seika

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ 𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐊𝐀 Ი𐑼 she/her

seika works fine, but you can also shorten it to sei

filo // libra ⋆·˚ ༘ * writes as a hobby occasionally when the motivation strikes

req status : open !

currently … having scara in my thoughts ྀིྀ 𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯 ྀིྀ

･ ⟢ ⋮ LINKS ゛༝.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : 𖹭 rules

･ ⟢ ⋮ TAGS ゛༝.

#leatherboundthoughts = the main collection

#marginalia = notes from the author

#askfromthevoid = anonymous asks and requests

#mutualcorner = conversations with mutuals

jkjk tho I love the new account aesthetic

So recently I got into Julius Caesar bc of school and I read all the way up to Act 5, and I have to say this bc nobody else in my grade really relates BUT cassius and brutus are GAY period.

THEY.ARE.GAY. YOUR HONOR THEY HAVE TO BE!

LIKE HAVE U READ SOME OF THR SCENES ABT THEM??

Its giving "We're gay but in the 1800s"

I cannot STOP thinking abt them like I literally CANNOT im obsessed 😭😭

The first time you saw him again after the breakup, it felt like nothing had ended at all.

You were standing outside the campus café, arms crossed against the February breeze, pretending you weren’t waiting for anyone. Then he walked up beside you like he always used to—hands in his coat pockets, indigo hair slightly messy from the wind, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“You’re late,” you said automatically.

Scaramouche scoffed. “You came early.”

Same tone. Same rhythm. Same you-and-him.

It had been three months since you broke up. Three months since you both agreed it “wasn’t working.” Three months since you told yourselves that loving each other wasn’t enough when pride kept getting in the way.

And yet here he was, holding out your favorite drink.

“You still take it with less sugar,” he muttered.

You stared at the cup. “You remembered.”

“I don’t forget things.”

He never did. Not birthdays. Not random details you mentioned once at 2 a.m. Not the way you liked your hand held—fingers intertwined, not just palms touching.

You took the drink.

Neither of you mentioned that he had no reason to buy it for you anymore.

After the breakup, nothing really changed.

He still walked you home at night. Still texted you when it rained: Bring an umbrella. Still sat next to you in class like the space beside you was reserved.

When your friends asked, “Are you guys back together?” you both answered at the same time.

“No.”

But you still shared earphones. Still stole fries from each other’s plates. Still argued over whose turn it was to carry the bag.

You weren’t dating.

You just… never stopped acting like you were.

Valentine’s Day arrived quietly, like it didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile illusion you were both living in.

The campus was suffocating with pink. Roses everywhere. Confessions happening behind buildings. Laughter echoing in hallways.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter.

It was just another day.

Then you opened your locker and a small box fell into your hands.

You froze.

Inside was your favorite brand of chocolates. The expensive kind you only bought during special occasions.

There was no note.

But there didn’t need to be.

You found him on the rooftop during lunch, leaning against the railing, staring at the sky like he owned it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said, walking toward him.

He didn’t look surprised. “What?”

“You can’t just—” You held up the box. “—do this.”

He glanced at it. “It’s chocolate.”

“It’s Valentine’s chocolate.”

“And?”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m aware.”

The wind howled softly around you.

You hated how calm he looked. How unaffected. Like this wasn’t tearing you apart.

“Then why?” you asked.

He finally turned to you fully. His eyes weren’t calm. Not at all.

“You think I can just switch it off?” he said quietly. “You think because we said we’re done, I stopped caring?”

Your throat went dry.

“That’s not what I—”

“You still call me when you can’t sleep,” he cut in. “You still sit next to me. You still look at me like—”

“Like what?” you demanded, your voice cracking.

“Like I’m yours.”

The words hung heavy between you.

You stepped back slightly. “You’re the one who said we should break up.”

“You’re the one who said you were tired.”

“I was tired of fighting!” you shot back. “Not tired of you.”

Silence.

