#not in a coherent mood tonight lads

[bearotonin-international]

Plumpin with a pumpkin

[lonelyreputation]

C’est Toi (coffee shop au) • CHAPTER ONE, wc: 4.7k

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Thursday - January 03, 2019 - 21:05

Landing in Heathrow was something else.  Everyone was in a hustle to get to their desired destination.  It was exhilarating.  But what was even more exhilarating was the drive from Heathrow to King’s College.  Everything was so…breathtaking.  Even the houses along the M4 fascinated me to no end.  The roads all blended together––I have no idea how I’ll remember anything about getting around––I felt like we were driving in circles.  I was pressed up against the window of the car, not wanting to miss a single detail of this new place I’d be calling home.

—

“McLane Roberts?”  I said my own name with hesitation as I grimaced, “I––uh––I’m a study abroad student––but on an exchange program––I’m from America––I don’t know whose place I’m taking––but––I––I’m supposed to be here,” I squinted my left eye, “I––right?”

The two student resident advisors who were checking in students looked bewildered at my uncertainty.  Or my American accent.  Hopefully it was the latter.  The one resident advisor––Sophia––had her mouth slightly agape and eyes wide as saucers.  The other––Georgia––had her eyebrows up so high they were hidden beneath her bangs.  Georgia’s pen fell from her grasp.

Oh God, I thought, they’re going to deport me.

Sophia cleared her throat and elbowed Georgia, who picked up her pen and flicked through her papers.  Every few seconds she would glance up at me and I felt the bile churning even more in my stomach.  Every possible thought ran through my head––I wasn’t registered, I missed something in the application that wouldn’t allow me to live on campus, then I would have to find somewhere else to live while completing my courses, How do you even find a place to live––

“McLane?”

“Uh–Yeah,” I vigorously nodded my head, “That’s Me––McLane Roberts––I––From America.”

Sophia now looked at me with amusement, but I noticed Georgia scoot her chair back a few inches.

“Right,” Sophia cleared her throat, “You’re on the third floor, there’s an elevator over there,” she gestured somewhere to her left, “here’s your key,” she snatched it from Georgia, who was still wide eyed, “and welcome to Stamford Street Apartments.”

I nodded my head and felt my shoulders relax as I let out a sigh of relief, “Thank you,”  I went to grab my luggage and turn around before I heard Sophia call out my name again.  I peaked my head over my shoulder and she dangled the key out.

“Oh, the key––wow––“ I glanced at Georgia who seemed to be even more petrified of my presence and was not afraid to show it.  I cut myself off from embarrassing myself further and took the key with a smile, “Thank you.”

I walked to the left, faintly remembering that Sophia waved her hands in this direction, but I was met with no elevator.  I looked to my left and then to my right, but I was only met with friends greeting each other with “nice holiday?” or “can’t wait to head out tonight with the lads.”

Lads.

With not so much grace, I walked around in a circle and made my way to the opposite side of the building, making sure I passed the front desk with my head down to avoid Georgia.  But I was met with the same thing.  More friends reuniting and more talk about lads.

With a dejected sigh, I went to make another large circle with my luggage to head back to the front desk.  But a friendly voice caught my attention.

“Need some help?”

Unfortunately, I had to waddle around half more of a circle to come face-to-face with the voice.  I could have let go of the handle of my suitcase, but I needed some sort of physical support since I had no emotional support from any friends or family.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” I nodded and looked down at my sneakers, “I was told there was an elevator over there but there wasn’t, so I walked over here––and––I don’t know if I missed it?  I’m a bit delirious from the flight and––“  Once I realized I was rambling, I immediately stopped and picked my eyes up from the ground.  

The boy––who I hadn’t been introduced to yet––looked at me the same way Georgia had.  Except he had an amused smile while Georgia had her mouth open in shock.  He was either put off by my rambling or surprised to hear an American accent.  I prayed it was the latter or I had just made an absolute fool of myself in front of a cute boy with shining amber eyes.

