#accidentally put this in my queue instead of my drafts oops

[yeyinde]

piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao

You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.

He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—

Watching.

In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—

Not.

Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.

Something is wrong with your dog.

He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.

You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—

There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—

(and he looked so scared.)

Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—

Him.

Check on him.

He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—

It's—his—lip curls.

He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—

"Baby?"

It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—

It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.

"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.

But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.

He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.

You wait for it. And wait. Wait—

Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.

That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—

His eyes are on you.

Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.

You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.

You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.

He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.

Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—

Fear.

That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.

You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.

He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—

He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.

He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.

He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.

He's going to eat you alive. You love him.

This thing isn't your dog—

He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.

Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.

Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."

He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.

The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—

You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.

As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.

(leave him there—)

He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—

Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.

Scratch, scratch, scratch—

He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.

"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"

Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.

When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.

"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"

[bldwspr]

clearing my drafts bc i accidentally put stuff there instead of my queue oops

[haledamage]

Dancing Lights

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAIT @queen-scribbles 💖💖💖💖💖!!!! Hope you're having a great day!

I bring you a gift of Etain/Vikkari, with him as Commander and her as the companion for a change 😉 she wanted to help him with what must be Azata path's biggest issue in the early days. fairly early in the game, I think, and definitely pre-relationship, but Etain definitely has a crush :3

---

Etain was staring.

She knew she was, and that she shouldn’t be, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

She just hadn’t expected the Commander to be so… adorable. Not that he wasn’t also powerful, and strong, and courageous, and charismatic, and all the things the leader of a crusade should be, but… Well, she’d assumed that the mysterious power that inspired the Fifth Crusade would have less… butterflies.

There were just so many of them. They’re like little dancing lights of blue and green and pink, catching Etain’s attention anytime she lowered her guard--which was more often than it should be, lately, but something about Vikkari put her at ease.

Like now. They’d set up camp on the edge of a thick copse of trees that seemed as safe as anywhere could be in the Wounded Lands. Dinner had already been eaten, and their group had split off to take care of their own business before sleep and watch rotations started.

Etain was supposed to be cleaning and restringing her bow, but got distracted halfway through the task, and now she was staring. At Vikkari. 

Again.

If he noticed, he didn’t seem bothered by it. His focus was on the small block of wood that he was carefully carving into, strong hands gently and meticulously coaxing it into shape. Butterflies flitted around his head, glowing softly in the falling daylight.

One of them landed on his nose, flexing its tiny teal wings. Vikkari shook his head to shoo it away, but it held fast. He lowered his whittling with a dramatic sigh, which fluttered the butterfly but didn’t dislodge it.

Etain couldn’t help it. She giggled.

She covered her mouth almost immediately after the sound escaped, but it was too late. Color bloomed over her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears, but she managed--barely--not to pull up her mask to hide her face when Vikkari’s attention fell on her. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to--I, um--” she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried again. “I think you’ve got somethin’ on your face.”

His laugh finally dislodged his butterfly mustache, which flew away in a decidedly irritated way.

The laughter faded, but lingered in his eyes and the warmth of his smile. “Did you need something?”

“Oh!” She shook her head a little too quickly, dropping her gaze to her hands for a second before it was pulled back to the commander. “No. I was just curious about your… your butterflies.”

Vikkari finally (reluctantly? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?) looked away from her to the jovial swarm fluttering around him. “There do seem to be an awful lot of them.” He sounded more amused than bothered by them.

Etain hummed in agreement, watching the glowing insects in consideration. She could feel the moment Vikkari’s attention returned to her, but she resolutely didn’t look back, in case doing so would make her forget what they were talking about. “Are they illusions? A manifestation of the magic of Elysium?”

He nodded slowly, getting lost in thought for a moment, before he finally said, “Maybe they’re like Aivu. Real butterflies, drawn here by…” he paused, smile faltering, “whatever this power comes from.”

The urge to comfort him was almost overwhelming; Etain would say almost anything to bring that smile back. “Or they could be local. Maybe they just think you’re a very interesting flower.”

