shynsgore

Latest Posts by shynsgore

The Harder They Fall

⋆ HunterxHunter »» Eyes + Colors ⋆

how do i explain that im not able to miss people without sounding like an asshole

everyday i wake up and attempt my silly little tasks while daydreaming about fictional characters

wishing I could freeze time so fanfic writers could write all of their slow-burn enemies to lovers and gay porn and fix-it fics and all of their WIPs and prompts without having to worry about life and other responsibilities

[Genshin 5.6 quest]

ik albedo's sassy ass is slightly pissed off with how they think so lowly of him

Light that illuminates all

I turned off guest comments on a fic I’ve been working on. Im sorry if you’ve genuinely enjoyed what I write and no longer can leave a comment, but I highly recommend making an AO3 account regardless.

Anyway, here’s what I did so:

Considering the fake-out praise at the beginning, this was clearly meant to get under my skin. I’m assuming this was written by a guest who recently left a critical comment on what I wrote. Someone came to my defense in that initial thread today, and this person crashed out and decided to shit on me anonymously on the next chapter. Again, can’t be sure, but the complaints are similar, and either way it honestly doesn’t matter.

I cannot stress enough how immature, disrespectful, and rude it is to do something like this. I don’t care if I’m writing the most incoherent and amateur story on earth, this would STILL be inappropriate. I mentioned in the endnote of this chapter that I recently had a severe RSD spiral and was overall doing extremely unwell, and this person did not care and/or saw that as an opportunity to beat me while I’m down. Fantastic.

Anyway, fic writers such as myself are doing this for free, for fun, and do not owe you anything. If you don’t like what you’re reading, just stop reading it or write what you want to read. It’s that fucking simple.

I’m honestly uncomfortable knowing this person is lurking because spending hundreds of hours of my life on a project that I’ve legitimately lost sleep over and treated as a part time job is not worth this amount of anxiety. Im not going to discontinue or lock this story, but I’m pretty upset and disappointed people out there are like this.

Please don’t be this person, and if you’re a fic writer and anyone does this, don’t engage.

falsely (?) accused gang

"I'm gay!" "I'm autistic!" "I'm a good person!" Okay ? I'm a mess? I'm a loser ? I'm a hater ? I'm a user ?

leave the front line to the cavalry

Actor AU Diluc has done irreversible damage on me

Haii, can i ask if you have any writing tips? Your writing is so good(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)‼️

read a fuck ton of literature. read a fuck ton of fics. basically just fucking read a shit ton, and google words or sentences u don't understand. basic, i know get off my ass, but i also suggest learning a LOT of slang sentences cuz it makes your work feel much more fluent in the language.

for me, whenever i write, i always have this word goal that's basically just me adding new words or slang phrases into my fics so that when it's read, it's not really repetitive iykwim but sometimes i also get kinda overboard that it gets too inconsistent so watch out for that lmao

this shit is.. so peak

xvii. wut i liek abt u (written work)

Your phone blared, raucous sounds treading through the halls of airy tiles. For fuck’s sake, you are horrendously late for that 1:1 Meeting you were supposed to arrive five fucking minutes ago.

Reason for your current horrible tardiness, whatsoever?

Scaramouche.

You have no fucking idea why or how you once thought that it'd be all fucking sunshines and rainbows when the notion of being friends with him was presented to you like it was rain to drought. Perhaps, it was by the fact that you've seen him in such odious light for so long that the idea of even seeing him in anything but such gives you..hope?

Was it hope you felt—or relief that you could be somewhat of a semblance resembling that of a friend to him?

Well, whatever you felt three or fuck days ago doesn't matter the fuck now. Because, that Asshole obviously made the conscious and obnoxious decision to.. what? You ask?

Tie your goddamn shoe laces to one of the chairs. Which led you to stumble, face-first, into the scrumptious fucking floor.

Why.

You're so serious, why. At this point, this isn't even innocent rivalry anymore; this is just pure bullying.

(You disregard the numerous occurrences wherein you hung his earphones over the fan, sending it in a spiral as it did its job. Also that one time you tried sweeping him off the feet—not figuratively, shut the fuck up—with a broom, only to backfire and send the both of you to cleaning duty on lunch for three days.)

‘Either way, I'll make sure to put a good motherfucking word on that asshole’s name. Treat him like god, or something. Hell, even Keqing would be surprised. The others better be fucking ready for my goddamn praise for fuck’s sake—’

Okay, deep breaths. One, two, three, four—

“Mom, why is she breathing like that?”

Fucking hell.

–

“So,” Keqing curiously raises her brows, keen eyes flitting to the clock then to you with suspicion, “it's not like you to be late. Nearly 30 minutes at that, as well.”