“Sorry,” I felt heat rise to my cheeks, “I––I ramble when I get nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

My eyes snapped open, “I––That’s––That’s not what I meant––I don’t know where to go––I’ve–never left the country and I’m alone––“

The overwhelming feeling of being absolutely alone in a foreign country suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.  I didn’t have my best friend, I didn’t have my bother, I didn’t even have an acquaintance––I was alone.  I felt a sharp sting behind my eyes at the thought, but it quickly disappeared when the boy across from me let out a laugh. 

He tilted his head back with a hand on his stomach as he continued to laugh, “I’m only joking,”  He settled down, but kept his infectious smile, “I’m Jack.”

“Jack,” I repeated with a small smile, “I’m Mick.”

“Nick?”

I shook my head, “Mick,” I drew out the ‘m,’ “Short of McLane.”

Jack mirrored my small smile, “Mick,” he then repeated my name correctly, “Let’s get you up to your room, yeah?”

“Thank God.”

After Jack had successfully taken my backpack and large suitcase, he showed me to my single ensuite.  It was small, but it was my own room and there were other people on the floor as well.  I had never had my own room in college before, and at that, Jack looked horrified at the thought of living in such close quarters with a stranger.  He mumbled something along the lines of ‘that’s America for you.’

Jack was a year older, but he didn’t live on campus.  He was waiting for one of his friend’s to to finish up with work and then they were heading to a pub.  After my suitcases were in my room, he suggested we exchange contact information so that way I had a friend on campus.  I happily obliged.  

As I took my clothes out of my suitcase, my frown deepened with each wrinkled article of clothing.  After the large suitcase was done, I stowed it away, and bent down to unzip my carry on.  I had just flipped the lid off when I heard a knock at my door.  The door was cracked open half way so the knocker had now successfully fully opened it.

“Oops,” the girl giggled and fully stepped in and waved, “Hi!”

I returned her wave, but was more cautious, as there was a stranger in my room, “Hey, I’m––“

“American?!”

I shook my head, “No, I’m––well, yeah––I am American, but––“  I caught myself and sighed, “I’m Mick, it’s nice to meet you…”

“Ella,”  Ella’s eyes crinkled as she smiled and ran a hand through her wavy blonde hair, “Welcome to England!  I live in the room right next to yours,” she pointed to the left, “and wanted to let you know a few of us are having celebratory move in drinks in the kitchen.”

It was then that I noticed the bottle of wine in Ella’s other hand.  Rosé.

I nodded, “That’d be nice.”

Ella clapped her hand on her wrist that was holding the wine bottle and cheered.  She took a few steps over to me and gently took hold of my wrist, dragging me out of my room before I had time to shut the door.

“Well, Mick from America,”  Ella peered over her shoulder wiggled her eyebrows, “I want to know absolutely everything about you.”  Her words were coherent enough for being slightly tipsy, but it was the wink and the giggle she let out at the end that reveled her true state.

We entered the kitchen, with Ella still having a hold around my wrist, and I was surprised to see quite a few people packed in.  She let go of my wrist and brought her fingers up to her lips and let out a whistle I was sure damaged my eardrums.

“Oi!”  She yelled to gather the attention of the few who ignored her whistle, “This––“ she extended both hands out as if she was showcasing me at a pageant, “is Mick––Mick from America,”

And with that last sentence, it peaked some people’s interest, but others went on continuing with their drinks.

Tuesday - January 8, 2019

“Oh, Mick it was terrible.”  Ella dropped her bag and slumped down in a chair across from mine.  I pushed forward my bag of chips that I bought from one of the vending machines as a quick snack between classes.  She scrunched up her nose, “Salt and vinegar?”

“They’re my favorite,” I meekly defended them as I slowly pulled the bag away to avoid adding anything to Ella’s already cranky mood.

She swatted my hand away and took a few out of the bag, “They’re the nastiest crisps but I’m in need something or else I will die.”