Half of his smile came back, a crooked smirk that would look cocky on someone less charming. “Because I’m so pretty?”

“Because you’re sweet.”

A dazzling smile lit Vikkari’s face as an equally radiant blush spread across his cheeks. Her own cheeks flushed in response, and she ducked her head to hide it behind her half-unraveled braid.

Her eyes fell on her knapsack, and a sudden thought struck her. “Sweet,” she murmured to herself, an idea forming.

“What was that?” Despite his obvious curiosity, Etain knew he wouldn’t push if she didn’t want to share.

“May I try something?” She waited for him to nod before reaching for her bag, and dug around until she found a small bottle of amber liquid. The gentle pop of the stopper drew Pippin’s attention from dozing by the fire, but she ignored him and let a couple of drops from the bottle fall onto the back of her hand.

As soon as she held it out toward Vikkari, two butterflies changed trajectory to inspect, landing on her knuckles and flexing their wings with what could only be excitement.

Vikkari leaned closer, golden eyes glowing brighter in echo of the insects’ reaction. “What is that?”

Etain shrugged one shoulder, careful to keep her hand still. “It’s just honey.”

Eventually, the butterflies ate their fill and flew off to join the rest again--though they gave a little more respectful distance this time, she noticed.

Vikkari watched them in something like awe. Etain watched him in much the same way.

“So they are real.”

“I guess so.” She held her hand out to her side where Pippin waited patiently to clean the rest of the honey off of her hand.

The conversation ended there, meandering to other subjects--the Crusade, Vikkari’s whittling--before Seelah, Lann, and Aivu came over to join them. But Etain thought about it the next day while they traveled, and the one after.

Inspiration finally struck two days later, while the group traveled a road that cut through the middle of heavy forest. Etain walked parallel to the group, mask up and bow drawn, scouting the woods for ambushes; Lann took the other side, doing the same, with the rest of their collection of melee fighters and magic users on the road.

She didn’t find any ambushes (it had been waiting a mile up, in the middle of the road in plain sight), but she did find something else.

She brought it to Vikkari after dinner that night, relishing his surprised look when she held out the bundle of flowers in her hands. “May I?”

It took him a few seconds to reply, which made something warm settle in her chest. She didn’t know the Commander could be lost for words.

Eventually, he nodded. “Of course.”

Etain carefully unfolded the flower crown and placed it on his head, arranging it carefully against his (soft, how is his hair so soft this far from civilization?) hair.

As she’d hoped, the butterflies immediately took interest, coming in to land on the flowers instead of swarming around his head. Within moments, he had a halo of glowing wings, green and blue lights among the orange, pink, and purple flowers.

“Aster, phlox, lavender, and butterfly weed,” she said in answer to the question he didn’t ask. “Hopefully that will keep them out of your eyes, at least.”

He grinned at her, brighter than the fluttering crown he wore. “How do I look?”

“You look…” she blushed and looked away, unable to answer honestly and unwilling to lie. “I’d offer to show you, but I don’t own a mirror.”

“Thank you.” His voice was too soft, too warm, and it just made her blush darker. As always, he was kind enough to give her an escape route from her own embarrassment, and changed the subject. “What are the rest of them for?”

“Oh.” Etain had almost forgotten that she still held an armful of flowers. “They’re for Aivu. May I?”

The question was directed at the havoc dragon, who lounged nearby. Aivu nodded eagerly before the question was even finished, and Etain smiled as she settled the larger flower crown on her head. “There. I thought you might like one too. So you can match.”

“Where’s yours?” Both the dragon and the cleric asked at the same time before exchanging a grin, a silent conversation flowing between them that she couldn’t even begin to understand.

“I don’t need one,” she said quickly. It’s not like she had a swarm of fae butterflies to deal with, and even so she wasn’t one to indulge in pretty things. (Except the Commander, a knowing voice whispered in the back of her head.) “And I didn’t want to pick too many anyway.”