A placating and apologetic smile rose to your lips, hoping to unease the seething aura that straightened equilibrium is radiating, ‘cause holy shit, I can literally feel how annoyed she is and she looks fucking normal, “I’m sorry. I didn't mean it, truly. It's just that.. you-know-who held me up.”

She blinks, said ‘seething aura’ ebbing away once the secret identity of ‘you-know-who’ dawns on her, and she snickers, “seriously? him again? for someone as brilliant as you, you sure have your short-comings with getting along with some certain people, huh?”

You shrink back in your seat, squirming in displeasure, “don't even mention it.”

An amused smile. Then, she reaches for the chair and pulls it back; all the while bringing the laptop closer, “well, I'm sure we can talk about your problems later. Please assist me on this. It's quite a struggle, if I must admit.

‘Thank fuck she didn't press on,’ you thought, squinting at the bold letters of the headline.

–

It's a good ol’ two hour study session about how The Great Depression fucked the entirety of US because of Donald Trump’s great predecessor; Herbert Fucking Hoover.

It was a great lesson, really. All about stuff like, “why we should always know the importance of having a budget”—which you should definitely lecture Hu tao about; because she sure loves spending money on those coffin keychains that's on sale this month.

Currently, the library is entrancingly washed in that afternoon light as rays of sunlight peeked through the gaps of curtains and painted those beneath it a golden color of stripes and spots. Said library in Teyvat High equated to the library in Sumeru Academy, which is an incredible achievement in itself considering that Sumeru is quite widely known for its adept scholars.

“Mhm, I'll be there soon,” Keqing hummed, stacking her papers as she shifted to maneuver the phone properly between her ear and shoulder, “probably around.. 5:00PM, Is that okay?”

A few more, “yeah,” “okay, okay,” and she hangs up.

An apologetic huff left her lips, “sorry to cut this off, [Name]. Ganyu really needs help with her research paper. Something about.. economics, was it?”

You smiled, “it's fine. I need to go to the café anyway, I have a shift in 30 minutes.”

“Great!” She perked, “I'll get going then.”

“Make sure to tell Ganyu to read newspapers. It'll help!”

Keqing and Ganyu. The proficient duo in the campus; some speculate they're dating, but really, they're just great friends. You wouldn't be surprised if they started dating though. Ms. Ningguang would definitely approve of their relationship.

Sighing, you checked the time before starting to arrange the horrible amount of papers scattered, and god, I still have that maths assignment due on Saturday—which is—fuck! tomorrow? fucking tomorrow!? God, I'm gonna kill myself, I shouldn't have eaten lunch today and finished it at that time instead—

“Wow, you really do mumble.”

You flinched, head haphazardly turning to the source of noise and, what the fuck, is that Childe?

“What are you doing here, Mister..” you subtly squinted, digging through your Long Ass memory collection of titles you memorized out of boredom, “Tartaglia, eleventh of the Role Model Council.”

He rolled his eyes, making a hand slash face gesture of, ‘don't call me by that name, it sounds stupid,’ before pulling out a chair from one of the tables (one wherein Keqing just sat; you narrowed your eyes), “sit down, let's have a talk, shall we?”

Then, as the words flows out of his mouth, a sneaky—akin to that of a fucking fox—grin creeps over to his face, painting the planes of his face into a sharp, eerie image. And, what the fuck. A buzz courses through you; a fucking sign of bad omen.

Tick fucking tock.

‘What the fuck is about to happen to me.’

–

“O..kay, you're telling me,” you exasperatedly pinched your nose, “you want me to go on another date in exchange for another hang-out with the Asshole.”

The Ginger Freak—a title you dubbed to him fifteen minutes ago—beams, illusory cherry flowers blooming at the sides of his bright face, “absolutely! You won't mind coffee, right?”

You mustered up the most blank and deadpanned look you could manage; hopefully radiating waves of hopelessness and what-the-fuck-ness.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how earth-shattering it was for you to bow to the shittiest Asshole in school and lick his boots.

Re: the hang-out was an enormous smack-in-the-ass for your dignity that it stood on equal footing to giving a damn feet-job of your fucking cousin or whatever. It also unlocked a few epiphanies that constantly buzzed in the outer corners of your mind as you studied.

Though, the biggest fat fucking elephant standing in the damn room right now (as wide as the fucking shelves which goes over 15 meters, by the way) is the question that you decide to voice out loud: “Do you actually like me, or are you just setting me and the—..me and Scaramouche up?”

The Ginger Freak tensed, shoulders subtly squaring as the corner of his lips twitched. If you hadn't paid attention, you would've missed it.

A pregnant air settled over the atmosphere, sending chills on your back as you flashed him your customary customer-service smile, “well?”

Another imperceptible twitch in the muscles of his biceps. Then, a ‘damn, you caught me!’ huff.

“Ugh, busted,” he pouted, the sight childish.

An amused snicker, “acting all sly like that differs from the hearsay I've heard from you, you know.”