Crisps.

I nodded my head and moved the bag back to the middle of the table.  I grabbed a few chips and quirked an eyebrow, “Guessing it didn’t go well with the TA?”

With a dramatic sigh Ella flung her head into her arms that were resting on the table, “I never want to come in contact with another TA,” she spat the words out like she had just injected venom, “again.  Never ever.  They are vile, Mick, scums of the earth…”

Ella was passionate about dramatics, so it made sense that she was studying towards a theatre degree.  Ever since that first day we met, we had hung out nearly everyday for the past week.  And we had gotten to know each other quite well over a few bottles of wine and Tesco meals.  It was there that she spilled that she had a secret romance with a TA last term who promised to grade her papers with higher marks to boost her grade––it’s the aspect of the forbidden romance that makes it so hot, Mick, we’re a modern day Romeo and Juliet––and he ended up grading her papers like every other student because he didn’t want to risk his position––Can you believe that, Mick?!  With the amount of times I went down on him I should have my fucking degree by now!

But she still kept in contact with him over winter break.  She wanted to get him back; string him along for a few weeks outside of the classroom and then leave him high and dry.  He had said that he wasn’t a TA for any theatre classes this term.  But that was a lie.

“And now I have to see him in my performance research methods class that’s twice a week,”  She looked up at me and rested her chin on her arms, “I want to die.”

I crumpled up a napkin and threw it at her face.  She wrinkled her nose up.

“Oh shut it, you live for this drama,” I smirked at her.  She frowned and kept a hard stare on me.  I quirked an eyebrow, smirk growing even more when she surrendered.  

A sheepish smile crossed her face, “Yeah, I do,” she chuckled, “It’s hot.”  I rolled my eyes and threw another napkin her way.  She glared before throwing the napkin right back at me, “I have to pick up a book for the class––wanna come with?”

“I have a literature class in,” I clicked on my phone to check the time, “ten minutes.”  Ella groaned and leaned back in the chair, “But the professor said that we’re having a discussion today so if it’s a lively one then he’ll let us out early,” I grinned at her, hoping it would convince her to wait, “It’ll be like thirty minutes tops.”

With a huff and crossed arms over her chest, Ella agreed.

The discussion was not lively.  Only half of the class read the assigned text.  So we stayed for the whole hour and thirty minutes.

I slung my bag over back and trudged out of the room.  I was already exhausted from still feeling the last bits of jet lag, and when you’re expecting to get out of a class early, but end up staying the full time, it only added to the exhaustion.  I checked my messages, expecting to see one from Ella saying that she went by herself.  But as I lifted my head from my phone, I saw a very annoyed Ella sitting at one of the tables in the open area staring directly at me.

I offered her a weak smile, but as I walked closer to her, I could see each individual stress line engraved in her forehead.

“Thirty minutes tops my arse,”  Ella seethed as she picked up her bag and walked straight out the door without waiting.

I quickly sped behind her, dodging a few students who thought it was necessary to take up the entire hallway and called after her.  I thought she had ditched me when I blew past the double doors and she was nowhere in sight.  I sighed, and right when I was about to walk in the direction of the Temple underground station, I felt a paper ball hit the back of my head.

“Oi, America,”  Ella had grown fond of that nickname whenever she was annoyed and needed someone (i.e. me) to take out her frustrations on, “Let’s get a move on.”  She then briskly walked past me and I trailed behind her like a lost dog––which wasn’t too far off considering I had only been living in London for a week and still didn’t know my surroundings.

But I quickly figured out that we were headed in the direction of Temple station.  I fiddled with my bag and got my oyster card out in time to tap through quickly and not take forever like a tourist; which was how I looked for the first few days.

I followed her to the westbound platform of the district line and stood next to her in silence on the platform.  

“Foyles should have it,” Ella picked a piece of lint off her sweater, “It’s on our way back to our flat so we should beat the rain.”  

Flat.