Raw. Open. Painfully honest.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Every time we argue, you shut down. Every time I get jealous, you pull away. I thought… maybe if we weren’t together, we’d stop hurting each other.”

“Did it work?” you whispered.

His laugh was bitter. “Do I look like I moved on?”

You looked at him.

No.

He still watched you like you were the only thing in focus. Still stood slightly closer than necessary. Still adjusted his pace to match yours when you walked.

You weren’t strangers.

You were something worse.

Two people in love pretending they weren’t.

“You still get jealous,” you said softly. “I saw your face when that guy gave me flowers this morning.”

His eyes darkened. “You didn’t take them.”

“I didn’t want them.”

The wind felt colder.

“Why?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Because they weren’t from you.”

That did it.

Something in his expression cracked—like the pride he’d been holding onto finally gave up.

“You’re cruel,” he muttered.

“How am I cruel?”

“You keep staying,” he said. “You keep choosing me in every way that matters except the one that counts.”

Your heart pounded painfully.

“Then choose me,” he said, voice low but shaking. “Stop half-loving me. Stop pretending we’re nothing.”

You stared at him.

“I never stopped loving you,” you admitted.

The confession felt like stepping off a cliff.

He inhaled sharply.

“Then why did you let me go?” he asked.

“Because I thought you wanted to be free.”

He stepped closer. “I wanted us to stop hurting.”

His hand hovered near yours, hesitating. Like he wasn’t sure he had the right anymore.

You closed the distance.

You grabbed his coat and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was months of pretending. Months of unsaid words. Months of jealousy and late-night calls and sitting too close.

His hands found your waist instantly, like muscle memory. Like they’d been waiting.

When you pulled away, your breathing was uneven.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered.

“You’re worse,” he replied, forehead resting against yours.

“So what now?”

He looked at you with that stubborn, intense gaze that always made you feel seen and challenged at the same time.

“Now,” he said, “we stop pretending we’re exes.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “We’re going to fight again.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re still going to get jealous.”

“Definitely.”

“I’m still going to overthink.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” he interrupted, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek, “I’d rather fight with you than live without you.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

Down below, the campus buzzed with Valentine’s confessions and new beginnings.

But yours wasn’t new.

It was old. Familiar. Complicated.

Real.

He slipped his hand into yours like he never stopped.

pairing: scaramouche x fem!reader

a/n: y'all know those couples who break up at least twice a week? It's my inspo here, kinda.✌🏻 NOT ANGST BTW!!

synopsis: Scara wasn’t just an ex. He was a force you couldn’t escape. Weeks after you broke up, he’s with someone new, but every look, every smirk, still belongs to you. Teasing, flirting, provoking—none of it matters until his frustration erupts at the lockers, with half the school watching. Once you’re dangerously his, there’s no breaking free.

You never really knew what your relationship with Scara was. Not the clean, pretty kind people write about in books. It wasn’t outright toxic, but it wasn’t wholesome either. Fights over stupid things, fights over nothing at all, and then sparks that burned like fire. Laughing so hard you forgot why you were mad, stolen touches in hallways, late-night calls where he teased you until you were ready to strangle him—addictive, infuriating, impossible to escape.

And yes, he had this… way about him. That smirk, that tilt of his head, the way he looked at you like he owned your attention—it was hypnotic. Like you weren’t under control, but you couldn’t look away.

Four weeks ago, it ended. Another fight, same as always. He walked away. You didn’t chase him—not because you didn’t want him, but because letting him go was easier than admitting how much he still controlled your thoughts.

But now… now he was leaning against the cafeteria railing, arm wrapped around some girl who clearly thought she’d hit the jackpot. You and your friends sat three tables away, drinks in hand, and the fire in your chest ignited. You didn’t bother hiding it.

"Wow," you said loud enough for anyone to hear. "That’s… really his type now? What a downgrade. I mean, I guess you can do worse than her, but like… seriously?"

Your friends snorted, covering their mouths with hands, trying not to laugh, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to hear. You wanted him to squirm.