“‘s that so?”

“Uh huh,” you nodded, raising a brow, “now spill, hurry up.”

The table rattled as he frantically stood up, inadvertently making noise and therefore attracting fucking noise, and holy shit, you're going to duct-fucking-tape this Ginger’s mout—,“another hang-out! Please!”

You blinked, appeasement slowly washing over your face, “okay?”

Another blink, this time, it comes from bright ocean eyes, “yes!”

“Okay, first, sit down,” amusement tugged at the end of your lips; he really did look like a golden retriever, “okay, good. Now, listen to me: why do you want us two to hang out so badly? I mean, it's really coming off.. weird, you know?”

“Is that what it's coming off as?” He inquired innocently, with the tilt and whatnot, “I assure you it's not like that. I'm just worried for him, you know? Pooks is usually left alone in his home, so he often comes over to mine or Furina’s. But nowadays, we've both been busy and the others can't exactly…”

“Give the space he needs?” You finished, ignoring the pet name he casually referred to the biggest Asshole on earth.

“Yep,” he cheerfully snaps his fingers, popping off the ‘p’.

“So, in other words, you want me to be his caretaker.”

“Not like that..”

“Don't give me that look—it sounds exactly like it.”

His cheeriness is as quick to fade as it appeared and he deflates like a balloon, an apologetic pout crawling over his features, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have burdened you with this.”

…Cute. Gah! Wait, no!

Then, in a fit of Cuteness Crisis, you clumsily sputter out, “No! it's fine, I can totally hang out with the Asshole anytime he wants to! Or.. if you want to—wait, what the fuck am I sayin—”

And before you could even spiral about the careless slip, the table stupidly fucking rattles again, this time; with more noise and more annoyed ‘hushes’ resonating in the air as Childe, the Motherfucking Cute Dickhead, hushedly squeals in a boyishness you find endearing, “great! so great. oh my god, that's so awesome, dude! seriously, thank you!”

There's practically sparkles swimming in the gleams of those lit-up eyes and, fffuuuccckkk, he's so cute and hot, I'm going to fucking scream. Hopefully by the universe above, the infuriating heat that's burning the fat of your cheeks isn't as visible as you think they fucking are because that's really fucking embarrassing.

A fleeting three-minutes passed of shared laughs and giggles, before Childe concerningly pauses.

Keyword: concerningly because the Ginger Freak never pauses like Satan, himself, slurped the soul out of his body for fucking breakfast.

It's only a 3-second warning before a nuclear hits you in the fucking face, all the while shouting, ‘fucking bull’s eye, motherfucker!’ because—

“Wait, are you doing this because you like, like Scaramouche? Serious mode, this time.”

It's also a 3-second moment of stoically staring at him. Point dead in the fucking eye, because, what the fuck did he just say. No, scratch that. What he says next is probably even worse.

“Ah, wait, no. It's okay, I get it. The last hang-out was a date, right?” he smugly winks at the mention of the D-word, probably for another teaspoon of stress to boiling crimson.

And, god. How many insufferable accusations of you having a silly little crush over him will it take before you fucking explode? Because, right now, exactly in this goddamn moment is this one shitty hell of an accusation that is so close to crossing over the gateway to hell.

Deep breaths, one.. two.. three.. “Childe.”

“Hm?”

“Serious mode, as well—please stop convincing yourself that I like him. I truly really,” you grit out a smile, strained and so clipped, “really don't like him.”

A smirk, undeterred despite your seething frame, “well, serious mode too, then. I suggest at least befriending him, ya know? Even though he's an asshole most of the ti—okay fine, he is an asshole, entirely, jeez.. don't look at me like that..”

He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, a genuine and fond smile tilting the slightest corner of his lips, “but you know, he's still kinda precious to me. If you get what I mean. I know I should've asked someone.. more compatible, but right now, what you two have... is like, more than just being compatible or close. It's something deeper and rare. And frankly, it’s the kind of connection most people spend their whole lives hoping to find, if you know what I mean?”

‘What you two have... is like, more than just being compatible or close. It's something deeper and rare. And frankly, it’s the kind of connection most people spend their whole lives hoping to find.’

Another of that fond, genuine smile as he leans back in his chair, the sound creaking, “we seriously thought that you were just some ordinary rival he’d piss off in a day and then ignore, back then, ya know? It was weird seeing him talk about you a week later when you told to..”

‘What you two have... is like, more than just being compatible or close. It's something deeper and rare. And frankly, it’s the kind of connection most people spend their whole lives hoping to find.’

“Ya know, what you said to him, and I quote, “I'll send your dismembered body to hell and back if you don't leave me the fuck alone. And he never really did leave you alone, did he?”

‘What you two have... is like, more than just being compatible or close. It's something deeper and rare. And frankly, it’s the kind of connection most people spend their whole lives hoping to find.’

