye. his expression is half offended, half personally insulted. “don’t ever say that again.”
you blink innocently. “what. her name?”
“no. her,” he snaps. “in any context near me.”
you pout exaggeratedly. “wow. defensive.”
“i’m disgusted,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”
you soften your voice, faux-hurt. “so you’re really not leaving me for her?”
he stares at you for a long second, then exhales through his nose, exhausted. “baby.”
“hm?”
“if the universe collapsed and it was just me and her left,” he says flatly, “i’d still be looking for you.”
that makes you pause—just for a second.
just long enough for him to take advantage of it.
he pulls you back down against him, arms locking around you like he’s claiming his territory back from your imagination. his chin rests on the top of your head, grip firm, grounding.
“don’t ever joke like that again,” he mutters into your hair. “it’s offensive.”
you snort. “offensive.”
“yes,” he says seriously. “to my standards.”
you relax against him, still smiling. “so no art club mistress.”
“no art club anything.”
“not even if she draws you really pretty.”
“especially then.”
you laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “okay, okay. i get it.”
he tightens his hold just a little. “good.”
“okay,” you say suddenly, sitting up a little and crossing your arms over your chest, eyes narrowed in accusation. “but you didn’t answer my ‘i love you’ from earlier.”
he freezes.
just for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable—but you catch it. his brows knit together like he’s mentally rewinding the last ten minutes, replaying the conversation in his head at double speed.
“…earlier?” he repeats, stalling.
you tilt your head. “yeah. earlier. when i said it.”
he clicks his tongue, pretending to think, eyes drifting to the ceiling like the answer might be written there. “hm. must’ve missed it.”
you gasp. offended. personally attacked. “you did not just say that.”
he shrugs, a little too casual. “maybe because the reply was already meant for haypas—”
you don’t even let him finish.
“KUNIKUZUSHI—”
you squeal as he suddenly grabs you by the waist and yanks you down onto the bed with him, the world tilting violently for half a second before you land against his chest. the crossed arms don’t last long—he pins them easily, laughing breathlessly as you thrash and protest.
“HEY— no— you’re actually the worst—”
he doesn’t answer with words. he answers by kissing you everywhere except where you want him to.
your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth. your temple. your nose.
“stop— stop— answer me—” you’re laughing now, breathless, trying to twist away as his lips keep finding skin.
“i am answering you,” he says between kisses, voice muffled against your cheek.
“this is not an answer,” you protest, squirming harder. “this is harassment.”
he hums thoughtfully, then presses a kiss right under your eye. “romantic harassment.”
“illegal.”
he grins against your skin and finally, finally, kisses you properly—slow, warm, deliberate, like he’s making a point. when he pulls back, he stays close, foreheads touching, noses brushing.
“i love you,” he says at last, quieter now. not dramatic. not teasing. just honest, like it was obvious and he’s only saying it because you asked.
you blink at him, heat creeping up your face. “…see. was that so hard?”
he smirks. “yes.”
you groan, shoving at his chest weakly. “you’re unbelievable.”
he tightens his arms around you again, trapping you easily. “and yet.”
“…and yet,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.
he presses another kiss to your lips—soft this time, unhurried—like he’s sealing it in, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
“but please don’t joke about that,” you murmur against his lips, the smile slipping off your face as the words sink in. this time, you mean it.
he feels it immediately—the shift in your tone, the way your body stills just a little instead of leaning into him.
“about what?” he asks, quieter now, forehead still resting against yours.
“haypasia,” you say, and the name alone makes your nose scrunch. “like— i know, okay? i know i’m a hundred percent secure with you. this isn’t a trust thing. it’s a her thing.” you exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up. “oh my god, she makes my blood boil.”
your brows knit together, tight and dramatic, and you don’t even realize you’re starting to gesture with your hands until you’re already halfway into it. scaramouche watches you, lips twitching, clearly entertained, but he doesn’t interrupt. he knows better than to cut you off when you’re winding yourself up like this.