The girl froze. She spun to Scara, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin line. "Excuse me? I am his type," she said, voice tight. "What’s your problem?"

You leaned back, shrugging lazily, grin wicked. "Oh, no problem. Just… noticing the obvious. You’re cute and all, but let’s be real.. he’s clearly settling. Am I wrong?"

Your friends burst into giggles, whispering to each other, egging you on.

The girl’s cheeks flushed, and she jabbed at Scara’s arm. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

He didn’t. Didn’t even flinch. Smirk still plastered perfectly on his face, eyes on you. That smirk… it was magic, a little cruel, and totally hypnotizing. And you? You thrived on it.

Then Childe strolled in, casually leaning on a table near you. He caught your eye, and you caught his. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip. Bold, teasing, open—like he’d been waiting for permission that he didn’t need.

"Well, look who’s here," Childe said, grin spreading. "Still stealing hearts, huh?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you replied, leaning against the table, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m just… entertaining myself."

He laughed, leaning closer, voice low. "Mm, I like that. Confidence. Dangerous. Reckless."

You smirked, flicking your hair over your shoulder. "You talking about me, or someone else?"

"You, definitely you," he said, eyes glinting. "Though… someone nearby seems a little… tense about it."

"Really now?" You shrugged. "I can’t imagine why." You leaned closer, voice teasing, letting your words carry just enough flirtation to make it sting. "Maybe I’m just fun to watch. Or maybe some people are jealous."

Your glance slid to Scara. Eyes darkened. Face tightened. That smirk barely flickered. He hated this. Loved it. Couldn’t have both. And you knew exactly what you were doing.

Two weeks of this—Childe flirting, you teasing, Scara simmering—culminated in the hallway by the lockers. He grabbed you, slamming you hard against the cold metal, hands bracketing your face.

No words. No preamble. Pure frustration. Pure intent. Your body reacted instantly, heat rushing to places only he could ignite.

People stopped, murmurs rising like wildfire. "Ooohhh, they’re gonna kill each other!" someone yelled. Another whispered, "He looks pissed!" Students circled, phones out, some leaning in closer. Even Childe and the new girl froze, mouths slightly open.

Scara didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His lips crashed onto yours—hard, possessive, angry. No warning. No teasing. Pure frustration, pure claim, pure you belong to me. Your hands instinctively tangled in his hair, pressing closer, letting him have every inch of dominance he wanted.

Half the school watched. Childe’s grin faltered, stepping back, realizing he wasn’t the one in control anymore. The girl paled, realization dawning that she had no claim over him. Your friends cheered quietly from the edge, capturing every second on their phones.

The kiss ended as suddenly as it started, but Scara didn’t pull away completely. Forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy, eyes dark and molten, lips still brushing yours every so often. He didn’t speak, but his grip and gaze said everything: 'don’t think you can play with me, don’t flirt with anyone else, don’t test me.'

Then the girl stormed off, clearly mad, huffing and muttering something about how ridiculous this was. You noticed and couldn’t help but smirk, turning your face up at Scara.

"Wow, your 'girlfriend' just ran off," you teased, voice dripping with amusement. "Doesn’t look like she’s handling you very well."

Scara’s eyes darkened. "She’s not my girlfriend." he growled.

"Oh, come on," you interrupted, smirk widening. "She’s just… what? A prop? Something to make you look better?" You winked. "Or… maybe just practice for the real thing?"

Childe, still leaning casually a few steps back, let his smirk creep back onto his face. "Oh, this is rich," he murmured. "You really can’t help yourself, can you, Scara?"

Scara’s eyes snapped to him, glare cutting.

Childe raised a hand innocently, voice teasing low enough only they could hear. "Relax, I’m just observing. Don’t want to interrupt… yet."

Then, with a final smirk, Childe turned and walked away, clearly off to flirt with someone else, leaving you and Scara in the hallway, still pressed together, still charged with tension, and the rest of the school whispering, gasping, and waiting for the next explosion.

Lovin the makeover u did :D