Seriously, what the fuck is that supposed to mean!?

Disgust—or is it really?—burns the back of your throat, and an unusual wave of warmth slithers all the way from your neck to your throat. And, holy motherfuck, what is happening to me. The warmth that coursed through was not a blush. It definitely leaned more towards the side of embarrassment, shame and humiliation. Yeah, that's what it was. Nothing more, nothing less, stat.

An internal slap in the face was all it took to snap back to confusion swimming in the glimmer of ocean gaze and a vexatious smile that is probably about to part and ask, “are you okay?”

Yes, you are fucking peachy. Not okay, but fucking peachy.

It doesn't come, though—because the second his lips parted, the annoying fuckass ringtone you've grown accustomed to shrieks in the fucking library, out of all places, and it dawns on you then that you completely forgot to mute Phone Calls.

The two of you turn to the noise; one flinching and swerving head left to right to gawk at other patrons who're clearly pissed off by the numerous times they caused unnecessary noise, whereas the other.. the other is fucking dead.

One look at your phone and the bright, “insufferable asshole whom i shall not dare interact.”

Also, the little note on your fuckass alarm which helpfully wrote, “clean up the damn tables in case of piss” kindly reminded you that the shift you spoke of was merely.. an hour ago? or, was it forty-minutes ago? In other words, you're late. Again.

You scramble to snatch the phone from your bag, quickly pressing the ‘decline’ button before asking the Ginger Freak to help organize the fucking clutter on the table–which he hectically agrees to, and he effortlessly swoops it all, stacking them as the papers caused repetitive little ‘thump’ against laminated wood.

Ugh. Ginger Freak with freaky long arms.

All it takes is one glance, and ‘the 99+ notifications’ manages to catch your eye first. Then, the, “do you want to fucking die where the fuck are you I know you're out there somewhere” message from you-know-who comes second.

A dull ache from your temple.

Shoving back the Token of Bad Luck (phone) in your bag, you hastily took the stack of papers, offering a small smile of gratitude, “uh, I didn't get to say this, but erm—you don't have to come to the date. Just tell me about it beforehand. And, admittedly, I also.. want to befriend the Asshole, so.. you're just doing me a favour here, and I appreciate it.”

Favour. In the name of Scaramouche. God, who would've thought?

The Ginger Freak lit up like someone had shined a flashlight through his nostrils, before smugly replying with a wink for dramatic flair, “well, I'm still going on that date. I’d like to get to know someone as fine as you are.”

“Right,” you stood up with a sound in-between a chuckle and a snort, already heading towards the exit, “whatever you say, I'll see you then?”

He grins mischievously, “yeah, see ya, babe.”

Lazy sunlight stuttered through gaps of trees that lined the start of the entrance road, rendering the pavement of constant light and dark shapes. It truly painted a pretty picture, which reminded you that winter is fucking coming and so is the quiz bee and examination.

Speaking of the quiz bee, the Mathematics Department hasn't decided on any pairs yet, and you kind of wonder when the choosing of the pairings will be. A niggling and annoying goblin nags at your nerves; prancing around and constantly mentioning a certain grape-haired asshole.

The familiar Scaramouche-Induced-Migraine that swelled behind your eyes was another massive fuck you! from the universe.

A subtle twitch in the neurons of your brain as you reeled back all the way to Childe’s words; words being: ‘what you two have... is like, more than just being compatible or close. It's something deeper and rare. And frankly, it’s the kind of connection most people spend their whole lives hoping to find.’

What the fuck is that supposed to mean!? And, hey, listen. Your mind absolutely blanked the fuck out at the mention of you two being more than rivals, because. Come on, these types of things? Playing ‘pulling pigtails’ with the asshole you've never directly interacted at all before you two were sent on the same hellscape? Doing the relentless jabs at each other thinking it was all friendly (friendly, my feet)? That's casual rivals. Seriously.

Are you in-denial? Certainly the fuck not. In textbook terms, something more than rivals is most likely to be acquaintances, friends—hell, even lovers (yuck).

Acquaintances is out of the fucking list, because you do know the fucker and are begrudgingly close with the asshole. So is friends because—a friend requires mutual care, and you do not give two fucks, two shits if the asshole had his dick cut off during circumcision and is in grief about it.

And—lovers? Yeah, no, might as well shoot yourself.

A noise of breath left your nose; brows furrowing and whatnot, a bubbling frustration emerging from the pit of your stomach. Feelings are a pain-in-the-ass, that's for sure. And so, you shoved the noxious notions far up your ass, and locked the fucking door.

Soon enough, the sign that read, “Rosis Café” all worn and weary entered your line of sight. You snuck a glance through the arched windows; and there in his mighty benevolence, the Asshole’s flashing a motherfucking pretty smile to the elderly. It's quite horrible how poorly stifled the old lady’s resistance to his “charm”, really.