Vikkari nodded, seemingly in agreement, but she could see the gears whirring behind his eyes. Etain knew she hadn’t heard the last of this.

Strangely, she found herself looking forward to finding out what happened next.

[oliverwvvd]

something brewing: part i

The moral of this story is that I need to not do the stupid thing and accidentally press save draft instead of queue, since this was supposed to be posted at least a week ago. Oops. Anyway, this is part I of the previously discussed barista au, because I toyed with the idea for a while and it stuck around. Yes, I recognise the title is a horrible pun, but I couldn’t resist. I hope that everyone who liked the idea of this isn’t disappointed.

Premise: Oliver is a sports science student who has to maintain his grades in order to retain his scholarship and has a good chance of playing football professionally. Despite that, he’s serious about wanting to do well. His flatmates spend more time drunk than they do sober, so he’s given up trying to work at home and finds a little coffee shop to study in. What he doesn’t expect is to develop a painful, near-instantaneous, utterly inconvenient crush on one of the baristas.

i: marcus.

It was just past 5pm, and Marcus was comfortably settled into work for the evening. There was a lazy hum of guitar as his background noise of preference, the coffee shop wasn’t too crowded and that gave him time to open his textbook underneath the counter in between making drinks while Susan handled the customers and sorted out any food orders. The page was marked with the casual ease of someone who was used to reading in what spare moments he had, and ain’t that the truth? Honestly, he had trouble absorbing it all at once, so taking information in bit by bit while he did other tasks always worked far better for him, letting him actually retain it instead of forgetting it immediately after reading.

While he turned the pages, humming softly under his breath, dark hair clustered at his temples in slight, tousled waves made worse by the steam from the coffee machine. The scent of freshly ground coffee filled his nose, underscored by the lesser hints of different types of tea, and you’d think he’d be sick of it by now, but the fact was he found it comforting. It smoothed out all the rough edges of his day and helped him to concentrate.

Leaning across, Susan stuck a receipt in front of him. “Large latte with an extra shot for the tall drink of water down at the end there.” There was a mischievous note to her voice that he’d heard before, usually when a customer was particularly easy on the eyes, and he shot her a look back as he got down to making the drink, a grudging half-smile playing about his lips. She mouthed, “Eleven out of ten,” at him, her petite frame safely hiding her behind the coffee machine, and he lifted an eyebrow, because only once in a blue moon did Susan make that sort of assessment. Working in a coffee shop this close to the university, they both got to see a lot of different people walk in and out when they were on shift. One thing he had learned, however, was that he and his fellow barista had different ideas of what was visually appealing. Maybe it’s because she’s an art student, they find the weirdest things interesting. In Susan’s case, that often extended to people, too.

The latte was done in a matter of moments, his hands moving in a familiar rhythm that was as old as time itself to him now. Flicking a quick glance to the receipt to get the name, he walked down to the end and asked, “Large latte with an extra shot for Oliver?” before sliding the drink across the counter, a slight curve of his mouth because customer service meant you were supposed to smile and be courteous. Since he’d never really mastered smiling on command because other people thought he should, this was the nearest thing that he could manage.

When he glanced up to identify the customer, though, he didn’t expect to find someone looking directly back at him, and he certainly didn’t expect to recognise the face, even dimly. Oh. It took effort not to do a double-take, because he knew he’d seen this one around somewhere and couldn’t quite place where. But everything else apart, Susan had, for once, been exactly right. High cheekbones, gloriously messy brown hair, and as he took the drink, a warm, seemingly shy smile that didn’t match with the slight cheekiness of the friendly wink he paired with it. “Thanks,” he said, and as he walked away, Marcus got a wonderfully prolonged look at exactly how long his legs were. It took actual concentration not to let his eyes wander further. Not at work. He ignored Susan, who was trying not to laugh and failing, and instead opened his textbook again.

“Well. If he meets even your impossibly high standards…” Thankfully, her voice is naturally low-pitched anyway and the boy, Oliver, had long since vacated the immediate area for a table over in the far corner, or he might actually have stepped on her foot to silence her.