“like that one time,” you continue, voice picking up speed, “when she gave you red roses. red roses. in front of me.” you pull back slightly just to stare at him, incredulous all over again. “in. front. of. me.”
he lets out a soft chuckle, arm tightening around your waist, like he’s bracing himself for what’s coming.
“oh my god,” you groan, running a hand through your hair. “the confidence. the audacity. she didn’t even hesitate.”
you clear your throat, straighten your posture, flutter your lashes obnoxiously, and pitch your voice up into a mockingly sweet imitation—
“for you, scaramouche,” you say, blinking slowly. “happy valentine’s day.”
you drop the act immediately, scowling. “OH MY GOD. i almost lost my mind. like— excuse me? am i invisible? am i a hallucination? do you not see me standing right here trying not to commit a felony?”
he laughs now, properly this time, head tipping back for a second before he looks back at you, eyes warm and fond.
“you should’ve seen your face,” he says. “you looked like you were deciding between murder and arson.”
“don’t joke,” you snap, though there’s no real heat behind it. “i was this close.”
he hums, amused, then reaches up and cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks until you’re forced to look at him.
“hey,” he says gently. “i had someone threw them away.”
you blink. “…you did?”
“immediately,” he replies without hesitation. “didn’t even touched it.”
your scowl softens despite yourself. “…good.”
he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering there. “and for the record,” he adds, voice low and sincere, “i’m not joking about her because i want to tease you. i’m joking because she doesn’t matter.”
you study his face for a moment, then sigh, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
“still,” you mutter. “if she ever does that again, i’m biting her.”
he snorts, arms tightening around you. “noted.”
and just like that, the tension eases—still there, simmering, but held safely between the two of you, where it belongs.
“baby, i love you,” you purr, voice low and almost reverent, still riding that dramatic edge you always slip into when you’re feeling too much at once.
he stills just a little. not because it surprises him—you say it—but because of how you say it. slow. intentional. like you’re placing something fragile directly into his hands. these moments are rare, and he knows better than to joke his way through them. he lets himself enjoy it, lets it sink in.
“i am one hundred percent secured with you,” you continue, nodding to yourself like you’re laying out a formal argument. “like— baby, there’s nothing more i could ever ask for. genuinely. no more.”
he hums, thumb tracing lazy lines along your back. “mm.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, brows knitting together again. “but—”
“but,” he echoes, already resigned, eyes fixed on your face.
you sigh, dramatic and heavy, like you’ve been holding this in for a while. “but the only thing i’m scared of,” you say slowly, carefully, “is your death. like— oh my god.” you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “nothing could ever tear us apart except death. that’s it. that’s the final boss.”
his mouth opens, then closes. he doesn’t interrupt. he knows better.
“like— you see those couples on tiktok,” you ramble on, hands moving now, spiraling yourself further. “or everywhere, honestly. they’re finally married and shit, they’re happy, they’re posting grocery hauls and anniversaries, and then boom. the husband just dies out of nowhere.” you gasp softly, horrified all over again. “god. that’s tragic. like actually sickening.”
he exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-uneasy. “you really know how to relax people.”
“don’t,” you warn, poking his chest. “i’m being serious.”
he quiets instantly.
you scoot closer, arms sliding around his neck, holding him like you’re testing what it would feel like if he disappeared. your voice drops, softer now, less theatrical.
“kuni,” you murmur, pressing kisses to his cheek, his jaw, anywhere you can reach. “please don’t die on me.”
that one lands.
his arms come around you immediately, firm, protective, like he’s anchoring both of you in place. “i’m not planning to,” he says, trying to sound light, but there’s an edge there now. “kind of hard to schedule.”
you huff weakly, burying your face in his neck. “promise me you’ll live forever.”
he laughs under his breath. “wow. realistic expectations.”