You snorted, already treading up the cramped staircase. The bells jingled, the warmed-colored light seeped through an ajar of the door until it fully opened with a creak; and there, you met eyes with pale purple, blinking and blinking.

A cursory thought of Scaramouche, the asshole, potentially being possessed by an angel flashed through your mind, before the idea immediately gets dunked.

The bells jingled, gaze broken, as the door quietly shut. Few patrons you knew well greeted you with enthusiasm and light jest, and you persisted to ignore the little asshole’s gaze drilling to your frame all the while responding to said enthusiasm and light jest with reciprocity, until you reached the corridors, and then, the staff room.

The worn-out lock clicked, and a resigned sigh left your lips; body already slumping to the small bench as your bag slipped through your shoulders, dropping with a thump. And this. This is why being late fucking sucks.

Snapping away from your thoughts, you scurried to change out of your clothes, reaching for the work clothes. Then, out of the blue, a thrilling thought dawned on you; you could play the speakers now. Lightly grinning, you quickly changed, before making way to the shabby laptop tucked all the way in the corner.

Your grandmother had planned initially to buy a new one, but since the model of said shabby laptop could handle bluetooth and the necessities to handle a speaker, she shrugged the idea off. Begrudgingly, that is. She really wanted a new laptop.

(Cue your perfect idea for a Beloved Christmas Gift. Your leather wallet honestly feels really loaded with all the coins you saved up since nearly a week ago.)

The screen brightened to life, and you made swift work to connecting with the speakers and opening the playlist you had sent; albeit a bit slow, but boo fucking hoo, it's all you have and you can't really complain.

Not long, the speakers immediately made a noise; something akin to a radio glitching. Then, the familiar cadence of a male’s voice slithered through, and instantly, your mood sparked at the recognition.

Jeff buckley. Dream of you and I. An underrated classic, often overshadowed by his “Grace” album; which said album also managed to win a spot in the Rolling Stones list. It was an amazing time of music, your grandmother quoted. Either way, your personal favourite from Jeff Buckley had to be this song, and it's truly been a while since you've listened to it.

A smile tugged at your lips, nostalgic and all the sappy soft shit, then you stood up; reaching for the doorknob as it made a ‘click’ sound once again. Mild cinnamon and caffeine curled through the air, scent so thick that the taste of it lingered on the taste buds of your tongue like bees.

As you passed the corridor, a flick of a tongue resonated.

“Look who finally came. You're an hour late, by the way.”

Not for the first time, your eye twitched, “shut up, I got held up.”

A long, thoughtful look, before he strides over to you, immediately closing the distance and warmth rushes through your cheeks—then, a flick of the wrist and a sharp pain bloomed on the vast space of your forehead, “that's for being late, and for calling The Ginger Grinch hot.”

Your hand found itself hovering over the pain, as if it would offer consolation, “he is hot!”

Another tedious, agonizing look, “hot, my ass. That guy jerks off to sonadow.”

Oh. How morbid. Doesn't change the fact that the guy is hot, though. So, really, what the hell is his point?

Notable silence lingered, before another click of a tongue ushered you to the counter, all the while rubbing at the pain in hopes of easing the sharpness of it. Damn that asshole. You hope he crashes his Porsche sometime soon.

Ere long, the speakers played, “Easy lover by Philip Bailey”. And you hummed along the lines of the tune, sentimental and utterly oblivious of ivy fuckeyes looming over your form.

–

It's 6:00PM when the dark hours of nighttime seeps through the windows, and you take it as your cue to bring light to the entryway of the café. It's also 6:00PM when the last of the bustling customers walk out of the building with a satisfied glee to their face.

“You have dinner?” He mindedly asks, attention already drifting as he pops the portafilter to the holder. The sound of beep, beep chorusing in the empty café.

“Nope.” As usual. What's new, really.

Rolling his eyes, he flaccidly leans back into the counter sideways, both eyes now set on you, “of course. What do you want, onigiri or sushi?”

The fuck does he mean “of course”? Does he want to get kicked in the crotch, or something? And, no fucking way are you letting him buy you food again. You owe him nothing.

You sent him a glance, hopefully full of virulence and deadpan, “shut up, I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, I already went and grabbed food.. on the way here.”

“You do know that's called a fucking snack, right? Not dinner?”

“I still ate,” you retort, subtly pointing with your brow at the cheesecake category, “and it was.. barely five hours ago, I'll be fine.”

A grunt, an extremely irritated one, “that's called lunch, you fucking idiot.”

“Still—”

“No, shut up,” he clicks off the portafilter, swirling the cup as he effortlessly does a small heart on the Latte, “you're eating fuckass onigiri.”

Eyeing him, a frown twisted your face, utterly confused because why the fuck does he keep buying me food, “ugh, how much do I pay you?”

“Zero.''