“Don’t start, Susan,” Marcus warned, attention momentarily drawn from the pages in front of him, a loose scattering of diagrams and pencils notations visible. “I’ve got to get this stuff into my head before the next class if it kills me. I don’t need distractions.”

He felt rather than saw her pout. “Well, if you don’t feel like being distracted, mind if I do? Honestly, he’d make a wonderful model, I might see if I can convince him to sit for me.”

With an impatient gesture that said be my guest quite clearly, Marcus went back to his book while Susan wandered out onto the main floor of the coffee shop. Ostensibly, she’d gone to clean up, but the odds were good that she’d find an excuse to be distracted, as she put it, while she was there.

ii: oliver.

Oliver was absolutely knackered. So knackered, in fact, that the only thing stopping him from going back to his flat and murdering his flatmate in cold blood, or falling asleep in the chair he’d just sat down in was the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. When he took the first sip, his eyes actually closed for a moment because thank Christ, caffeine. On the second sip, the warmth seeped through him and took away the fact that it was freezing outside. On the third, he was recovered enough to sneak another glance up at the counter and the dark head of hair tilted downwards over what looked like a book. They’d barely exchanged words, really, but Oliver knew himself, enough to know that he definitely liked what he’d seen when the barista had handed him his coffee. Sharp jawline, faint hint of dark stubble that managed to be attractive without being scruffy, broad shoulders clad in a long-sleeved navy-blue shirt rolled back at the elbows, and that maddening hint of a smile. Another sip of the coffee, and it was enough for him to tell that it was good, definitely good enough to keep him coming back. The odds were that he was going to be spending a lot of time here, and the reason why could be summed up very succinctly. “Drunken bastards,” he muttered under his breath, opening his backpack and pulling out his notes, wincing at the state of his handwriting. Right. Best neaten these up.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Startled, Oliver looked up, not realising that his commentary had been quite so audible. However, when he realised it was the redheaded girl from behind the counter, he relaxed. “She’d wash my mouth out if she heard me,” he said, amused. “Because like every mother, she’s convinced that I’m still five and won’t believe it until I prove otherwise. That was relatively mild.”

“Aye, I figured, you being very obviously from Glasgow and all.” The impish grin that accompanied the girl’s words left him confused, until she introduced herself. “I’m Susan. Barista by whatever hours I’m designated to work, art student by trade who couldn’t help but notice you’ve been gifted with the kind of bone structure that begs to be drawn.”

The words flustered him, left him wondering how the hell to answer, so he settled on an easy smile and deflection. “Honestly, I think your counterpart might be the better candidate for that,” he said, nodding in the direction of the other barista. When he caught the playful gleam in Susan’s eyes, he kicked himself. Why do I talk? “But I’m never opposed to a new friend. I’m Oliver,” he said, offering his hand outwards. “Which you know, because I gave you my name about five minutes ago when I ordered,” he added, cringing slightly at himself. And this is why I shouldn’t try to be social when I’m tired. “Sorry, bit braindead, the coffee was necessary.”

When Susan laughed and shook his hand, he couldn’t help but be a bit relieved. Usually, he had no problem navigating new interactions, but right now he was operating on far less sleep than he actually required. When her expression took a turn for the mischievous, Oliver became sharply aware that he’d probably said something he shouldn’t have. “He’s so used to me drawing him in between taking orders at this point that he’d probably be thankful for me practicing on someone else,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “And honestly, can you blame me?”

Watching the dark-haired barista move with the kind of controlled grace that made him look almost alien when placed behind somewhere as commonplace as a coffee shop counter, Oliver couldn’t argue with her and therefore, he didn’t. Instead, he spent a few seconds mulling over the boy, wondering what his name might be and why he felt like he’d seen him before. Probably around the university or something. Fortunately, he didn’t have to answer because she switched subjects a moment later. “So what brings you to our little hole around the corner from the campus? Besides the coffee, of course. I’m guessing you weren’t cursing just now for effect.”

