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zushimart · 7 months

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crossed wires, ch.2. m!spiderman!reader x civilian!scara. friends to lovers, childhood friends. 2.6k words. warnings: a car almost hits someone, no one is hurt. read ch.1/the teaser here. and remember to leave feedback if you enjoyed!

there’s quiet chatter in the blindingly bright classroom of his morning lecture. the professor is filing through papers in his office a room over, so students are free to flit from one table to the next and examine the different instruments organized for the laboratory.

he takes a seat in the chair at a table farthest from the door, a good distance from the board. it used to be an issue – just last year he was squinting to make out little letters on a powerpoint slide – but now, his gaze is crystal clear. must’ve gone to the campus café together, he notices, eyes glancing at the neighboring table of pre-med sorority girls sipping through straws while trading their phones around.

“i don’t think i’d be into him if i could see his face,” one says, passing a phone back. “like, not to sound shallow…”

her friend pulls her hair back into a pony, shrugging, “so what if you can or can’t see his face? either way, he’s still spiderman.”

“what if he’s bald?” the third one asks, scrolling to another video of the hero taken from the night before.

“some bald people are cute!” the other girl protests. “and he’s better than anyone on your roster,” she says, earning a laugh and a smack to her shoulder.

and despite them paying him no mind, he shrinks into his seat, embarrassed. he keeps an eye and an ear out, though, unable to staunch his own curiosity. he hadn’t had time this morning to see the videos the public managed to catch. the haphazard stop of a grand theft auto almost escalated into a sticky car chase with him attached to the trunk, flying in the wind like a piece of paper.

“i would let him,” the first girl admits. “unless he’s like, over forty.”

“that would make it even better,” one of them giggles.

“what are you staring at?” a familiar voice cuts through his eavesdropping and he tilts his head to the side just before scara can shove him forward, evading the playful blow. “how do you always manage to do that?”

“‘cause i know you so well,” he says, not looking up. “good morning, scara.”

“yeah, hey,” scara mumbles while pulling out the seat beside him. “signora texted me this morning saying she’s using one of her free skips and childe’s traveling for a varsity game.”

“so… we’re alone?” he tries not to sound too excited.

“for lecture and lab, yeah. it’s in pairs anyway. they’ll have to make it up together.”

a yelp from the table over startles them both as one of the girls fights her friends for her phone back in a fit of giggles. he tears his eyes away from them and looks to scara, pulling out materials for class.

“hey…” he bids and scara hums expectantly. “how do you feel about spiderman?” he rubs the back of his neck. “i heard them talking about him earlier…”

scara raises an eyebrow. “what about him?”

“like,” he blows air, “would you consider yourself like, i dunno, a fan?”

“do you?”

he chews his lip. “i-i guess?”

scara nods slowly and shrugs. “hmn.”

“what?”

“don’t really have an opinion. i haven’t thought about it.” scara’s pause stretches into seconds before he opens his mouth again. he likes to make people wait for him. “i guess if it’s one guy… it’s nice that he can protect people from like… i dunno, freak evil scientist shit,” scara says. “vigilante shit is weird. i’ll think about it more.”

“mn. i didn’t really mean morally,” he says, twisting the string of his hoodie around his finger.

“then how did you mean it?” scara asks, tapping the tip of his capped pen against his lips.

“do you think he’s… like…” he asks. “you know…”

scara’s lip puckers like he’s tasted something sour. “are you into him?” he asks like lightning.

“i asked first.”

“i haven’t looked hard enough.”

“fine, then me neither.”

scara laughs, crossing his arms. “yeah right, you’ve totally got spiderman underwear, maybe some toys to match,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“i do not!” his voice cracks with indignation. “he’s not my type at all.”

embers burn in scara’s heart, pumping hot blood to his face and turning it pink. he props his chin up with his hand, head firmly turned. “and what’s your type?” he mumbles, muffled through his fingers.

but the professor strides into the room. the chatter stalls as he readies his powerpoint and podium before staring expectantly at the clock to strike eight on the dot. textbooks slam onto the table, laptops open, pens and pencils hit paper – their conversation lost in biology.

he hands scara a pair of forceps, opening and closing his mouth like a fish while a question bounces around his mind a few times.

“you look stupid,” scara says, catching him in the periphery.

“i like people smarter than me,” he blurts. “a-and… mean to me. what do you like?”

scara blinks.

“still on this?” he asks, blasé concealing how his hands falter.

“don’t squeeze too hard,” his labmate says with his way of twisting a command into the whisper of a suggestion. at anyone else’s correction, irritation would pickle scara’s mood.

“are those your only qualifications?” scara snaps.

he blinks. “should i have more?”