“Shut your trap, how much?”

“I said, zero. Take it, or shove it up your ass. I don't care.”

“You're so crass,” you say, eyeing him as he throws the onigiri.

He flashes you a pseudo smile, “it's my charm. Now sit pretty, and eat there. It's our break, you damn fruitcake.”

Oh. Yeah, break. You haven't even noticed.

Circling around the counter, you pulled out a chair at one of the tables, and you sat on it like a Turk. For brief minutes, nothing was exchanged between the two of you, and god, numerous of obnoxious ideas in starting the conversation with—hey, you asshole, why'd you tie my shoes to the chair earlier—or—i told keqing i was late because of you, by the way— or—you shithole, what happened to you when i called you sweetheart—or—did you know childe thinks we're much more than just rivals—swam through your head, but all of them instantly melted at the fury that rose to your nerves at the thought of telling the former to the Asshole.

Fucking hell, you thought as you bit into the rice situated on your palms, why the fuck is it so awkward? why is he not talking. do I have to talk? I don't want to, though. Makes me look.. fucking needy, or whatever. Ugh, I still have to ask him to hang-out, but it's fucking night-time already. Should I just kill myself—

“Stop mumbling, you freak,” he snorts, the sound harsh and sharp.

At his remark, you discreetly diverted your gaze at the Asshole, who's currently perched in making fucking coffees or whatever, and absentmindedly wondered if someone shat on his breakfast. Probably seems to be the case though, considering how uptight he is right now.

‘Heh. Reminds me a lot of when he first arrived here. When was that? A month ago? Two months? God.’

“Fucking stingy asshole, yet he gives so many fucking onigiris like I'm some charity nutcase,” you inaudibly muttered with a frown, eyes roaming until all you could see was the damn tiled floor, “what the hell is up with him?”

–

The Fawkward Break passes by uneventfully. No words were exchanged, because being a Certified Pussy Conversationalist is a propensity you feel proud of having. And so, you continue your remaining shift in the staff room, because everyone is out in restaurants with proper foods and meals. And. Well. Take one guess and one look at what kind of an establishment you work at.

Mindlessly, you scrolled through the playlist, hopelessly torn between choosing, “(I Just) died in your arms,” or “What’s love got to do with it?”

Both are admittedly good to their bourne. And that's precisely why you're having a hard time. You pull at your bottom lip, squinting and squinting at the album covers, nitpicking all the colors within it as if that fucking helps.

Eventually, you tentatively decide on the former, and the male singer’s voice stretches as he sings out. Humming a satisfied noise, your feet leads you to the counter, only to find absolutely no customers in sight and for fuck’s sake, you're alone with him. Awesome shit.

The universe really does fucking hate you.

‘Oh I, I just died in your arms tonight It must've been something you said I just died in your arms tonight.’

“Did you know that dying is often used as like, a fucking euphemism for orgasm?”

A slow blink and frigid movement, startled by the sudden chance of conversation, “...um, uh, yeah? I mean, he was having sex with his girlfriend in this song, after all.”

You actually don't remember. Was it his girlfriend? or wife? Gulping, you swiftly passed by him, hoping by gods that he did not notice the quickening in your pace as you unceremoniously (or at least you tried) flopped on a beanbag.

His lips pursed into a thoughtful line, “there was.. a controversial theory circling around this guy, you know? Like some shit about him fucking a school girl, or whatever.”

What. You've never even heard about that, “what?”

“Yeah, fuckmunch,” a snicker, “a lot of the lyrics implies a shit ton of metaphors that involve children in it. And the dumbfucks in the 1980s thought that, “oh! fucking pedo that singer is!””

There's enthusiasm that's so distinguishable in the way the lilt of his voice rises just a tiny tad bit, and a fucking dangerous thought—that has completely nothing to do with how fucking cute the motherfucker’s voice is—crosses the roads of Dignity and Pride. Which is a whole level of fucking bad, and your brain fucking squeaks in motherfucking internal alert.

“Which is fuckin’ hilarious, by the way. But moving on, a lot of the lyrics actually suggested or implied him being guilty of having sex with a kid. Like, listen here–”

Listen to what? The fucking blarings in your brain, or the kicking of your rapid heartbeat beating the fuck out of your poor ribcage? Both of the options makes you wanna kill yourself. So, really, listen to what?

Scaramouche continues with boastful fervor–an actual! fucking! sincere! smile! on his! fucking! face!–and you burn toe-to-head, “and, then–a bunch of fuckassers decided that–[Name]? Are you fucking listening to me, or are you—are you imagining ten ways to fuck this portafilter to shitty Sunday, or something? Stop staring at me like I grew a dick from my mouth and say something, dipshit.”

Upon the second he uttered those words, dread quickly ran over you like a big fat ass truck, chasing away the fluttery bullshit haunting your ass prior, “shut up. That doesn't even make sense. Wouldn't that just mean you're doing a burgeoning blow job?”