Oliver sighed. “I ended up with an absolute dobber for a flatmate this year. Spends more time drunk than sober, and doesn’t know when to shut it. I like a drink now and then, but not when it means I can’t get any sleep because the eejit and his mates won’t shut it at four in the morning.” He rolled his eyes, pointed at the cup. “Hence the extra shot. Eight o’clock football practice this morning, class in the afternoon and I’m done for, and still got to do some work.”

The wince of sympathy was gratifying, as were Susan’s next words. “Well, that definitely explains the swear words. Should I get our resident coffee genius to make it stronger next time?”

Oliver didn’t even pause in response. “God, yes. If he can possibly add any more caffeine without giving me the shakes or making me ill, yes.”

“He can make anything that involves coffee and tea taste palatable, it’s a gift. Do you trust me?”

“I’ve just met you.”

“I’m a barista. Trust me. Give him free rein on what he makes you next.”

Oliver was too tired to make sense of the conversation, even after the first (excellent) cup of coffee, and his notes were swimming in front of his eyes anyway. “All right. Tell him that if he can make me something that’ll keep me on my feet for the rest of the evening and tastes as good as the first one did, he’s got a guaranteed customer for life.”

iii: marcus.

Marcus was somewhat expecting the cat that’s got the cream smile on Susan’s face when she practically sashayed back behind the counter. He’d looked up only once, seen that she was talking to the attractive boy from earlier (Oliver, his brain helpfully supplied) and snorted to himself, deciding to leave her to it. If there had been a slight pang of disappointment, well, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he? And this, this was why he didn’t do distractions.

“Hey, hotshot. Pretty boy over there says he’ll drink anything you make so long as it tastes palatable and doesn’t give him the shakes. Up to the challenge?”

So much for no distractions. Of all the things he’d anticipated her saying, that hadn’t been one of them. Against his own will, Marcus found his eyes unwittingly drawn towards the boy, suddenly becoming very aware that he had dark circles beneath his eyes and actually looked outright worn out, the more so as he sifted through what looked like pages of notes spread out on the table in front of him. “Hard partier with a hangover?” he asked, rather hoping that wasn’t the case.

“Footballer with early practices, late afternoon classes and a selfish gobby prick for a housemate who thinks four in the morning is an acceptable time to be pissed as a newt,” Susan amended, only managing to further pique Marcus’ interest, while simultaneously making him wonder how exactly she managed to inveigle information out of people the way she did. “He’s had a long day. Make him something good.”

“Your wish is my command,” Marcus drawled, abandoning his textbook and turning his attention to the coffee machine. “Did you get his number already? I figured it’d take you at least ten minutes to work up to it, and that was barely five.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan unsuccessfully attempt to hide a smile, resolved to get her back for it later. “No, I don’t think I’m his type, though he didn’t seem to have trouble acknowledging that he finds you good-looking.”

Marcus didn’t bother restraining himself; he rolled his eyes at her quite plainly, and chose not to acknowledge the remark. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her hands in surrender. “Just passing it on, even if you don’t believe me.”

“Stop bothering me, woman, if you want me to make the damned drink,” he snapped, not meaning to sound quite as snippy as he did. Thankfully, Susan had known him long enough to know the difference between him wanting to focus and him actually being annoyed, and simply stuck her tongue out at him before heading out to the storeroom to go and obtain more takeaway cups. Left in peace, Marcus spent five minutes concocting something that would tick the boxes specified with the ingredients that he had to hand. The result ended up being a monstrous latte that only just fitted in the largest takeaway cup. It looked relatively ordinary, but he was confident that it would fit the bill. “Order for Oliver?” he called.

And if he wanted to watch the other boy walk towards him, well, he didn’t have to admit it to anyone but himself. Even if his rule was no distractions, he didn’t see any harm in appreciating the view, and there was a lot about the view to appreciate. When Marcus set the takeaway cup down in front of him, there was a shy smile playing about his mouth again and God, he wished he didn’t find it as attractive as he did. When the other went to reach into his pocket, obviously intending to extract his wallet, Marcus shook his head. “Try it first,” he said, leaning elbows against the counter and not quite able to help his curiosity. He didn’t often get to see the first reaction to a new drink, so this was a rare opportunity.