“lots of girls are smarter than you,” he points out. “your iq’s not anything special, anyway.”

“i said people?”

“what?”

“i said people smarter than me,” he says.

scara swallows hard, looking up to meet confusion written in those eyes. “oh.” he mumbles, heart slamming uncomfortably hard against his ribcage. “…then even more people are smarter than you.”

“but not a lot of people are mean to me,” he points out, reaching over to turn the burner off before their solution bubbles over. “not like it makes a difference, anyway,” he says with a decorative smile. “because maybe the people mean to me aren’t very smart at all.”

if he didn’t know any better, scara might think he was flirting. “maybe,” he blurts, nervousness ballooning in his throat.

“so, you didn’t know?”

“know what?” he snaps, blush blooming.

“people not girls.”

“you don’t talk about it,” scara points out. “you’re secretive about… that.” he always has been, dodging truth or dare at middle school sleepovers and avoiding drinking games at high school parties like he’s afraid he’ll admit something or kiss the wrong person.

“so, you thought i was off the table?” he teases with a half-smile.

well, yeah. scara’s only ever seen him with a girl before. he remembers, the colors still vibrant and the shapes still sharp, unlocking their cramped first-year dorm without warning only to catch him tussling teeth and tongue with his half-sister, mona. scara’s mouth twitches into the ghost of a grimace in the wake of the resurfaced memory.

this time, scara successfully pushes him away, but he’s giggling as he takes stumbling steps back.

he can’t deny how revolutionary the admission is. they’d somehow veered into a timeline where the weed of affection growing a woody stem in scara’s stomach could blossom. maybe he could even pluck it as it grows up his throat and hand it to the boy next to him. and maybe he wouldn’t sneer. maybe he might quite like it, think it nice and keep it in a vase.

a part of scara hopes he might have a type. that type. smarter than him, sure. mean to him, of course. with dark hair, blunt bangs, and maybe… ugh.

“i can’t believe you kissed my sister,” scara mutters under his breath.

“i-i, what? where is this coming from?” he squeaks back, throwing a pair of hands into the air. “that was, like, years ago and it— you know what? you keep dodging my questions,” he accuses.

scara rolls his eyes, scissors slicing fine white lines of paper into test strips.

“so, what kind of people do you like?”

“i like guys dumber than me, obviously,” scara mumbles. nice to me, he thinks to himself. “maybe someone funny. i don’t know.”

and this time, in his periphery, he catches sight of a bit back smile, lips stretched over hidden teeth. “spiderman’s your type, then?”

“i wouldn’t know,” scara grumbles at the reintroduction. like the arrival of a rival, he bitterly reflects. “maybe he’s yours. i don’t care for celebrities.”

“fine,” he draws out the syllable, almost annoyed. a hand pushes scara’s shoulder as he dips the test strips into the solution, knocking him a step to the left and interrupting his ministrations. pressure builds like steam in the teakettle of scara’s little body, but before he can open his mouth to admonish, his labmate is staring at his phone.

“gotta use the bathroom. might take awhile. feels explosive,” he mumbles, body moving to catch up with how faraway his mind has already run. like a flash, it happened.

and scara grabs his wrist before he can take a second step.

“you’re lying,” he says, eyes a little wide as if he’s surprised with himself… surprised by the motion sickness surging from the unpredictable swings between giddy excitement to sharp frustration to sluggish disappointment.

the boy looks from scara’s hold, tight enough to cut off circulation, to his eyes. surprise mirrors surprise. his mouth opens, but this time, nothing comes out.

scara looks away. he pulls away. he makes himself smaller. “whatever. just go. fuck off.”

he walks away without a word.

he sips from a juicebox while mentally mapping his patrol route for the rainy afternoon on his walk home from classes. he couldn’t make it back from the corner store robbery before the end of biology and he winces when he remembers the look on scara’s face. guilty conscience manipulates his fingers into sending another apology text that’s delivered but never read. maybe if he finishes the report before scara opens the document, his haughty prince will forgive him.

muscle memory takes him up a staircase, fingers fishing a ring of keys from his pocket to unlock a heavy 19th century door. it swings open on rusty hinges, screaming loud enough to inspire ghost stories at least three floors down. he gives a tentative hello to his aunt, smoke billowing from the kitchen as may disassembles the beeping alarm dangling from the ceiling. she gives him an apologetic smile and he rolls up his sleeves to open rusted-shut windows, fanning for a moment before she shoos his help away.

he holes up in his bedroom, keeping a careful ear listening till minutes later, like clockwork, he hears a goodbye followed by the heavy door swinging closed with another awful groan. after double-checking the stove to avoid another building fire, he’s ready to exit.