“Burgeoning—are you fucking serious,” Absolutely, you want to say, but he, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be serious, considering the Asshole looks near constipated trying to stifle the amusement between his lips. Your heart slightly skips amidst its dying pace.

Sighing in a ‘done with your shit’ way, you narrowed your eyes suspiciously, “I will never get why you find dick jokes funny.”

Then, unbothered by the change of topic, he raises a brow, “yet you make one just as easily and effortlessly. ‘Sides the whole thing is just a damn spongy tissue, anyway. It's not like it's something so vile or vicious.”

“Yeah, sure,” you rolled your eyes, averting your gaze away from the shit-eating Asshole, “but once that thing gets near me, I'm cutting it off, and feeding it to the cats.”

A scoff, “Speaking of cats, remember the cat I stole from here a month and a half ago?”

Oh, right.

Shifting from your seat, a hum of curiosity and an affirmative invitation for him to talk left your lips.

“I have a name for her now. Went to get her to the vet a week ago, and she doesn't have any fucking diseases sucking her ass.

Your lips formed an appease ‘o’ and an inaudible, “that's nice” and he mischievously continued, leaning into the outer counter, laid-back and all that, “I'm naming her Missile Launcher Three Thousand One o’one.”

Missile Launcher Three Thousand One o’.. what?

“What did you just say?”

“Missile Launcher 3000-101; and her nickname? Missy.”

“What.. what is that name. Like, seriously,” you ghastly levelled the Asshole with the most disgruntled expression you could muster, “what is wrong with you.”

“Fuck off, you don't get to bash the name. You didn't even listen to my wonderful fucking rant about the Pedo Cutting Crew Theory.”

“...I'm sleepy, okay? Exams are coming,” it's not exactly wrong, but it's not entirely the reason why you've been drifting on and off.

A roll of his eyes, unconvinced, which—okay, reasonable, when have you ever let an excuse like that deter your focus? You indignantly huff, brows furrowing and determined to make your point, “hey, it is true! Maybe, it could be because your conspiracy theory is just so boring that it makes me yawn, you know?”

“Haah? It's not even my theory and I just wanted to—fucking, I don't know, share? Tch, fuck off. Whatever.”

A snort, “and for wh—”

Oh. Wait, is that why..

You deliberately shove down the fluttery pressure building in the guts of your chest.

“What true and profound conversational extraordinaire you are, huh?”

“..As if you're any better, choke on piss, fruitcake.”

You mildly scoff, this time leaning more towards the side of amusement, “at least I don't name my cat after literal bombs or jets. Who the hell names their cat like that?”

“Someone who can rub their two brain cells together, and you know who that fucking is?” He swiftly points a finger to himself, “me, of course, unlike your flimsy ass.”

Resisting the urge to shove a middle finger up his face, you rolled your eyes, leering all the while, “so cocky. No one would ever guess that a hotshot like you are would be so damn crass. I should ask for an autograph sometime, and maybe sell it to your future fans so I can get an extra 10 dollars and some shit.”

Scaramouche simply smirked smugly, “well this hotshot over here has great music taste.”

“What—”

“I'm changing the playlist, by the way. Guide me tomorrow on how to use the old ass laptop,” he flashed a smug look (eerily familiar except this one is tainted with all its vainglory), as he glanced to the right, precisely at the direction of the door, “80s songs in cafés are way too overrated anyway.”

Your eye shakily twitched at the remark, the Good Ol’ Scaramouche-Induced-Migraine sinking its teeth into the hypothalamus of your brain.

What the fuck is that supposed to fucking mean? Fucking overrated? In cafés? Is he calling your music taste.. bland? boring!?

Is he fucking serious?

You furiously rose up from your seat, mouth ajar to fucking argue because there's no fucking way is he calling your music taste bland when 80s songs are quite literally the Music of all time and—

“Welcome!”

Then, as if on fucking cue—a dazzling mother and her two kids enter the café with giddy smiles; excitement and the joy of childish wonder ebbing through the little skips of feet. The Asshole gracefully stood behind the counter, an easygoing pseudo-grin plastered on the shitty asshole’s doll-like face.

And, here you are in the scene; fists clenched, eyes bloodshot—with how fast the curious shine within the eyes of the children instantly drained out from their petite bodies the second they met your eyes—probably, body in a fighting stance, hair disheveled, expression bloody and borderline murderous, and a mind ready to gobble a whole fucking person.

“Mommy! A scary monster!”

“O-oh, I'm so sorry! Hush, dear!”

Fucking hell.