“promise,” you insist, tightening your hold.
he sighs, pressing his lips into your hair, lingering there. “okay,” he says quietly. “i’ll do my best.”
you pull back just enough to glare at him. “that’s not comforting.”
he cups your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes, gentler than usual. “hey,” he murmurs. “if death’s the only thing you’re scared of, then we’re doing pretty good.”
you blink at him, then soften, nodding slightly. “…yeah.”
he leans in, forehead touching yours. “and until then,” he adds, voice steady, “i’m right here. alive. annoying. very much not dead.”
you snort, kissing him anyway.
“let’s live a hundred million years together,” you say, half‑mumbled, half‑pleading, like you’re afraid the number will fall apart if you say it too loudly.
he hums against you, the sound warm and low, kissing along your jaw in a way that isn’t teasing this time. it’s unhurried. intentional. like he’s listening with his whole body, not just his ears. your affection always hits him like this—unexpected, disarming, something he doesn’t joke away because he knows how rarely you let yourself be this open.
a hundred million years. it’s ridiculous. impossible. dramatic in the way only you can manage. and still, it tightens something in his chest.
he thinks about how you say things like that when you’re scared. how your love always shows up wrapped in exaggeration and humor and frantic what‑ifs, because saying “i’m afraid of losing you” feels too naked on its own. he thinks about how you cling harder when the thought crosses your mind, like if you hold on long enough, you can outlast mortality itself.
his hand slides up your back, slow and grounding, fingers splaying like he’s memorizing you. “that’s a long time,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin between words. not dismissive. not joking. just acknowledging the weight of it.
“good,” you say immediately. “i want it to be long.”
he smiles softly against you, the kind he doesn’t show anyone else. “you’d get sick of me.”
you scoff, pulling back just enough to look at him. “that’s literally impossible. don’t insult us like that.”
he chuckles, but it fades quickly, replaced by something quieter. more honest. his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, breath shared.
“if i get a hundred million years,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care, “then i’m spending all of them with you exactly like this. annoying you. listening to you spiral. holding you when you scare yourself with your own thoughts.”
your eyes soften. he can see it happen in real time.
“i’ll keep showing up,” he continues, voice lower now. “even when you’re dramatic. even when you’re convinced the universe is out to get us. even when you say things like that and pretend you’re joking.”
your throat tightens, and you hate that he notices. you hate that he always notices.
“you promise?” you ask, quieter than before.
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he kisses your jaw again, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, like he’s sealing something unspoken.
“yeah,” he says finally. “i promise.”
you melt into him at that, tension easing from your shoulders, arms wrapping around him like you’re anchoring yourself to something real. alive. breathing.
he holds you closer, listening to your heartbeat, steady and warm beneath his palm. for now, that’s enough. for now, you’re both here. and for him, that already feels like forever.
“so… this saturday,” you started, smiling at him in that way that already meant you’d planned everything down to the smallest, most unnecessary detail.
he hums, eyes half‑lidded, already resigned. he knows that tone. that smile. this isn’t a suggestion. it’s a soft‑spoken ambush.
“you’ll be in your dashing suit and tie,” you continue, clearly enjoying yourself now. “the one that makes you look like you’re illegally attractive. you pick me up with your car—no motorcycle nonsense—and,” you pause for effect, eyes narrowing, “with my favorite blue bouquet. not baby blue. not whatever weird shade you think counts as blue. the right one.”
he smiles at that, small and helpless, because of course you have a favorite shade and of course he already knows it. he doesn’t interrupt, just shifts closer, arm warm at your waist, letting you talk him into a future he’d already decided on the moment you opened your mouth.
“then,” you say, getting comfortable, “i’ll be in my prettiest dress. prettiest hair. prettiest everything. the kind where strangers look at me and think, wow, she’s definitely being taken care of.”
he snorts softly, amused. taken care of. like he hasn’t been orbiting around you since the beginning.
“you drive me to this fancy schmansy shit,” you go on, waving a hand like the place is beneath you even though you definitely stalked their menu three weeks in advance. “the reservation i totally did not stress over. we eat expensive food. pretend we’re classy. and i pay—”
“no.”
the interruption is immediate. firm. instinctive. it comes out of him before he even thinks about it, like a reflex wired too deep to unlearn.
you blink. once. slowly.