When the other boy inclined his head, raised the cup in his direction and took a long drink from it, Marcus watched his reaction move from neutral to enjoyment with a slight half-smile. He didn’t get the chance to ask the question, because Oliver (don’t pretend like you don’t know his name, Flint) had a much wider smile on his face now before he spoke. “I can taste the caramel, and…apple pie? And at least a double shot in there.” It was less of a guess when he had another long drink, and damn if that response didn’t make Marcus’ day in less than ten seconds. “God, that’s exactly what I needed, and I never would have ordered it on my own. How much do I owe you?”

Marcus shook his head again. “Nothing. You just helped test out a new special for the menu,” he said, wanting to outright grin, not quite comfortable enough to let himself do it. Finding the other attractive was one thing, but actually doing something about it was another. Probably has someone, anyhow. The fact that he was even considering the matter was more than he wanted to think about, shoved it away with a nod of his head as Susan emerged from the storeroom. “Get that down your neck, you’ll feel better,” he said, before disappearing into the storeroom himself, under the pretext of checking whether or not they’d received the new blend that was supposed to be arriving. They hadn’t, but he found a mess, like he always did. With a faintly exasperated sigh, he started to tidy up, ignoring the fact that he’d just bolted in the opposite direction to the first person he’d genuinely been attracted to in almost a year. Well, I always did have a knack for self-sabotage. Or maybe I just don’t want to waste my attention on a lost cause.

iv: oliver.

Oliver had been coming to the coffee shop for a few weeks at this point, for a multitude of reasons; the first being that waking up with a hot drink in his hand before his first tutorial or before practice was infinitely preferable to staying at his flat. The second being that his flatmate hadn’t proven to be any less of an idiot as time had progressed, and while the atmosphere between them wasn’t hostile as such, it might easily go in that direction if Oliver was around the flat more often. The final reason, and the one that he was all too aware of, was the fact that the coffee shop came with the added bonus of the dark-haired barista, whose name he’d discovered only four days prior. Susan had called back to what was presumably the storeroom while Oliver had been waiting for his usual morning order (a flat white). “Marcus, are you done in there yet?” For reasons he couldn’t understand, everything seemed to click into place at that point. The name was fitting, but that was also the point where he couldn’t entirely ignore the fact that not only had he liked what he saw when he first laid eyes on the other; he’d liked it enough for the interest to continue past the initial meeting.

So the combination of irritating flatmate, burgeoning caffeine addiction, and a need to work undisturbed also happened to coincide with the fact that he was developing a small, inconvenient crush on the barista, on Marcus. They hadn’t exchanged words much, nothing more than polite conversation really, but in that time, a comfortable routine had developed. In the mornings, Oliver had his flat white. In the afternoons and evenings, Marcus often had free rein on what to make for him, and he’d never yet gotten it wrong. With a glance, dark eyes seemed able to assess what kind of day he’d had and make the drink that fitted the bill. Susan hadn’t been wrong: the other had a gift for it.

It was late one evening when Oliver approached the counter with a textbook in hand, around 8pm, and was met with the half-smile that never quite made it to something more. It held mystery, that look, and he’d rapidly learned that he didn’t mind a little mystery. “Same again?” The question, ready when he reached the counter, made him smile ruefully. “Yeah, please. This thing’s making life difficult for me.” He raised his textbook, an analysis of sport psychology that was interesting enough, but not easy to translate to the project that his professor had given him. If he hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have seen the flicker of surprise, however slight, that crossed Marcus’ expression when he saw the textbook. That was nothing, however, to Oliver’s reaction when the barista responded, “Yeah, that one’s not fun. Been having a bit of a wrangle with it too.”