───────────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────────────────

|| previous episode - next episode. ||

───〃★tunes of your heartbeat masterlist

synopsis: in which your fate somehow gets entangled into a messy jumble between punk music in cozy cafés, intense rivalry, cherished yakults, parallelograms and quantum physics, competitions in contests and rainy days. or in other words; the universe seems to fucking hate your guts for whatever reason and decided to curse your love life with your awful crass emo twink-a-fuck rival. the question is; did the curse work?

taglist (50/50): @toekissers , @raineyun @localscarasimp , @potteraep , @shutingstar , @feiherp , @scaraenthusiast1 @dazqa , @wraithisd3adinside , @x-hihihi-x , @court-jester-stuff , @automaticpatroltragedy , @lalalaloveallmydays , @trulyylee , @jayzioxx , @featuredtofu @kazemiya @help-whatdoimakemyusername , @skyoverkill1 @phoenix-eclipses , @anqelkoz , @miyakomari @saechiro @franaby , @swivi , @vixialuvs , @heusalettle @kunikissr @yomishen @mywillt0live , @baldrapunzel @jiminscarmex @sushitushi, @liuaneee , @shynsgore , @mechanicalbeat1 , @marivaudages , @okukura , @azzumei @lucid1tty @iloveescara @usagiarchive @kyouzki @theunhingedmf @kangyeonie @mi2ukiss @bubblebellaz @eternallykira-143 @lumiicch

• featured song - kiss me now by pierce the veil

• notes - WOO NEW PTV SONG IM GOING TO KILL MYSELF

authors' notes - i was reading jane eyre (a classic book) while writing this and you know what? my brain is so damn fried because wdym you can fit so many fucking sentences in a fucking preposition or conjunction (i think u can tell where my motivation sparked in this chapter LMAO inconsistent, i know, but who gaf this is fanfiction).

p.s - next update might take a while because writing is a bitch that loves its victims and i unfortunately am one of those victims

(ask to be added or removed)

gun to my head i would rather die than read this fic. what the fuck are you even doing at this point. whats the fucking point?

a single typo literally has the explosive power of a nuclear bomb like i just read back possibly the most beautiful scene ive ever created feeling so proud of myself ready to start thinking about the nobel prize in literature etc. etc. and then suddenly

“It’s oaky,” he whispered.

it’s oaky. what is this. a wine tasting

"tumblr's the only social media without algorithms!" "you can still be anonymous on tumblr!" "tumblr's so nice because you don't have to show your face!" WRONG tumblr is special because you can have 3000 followers and still get an average of seven likes a post. i'm doing stand up comedy at a packed venue and one person is laughing

bastard sounds great in an irish accent. if an irish person calls you a 'daft bastard' it just feels right

the welsh have the monopoly on things ending in hell. fuckin hell and bloody hell hit different in a welsh accent. its like music to my ears

the scots have piss and shite for sure. "its pishin it doon out there" "this is a load of shite" absolute poetry

if i may speak for the english i think we do penis related words very well. dickhead, knobhead, twat, etc.

and for all the shit we give them, you gotta admit that no one can deliver a 'goddamn' quite like an american. theres a certain weight to it that you just cant achieve in other accents. when an american says goddamn you know shit just got real

romeo is crazy as a guy’s name bcuz it’s famously one of the most well known love stories between a man and a woman in history but if i were to meet a dude named romeo id probably assume he’s gay

is scarashit a respectful man.. r we the only female he’d beat the shit out of? 🧐

yes and yes LMAO most of the females he meets are like cool mooties with him😭🙏 js imagine him as your cool friend that teases the hell out of you but will also beat up those who seriously messes with you

Your readers will love the fic if you finish it or you dont. But dont break their hearts by deleting it. Orphan it or mark it as complete with a follow up chapter explaining youre letting it go

I promise, as a reader, we will still be interested with your new works. We will still remember the story you wish to forget. Most importantly, we want to thank you for writing what you have, even if its unfinished

damn that’s wild. Maybe the solution is gay sex

does anyone else think about how gladio drops into a bow and remains bowing the entire time regis is present without raising his head, whereas ignis briefly bows before proceeding to call regis out on his bullshit? because i do.

One of the greatest things about Prompto Argentum is the implication that he always can and unerringly will find the most violent, over-the-top destructive machines in a given area if you just give him 2 seconds. He and Gladio split off from the main party to "cause a distraction" and then there's a tremendous explosion from offscreen. In altissia he somehow goes and commandeers a small military craft in under five minutes. He gets thrown from a train, almost dies of hypothermia, and one of the first things he does upon waking up is locate the nearest bazooka. What a guy.

top places to publicly overshare online:

tumblr blog

youtube comment section of a song

My ideal body is covered in scars but apparently that’s not an acceptable body goal

hbd gon ☁️

Im sorry but it is so funny how people outside of tumblr view us. Like why are the tiktokers treating tumblr like some professional ass website you need to do extensive prep before you begin posting on. And the follower farming advice is so fucking funny to me when this is the website where people actively hate getting new followers