“no,” he repeats, already shaking his head.
“no, i’m paying—shut up.”
you jab a finger into his chest, indignant, brows knitting together like he’s personally offended you. there’s something almost offended‑hurt in the way you say it, like this is about principle now, not money.
he exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh. “you literally just described me picking you up, taking you out, and parading you around like you’re the prize of my life. why would i let you pay?”
“because,” you say immediately, like you’ve been waiting for this, “i planned it. because i want to. because it’s my treat. and because i already decided this in my head and i hate it when you ruin my mental script.”
he stares at you for a second, then laughs, genuinely this time, the sound warm and unguarded. his thumb brushes idle circles at your waist, grounding, affectionate.
“you’re unbelievable.”
“and yet,” you tilt your chin up, smug, “you’re obsessed.”
he leans in, forehead resting against yours, smile still lingering but softer now. “yeah,” he admits quietly. “unfortunately.”
you grin, satisfied, already picturing it all again—the lights, the food, his hand on your lower back, the way he’ll look at you like he always does when you dress up and pretend not to notice how his breath stutters.
inside, something settles. this isn’t just a date. it’s proof. it’s you choosing him loudly, deliberately, the same way he’s been choosing you without hesitation.
“fine,” he murmurs at last, kissing the corner of your mouth. “we’ll argue about who pays later.”
you smile, victorious, curling closer to him. “good. i love winning.”
he chuckles softly, arms tightening around you. “yeah,” he says. “i noticed.”
“so… yeah?” you said, dragging it out, clearly circling back on purpose. “we’re getting back to the topic. i’m paying, okay? no more arguments.”
he opens his mouth.
“yes, i’m paying, continue,” he says instead, deadpan but smug, like he’s conceding just enough to survive this conversation.
you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. dramatic, exaggerated, very intentional. “wow. growth. i’m so proud of you.”
he hums, amused, watching you with that familiar look—half fond, half bracing for whatever insanity you’re about to unleash next.
“and then,” you continue, warming up again, hands moving as you talk, “we’re driving back home. but home?” you pause, grin spreading slowly. “oh no no.”
his brow twitches. just once. a warning sign.
“not home?” he repeats carefully.
“to this fancy hotel i—” you point at your own chest, emphasis sharp and proud, “i reserved. jacuzzi and all that fancy shit. just one night.”
there’s a beat.
his eyes widen. not dramatically. just enough to give him away.
“…there’s a hotel reservation?” he asks, voice pitching up despite himself.
you raise your brows, mirroring his expression now. “what, you thought i stopped at dinner?”
he stares at you like he’s recalculating reality in real time. this explains a lot. the confidence. the way you’ve been talking like today is already decided, locked in, inevitable.
“and,” you add, clearly enjoying this far too much now, “we’re going at it for the whole night. hell yeah!”
you punctuate it by raising your arm and making an enthusiastic circular gesture in the air, completely unashamed. zero hesitation. pure, fiery declaration.
he chokes, actually chokes.
“you—” he coughs, hand coming up to his mouth, eyes wide as he stares at you. “you’re insane.”
you beam. radiant. victorious. “thank you.”
his laugh spills out before he can stop it, breathless and disbelieving, head dropping forward until his forehead presses into your shoulder. he exhales there, long and helpless, like he’s already lost and accepted it.
“you planned all of this,” he mutters, half accusation, half awe.
“obviously,” you say, patting his head like this should have been self‑evident. “what kind of girlfriend do you think i am?”
he lifts his head, eyes dark now, something warm and dangerous curling there. his hand tightens at your waist, thumb pressing in like he needs to ground himself.
“the kind that says she’s paying and then books a hotel with a jacuzzi,” he answers slowly. “apparently.”
you shrug, unapologetic. “i’m thorough.”
he laughs again, softer this time, leaning in until his nose brushes yours. “you know you’re not walking out of that hotel, right?”
you grin, fearless. “good.”
his smile sharpens, fond and doomed all at once. “yeah,” he murmurs. “that’s what i was afraid of.”