patrol is slow. between stopping a simple collision and rescuing a cat from a tree, nothing calls his immediate attention. and now, he sits in wait. the sky looks heavy, but not exhausted — just tired enough to droop. he blinks rain from the eyes of his mask, thinking to himself how useful it might be to have doc ock’s personal phone number so the guy could shoot him a text when he’s on the move. until he catches sight of an achingly pretty face amongst a sea of multi-colored umbrellas.

it isn’t stalking, he thinks to himself as he sticks close to the wall across the narrow street, unspotted by pedestrians below. just curiosity. making sure he’s safe. scara disappears into a flower shop. a few minutes later, he blossoms from the door holding a small bouquet of baby’s breath and a single carnation, eyes glued to his phone as he takes a stumbling step forward onto the sidewalk.

he smiles, a big tenderness swelling in his chest as he imagines himself wrapping an arm around scara’s shoulders to steady his gait.

until there’s an eerie tingle singing up the back of his neck.

the sound of a taxi hitting the brakes after a sharp turn echoes between buildings. tires hydroplane across slick city streets and the yellow cab hurtles over the curb like a speed bump, giving scara a single second between looking up and being hit by two tons of metal.

webs have shot out and stuck to the back of the car. the force of his superhuman pull, leveraged by swinging around a telephone pole and a streetlight, brings the taxi to a screeching halt just a hair’s length away from where scara stands.

some onlookers offer a quick cheer as spiderman jumps down onto the sidewalk before returning to busy lives, but a few linger to watch and film the superhero skitter over to the boy standing stock still in front of the car, frozen in shock.

“are you okay?” he asks, hands reach scara’s shoulders just before he’s shoved off with alien strength — shocked into the realization that he is a complete stranger.

he takes a step back and lets his eyes flit to the taxi to check if the occupants are okay. the driver’s stumbling out, unharmed and apologetic as he surveys the damage to his vehicle.

the hero’s attention snaps back to scara when he stutters, “s-sorry.” he’s white-knuckling the bouquet in his hands, stems broken.

spiderman clears his throat, coughs once or twice as he tries to drop his pitch, “your flowers,” he says. scara shakes his head like he’s coming to and looks down, quickly loosening his grip. “that was scary,” he supplies.

scara swallows hard. “yeah,” he manages. “holy shit. um, thanks,” he bows his head with gratitude. “yeah, thank you,” he repeats a bit firmer.

“no problem,” he says, devoid of all usual disarming charm as his mind conjures a world where he took a minute longer during lunch or made a left instead of a right on the boulevard.

actually, he almost throws up.

scara walks off.

he stares after him, legs moving to catch up quicker than his thoughts can.

scara glances to his right and almost jumps. “w-what? why are you following me? did i forget something?” he slows down, almost to a stop. he looks around at the eyes glued to their interaction, spotting a few phones pointed their way.

“yeah, my number,” he jokes, the delivery falling flat, tripping over the crack in his voice.

scara’s face twists in confusion. “what?”

“a-actually, i can’t give you that,” he stutters. “sorry. it’s just, that was scary. and i was worried and i’m still worried. like, i’m shaking,” he says, raising a hand to show scara the tremor. “but maybe that’s ‘cause you’re really, like, totally beautiful.” oh my god, shut the fuck up, he thinks to himself in a panic. “that’s not what i meant, sorry. wait, i do mean that. you are beautiful. that’s not the point, though, i wanted to make sure that… you’re okay? because if i’m like this, how do you feel? you know?”

he spoke so much for so long that, at the end of his stream of consciousness, the street somehow feels quiet despite the bustle.

with wide eyes, scara tries to placate. “i-i’m okay. thanks to you,” he offers, uncertainty dripping from the words.

“good!” he chirps, clasping his hands together. “okay, yeah. good.”

scara shies away from the superhero and his onslaught of audience attention as pedestrians rubberneck. “i’m gonna… go now,” he says, slowly backing away with another nod.

“right!” spiderman says, “yeah, be safe! safe-r, i guess…” he calls after scara as he’s swallowed by raincoats and umbrellas. stupid, stupid, stupid, he thinks to himself. even superhero status can’t save the idiot he becomes in front of indigo eyes.

the small crowd descends, a courageous few opening the avenue to a few lucky celebrity selfies. ugh, he always has a hard time saying no.

#scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #i tried to incorporate prev criticisms tbh LOL #i think i avoided using a name placeholder for reader entirely this time around #ch 3 is almost written tbh it just needs heavy editing #guys it literally gets kind of angsty #anyway i really hope you like this i spent a lot of time on it #and i would love if someone left a comment or an ask #:3 #its my first time writing scarafic in foreveeervevevrrr #as we know #tbh #the absence has been sorely felt

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