viv. kick me (written work)
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It's 4:37PM when the harsh beams of sunlight finally mellow down to a mere soft glow that blankets the whole interior in a delicate color. It's also 4:37PM when you finally reach the café and the bell chimes emit a pleasant noise you're accustomed to.
“Oh, dear [Name]!” A voice laced with so much delight greets you, and you can only return it with a grin of your own, “how was school today?”
You slipped the snoopy slippers on, already dragging yourself over to your grandma whose arms are prepared wide and open for the hug that you've always looked forward to.
It never fails to soothe the tension in your shoulders when she rubs a particular spot.
“School was fine,” you sighed absentmindedly.
“'Is that so? Speaking of school, where's your friend?”
Your gut squirms in annoyance, frowning at the way her eyes spark up so childishly despite being adorned with wrinkles.
Irked, a groan left your lips, “he’s probably gonna be here soon.”
The word, ‘soon’ sounds so bitter in your mouth. You just fought with the guy earlier at morning classes because–who the fuck even throws a dildo at someone's face!?
Your face burns, unaware of your grandmother chuckling in satisfaction until she's already pulling you near to the counter, “I'll make you hot chocolate, and after this, you can turn the sign over.”
Okay, do not think about Scaramouche. Do not think.
You gulped, urging the damn Incident away from your weary mind, “swiss miss?”
She grinned with a blink, “of course! Now, hurry up and sit! you’re gonna have a long day today, missy.”
Save me, you clench your jaw, god, save me from this 6-Hour-Shitshow..
Sighing, you deliberately and slowly place the phone back to the counter, head tilting abnormally to peek at the entrance of the café—and there he is. All in his glory, the Almighty Twink-A-Fuck.
You gulp. Deep breaths. Step. Walk. Step.
“Hey,” you half-assedly smile, lightly knocking onto one of the square windows on the door.
His hair bounces when he perks up from his phone, imperceptible widened eyes catching onto yours before it shifts to those narrowed eyes you're more accustomed to.
“Why the fuck are your doors locked.” Not a question. You shrug, already reaching out to the lock.
“Cats often get in here because they know how to open doors,” a pseudo smile reaches your lips, sweetness lacing your voice, “and ‘sides, I forgot you were coming.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. A bell chime fills the silence, and you step over to the side as he enters.
A bright shine catches your peripheral as Scaramouche enters into the café without a care in the world, and holy–
Is that a fucking porsche!?
You abruptly whip your head to Scaramouche—who seems way too busy absorbing the interior of your café as if the asshole hasn't already been here a week ago—before whipping it back to the Shiny Glamorous Porsche. Because, what the fuck.
Okay, listen. You're not exactly an expert in The Damn Art of Cars but a Porsche had been on your wish list for years. God forbid the amount of times you've ratted off of your grandmother's ears as a child about how much you've salivated over damn metas and engines. At this point, you'd probably rather fuck a vehicle than a perso–
—A gasp. Then, horror. Absolute horror dawning in those indigo eyes. And.. and mirth? The fuck–
“You do realize you just said those outloud, right,” he deadpanned, voice tinted with indifference and amusement. Like what you said was the most appropriate thing. I mean, then again, you've said far worse things, but god–in the café? Where your dearest grandmother is quite literally just meters above your head? And could potentially hear you despite the thick hardwood floors?
That thought sends electricity to your body.
Pathetically, you sputtered, alternating between defending yourself, telling him to shut up because your grandmother is literally just upstairs and reasoning that, hey, can't you just let a girl nerd out? Only to end up giving him the Fuck-You finger when not even a coherent sentence ended up leaving your lips after a mere 3 minutes of full on panicking.
..Yeah, get that, motherfucker.
“Okay,” he drawls facetiously, after seconds of radio silence, “So, you want to fuck my car. Cool. My car's cool too.”
I swear I will haunt this asshole to death when I become a ghost.
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up. I don't want to hear it. Shut up.” resigned, your hand points to a double boiler, as he lets his gaze unceremoniously follow it.
Again, he snorts at the quaint sound of water boiling.
Then, he turns back to you with a sneer and a knowing lint in those fucking goddamn eyes, “well, whatever. I'll be in your care then, fruitcake.”
“Number 12 on the counter, please!”
Okay. So, even though you thought the Twink Fucker implied to be an absolute nuisance roughly three hours ago, he's actually surprisingly decent in the field. He knows how to do a few latte art, can brew an Americano correctly at least, and is mildly, overall experienced at it.
And admittedly, the way he moves around the area would what you call a fucking graceful dance shitshow. Listen, you're not one to exaggerate, but hell if you don't admit that the asshole frankly looks like he's dancing around while brewing damn espressos.
(You can feel bile gathering up in your esophagus when you ponder more over the damn poise he has.)
Presently, it's been three hours since the shift had started, and you've done nothing but scrutinising the Twink-Ass with keen eyes as your grandmother had given you the task to.