It took a few seconds for Oliver to click. Really? So maybe that’s where I recognised you from, even if dimly. “I didn’t realise you were in there too,” he said with a smile. “How come I’ve never seen you?”

“It’s a big lecture theatre. I sit up at the back and the lecturer’s usually turned the lights down for the projectors by the time I get there. I didn’t know you were in there either, to be fair.” That was when the usual half-smile that he’d become strangely used to widened, and oh, Oliver wasn’t prepared for that, because if the effect of the half-smile was bad, the full smile was absolutely devastating by comparison. He was sure that he was staring like a fool, and he didn’t have the will to sort it out. Pull yourself together.

“I’m aiming for physiotherapist eventually,” Marcus continued, seemingly not registering Oliver’s reaction. “But I’ve not seen you in any of my other classes, which are somewhat smaller, so I’m guessing you’re taking a slightly different direction.”

It took Oliver a few seconds to form a coherent sentence, and under other circumstances, he would have been really bloody well embarrassed about that, but Christ, he’s only human and that smile was like attacking the unarmed. “Yeah, I…I’ve been scouted for football, so most of what I’m doing is geared towards being able to coach and help other athletes if that doesn’t pan out,” he said. Though he knew that he was good at what he did, he wasn’t naturally a braggart. He felt the weight of Marcus’ scrutiny when the other looked at him more closely, and Jesus, he did the exact opposite of handling it well when the appraisal seemed to run past his face to the spread of his shoulders. Don’t blush, for the love of God.

“What position?”

The question caught Oliver off-guard, because his mind immediately went to places that it quite definitely wasn’t supposed to go while he was in public (I can think of lots of those), and the dark-haired barista (and incipient physiotherapist, apparently) could have easily chosen a better way of wording that. Was that deliberate? He couldn’t tell. Marcus’ expression was unreadable besides the smile and the tilted head. It was impossible to work out whether the other had spotted his preoccupation and decided to mess with him. If he did, game on. “Any number of positions, really, but I’m currently playing keeper,” he said, opting to accompany the words with a grin of his own, daring to put just a little flirtation behind the remark. When he heard a slight spluttering sound from further down the counter, he didn’t need to look to know that Susan had caught the gist of what he was implying, and he cringed because he’d honestly forgotten she was there at all. However, it was Marcus that sent her on the retreat with a truly impressive glare that made her disappear back into the stockroom, while Oliver wished for the ground to swallow him up as promptly as possible.

“I play striker, sometimes.” The conversation had turned back to football, and Oliver was thankful for it. Plays and strategies, he could discuss until light turned to dark, even if he was meant to be wrangling his way through the textbook still in his hands. Apparently Marcus’ attention span was much better than his, because in the time that they’d been talking, he’d still managed to make Oliver’s drink and mark the current page in his own textbook, tucked covertly beneath the counter as it generally was. To Oliver’s surprise, he smiled again, but this time there was an obvious edge of embarrassment to it. “Just realised I’m being a bit of an idiot, by the way. I’m Marcus; don’t recall ever telling you that.” When he came out from behind the counter, Oliver then got his first good look, up close, at exactly how the other dressed. A faded band t-shirt and a pair of dark, rumpled jeans that clung to all the right places. When the other offered his hand out awkwardly and Oliver closed fingers around his for the handshake, he grinned again. “Good to meet you properly. I’ll see you in our lecture, I guess. I’d better get back to work.” When he met the other’s eyes as they released grip, however, the brush of their fingers lingered and he wasn’t immune to the spark of that touch, far from it. Whoa. The other didn’t need to know that he’d already been fully aware of his name before now. “Yeah, you too. See you later.” And with that, they parted ways, Marcus back behind the counter, Oliver returning to his usual seat with coffee in one hand, textbook in the other, and quite probably a really stupid smile on his face like he’d just been hit between the eyes.

What Marcus also didn’t need to know was that his small, ridiculous crush had gone from mildly out of hand to completely insane in the span of about ten minutes, if that.

This is really not a good thing. What am I going to do about this?