And embarrassingly enough, it seems you're not the only one, guessing with how much habitués has been ogling the mysterious new face at the counter. You're pretty sure that neither of them has the balls to ask, considering they linger quite a bit longer in favor of inspecting the asshole’s face instead of asking for his damn number.
However, as time ticked by, an old lady whom you recognize as that one lady who sells adult toys on a sidewalk manages the balls to ask. However, when she does ask, she doesn't ask the asshole. No, no, she comes to you. With the most expectant shine in her eyes and a girl’s name rolling off of her tongue.
And you, who have decided to be the kindest, offer the old lady 10 numbers with a note that you managed to write behind Scaramouche’s back, “tell your granddaughter to spam his phone; he likes those things in a woman,” followed by a wink. It's clear she's a bit perplexed, but she nods anyway.
That's revenge for the fucking dildo, asshole.
Four hours pass, and the café finally settles down as the end of the shift steadily approaches. And it's then that Scaramouche finally and unfortunately breaks the streak of not talking to you for four hours straight.
He approaches with the same pseudo smile he offers to the customers and with a patronising tone, he asks, “so? how’d I do?”
Absolute dogshit. I don't want you here.
“I’ll send my feedback to grandma later,” you sardonically smiled, avoiding the question as you tilt your head to the short stack of papers on the rickety table.
His attention flitted between you and the paper all the while having his lips pursed into that smile before dropping his facade and clicking his tongue.
“What? Don't tell me you were expecting flattery,” you snorted.
In return, he grimaced, “ew, god, no. I don't consider your flattery to be worthy enough to brood over.”
Your brows raised, “careful, now. your job is quite literally in my hands right now.”
The grimace only deepened before it twisted to a scowl, “I'll just find a new one if you ever do fire me from here.”
“As if anyone would ever accept your nasty ass.”
“That's ‘cause she doesn't know what you're like in school.”
Incredulity coursed through his features before chuckling, the sound itself bitter, “you sound like someone that I really fucking hate.”
“You do hate me,” you answered, simple and true. Not that you were ever bothered by it; you hated him too.
Then, in a fleeting moment, his gaze flickered to you, a confused glimmer in them as his brows raised the slightest bit as he reluctantly replied, “no, I fucking don't?”
Your stomach twisted, feeling the familiar sting in the back of your throat, “what?”
“Not as much as I hate that someone, anyway,” his voice silent yet so full of resentment before a newly complacent tone replaces it, “Also, I dislike you, asswipe.”
Oh, okay. You frowned. What's the difference? Did the word, ‘hate’ have a much deeper meaning? Weren't they just the same?
“..Well, I hate you,” you don't miss the way his face dropped to a deadpan, “that one's really obvious.”
“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter with an elbow propped on one of the sturdy machines, “really fucking obvious.”
This time, you respond with a glare.
In return, you get a disgusting tongue stuck out to you before he annoyingly decides to spare you the time and gazes off somewhere to the distance instead–blissfully ignoring your glares of daggers and muttered profanities.
Of course the peace doesn't last long.
"What's up with you and fucking Porsches anyway?"
A sigh, "please just shut up."
Then surprisingly, he does shut up. He did scoff though. Your gaze moved to the clock just right above the entrance.
9:47PM. Two hours left before your bedtime. You could wait it out and send the asshole home. But then again.. maybe you could overwork the asshole.
Under the guise of reluctance, you break the silence, “I’ll go clean up. We’ll switch from here, and then you can go home after.”
His head snapped to you, slightly tilted, “switch?”
“Yeah, switch. You go help grandma upstairs and I'll take care of the stuff from here. And, I'm pretty sure the pastries will be here at around..” you shot a glance at the clock again, noting the time, “twelve minutes from now, so off you go.”
As if contemplating, he narrowed his eyes before a smirk tugged at his lips and he tauntly drawls, “sure, whatever you say, fruitcake.”
A vein throbs in your temple. You could handle other names like dumbass, ass-kisser (???), fuckwipe, dickwad and other things you'd prefer not thinking about but this? It.. just sounds so..
“..Annoying. Fucking annoying.”
He rolls his eyes with a snort, already turning on his heels and heading to the staff room, “tell me something that's new, asswipe.”
"Back door's the exit for the staff here, by the way!"
The door clicked to a close, and you briefly wondered if he heard you or not.
..Well, nevertheless, you hope he wakes up with the most fucked up body ache known to mankind.
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───〃★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 - nothing's gonna change my love for you by george benson
authors' notes - i tried my best in writing scara as VAGUE as fucking possible while also keeping the brandname of him being a fake idgafer💜 also you know those people who tries so hard to wink but just can't? i imagined that with [name]'s grandma and i just fucking cackled at the image lmfao
p.s - if u don't know the meaning of the song scara had on the last pic then i suggest u do a google search😋😋😋 gonna be a big ass foreshadowing
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