I nodded and opened my mouth to respond, but the sound of the train coming in effectively drowned me out.  We waited to the side to let the travelers off and then quickly stepped in before the doors closed.  Ella had a tight hold on the railing as she scrolled mindlessly on her phone.  It took two minutes before we got off at Embankment and followed the signs to go southbound on the northern line.

“Temple’s literally across the river from Waterloo,” Ella huffed as she picked up her pace to walk around a particularly slow couple, “we’re on for like two stops, it doesn’t make any sense, they should build something underwater.”

We finally reached our platform and I shrugged, “Could send a letter to TFL, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to receive your suggestion.”

Ella picked up her head and smirked, “Gonna quit your day job and become a comedian, America?”

“My visa doesn’t allow me to work.”

With that, Ella barked out a laugh and stepped onto the train that had arrived without me noticing.  We stood close to the door, preparing a quick exit, and in two minutes we were off and at Waterloo.  Ella checked my hip with hers and offered me a smile when I looked at her, “Thanks for coming along this book hunt with me.”

We got to the gates and scanned our cards on stalls next to each other, not missing a beat in our step as we fell back in sync walking next to each other.

“You’re my only friend,” I shot her a smile, “Might as well take advantage.”

Ella scoffed, “As if I’m you’re only friend,” We stopped at the corner of a street waiting for the go ahead to cross, “I’ve seen you with Mr. brown eyes.”

“Jack,” I rolled my eyes as we crossed the street, “he’s a friend––“

“That ’s how it always starts out.”

I rolled my eyes at her childish tone, “Are we almost there?”  I took the easy way out by changing the subject.  Ella took notice and glared at me.

“It’s on the Southbank so only a five minute walk,” She gave me a side eye, “tops.”

“I said I was sorry!”  I stopped walking and threw my hands in the air, surely making more of a commotion than needed.  Ella let out a gleeful laugh as she kept walking ahead.  I jogged to catch up with her and we spent the next few minutes talking about the work we already had assigned in our first week.  In the middle fo her complaining, we came upon Foyles and when Ella went to open the door she used sp much force that she strained her arm when the door didn’t open.

“What in the––Refurbishment?!”  I took two steps backward. “Fucking great.”  With another two steps back, I cautiously suggested a book store that was down the street from campus.  Ella didn’t take too lightly to that.  

“We were just over there––“

“Let me call and see if they have it!”  I held up my phone and immediately went to searching up the number.  If Ella didn’t have the book in the next hour I could see her destroying the entire city.  So after a quick call and begging the clerk to reserve one of the two copies left in the store, we skipped the tube and opted to run across the Golden Jubilee Bridge, jumped on the circle line at Embankment to Temple, and ignored traffic laws as we darted across streets to the book shop.

Ella was first through the door and continued to run straight to the counter.  The clerk looked up from their computer in surprise and widened their eyes as Ella slammed both hands down on the counter top, “We have a book on reserve––Ella––“

Without exchanging any words, the clerk reached blindly under the table and slammed the book on the counter top just as hard as Ella slammed her hands.  The clerk looked terrified of Ella, and rightly so, because Ella’s stare was murderous.  But with the book on the countertop, her shoulders relaxed and she tapped her credit card on the pad.  Once the transaction was completed, she swiped the book off the counter and put it in her bag.

As I pushed the door open, the bell above it rang, both Ella and I looked up not noticing that it did that when we entered.  And instead of running to the tube, we took our time walking and laughing.

“What’s life without a little adventure?”  Ella hiked her bag over her shoulder.

I almost tripped on the sidewalk at her peppy attitude, “You were about to murder that poor clerk!”

Ella huffed, “Well I–––Bullocks, it’s raining.”

Rain wasn’t unusual in London, everyone knew that.  It started slow, I looked up to gaze at the discolored gray clouds and then it started to pour.  We were only outside for a few seconds and It looked like we had just stepped out of the shower…fully clothed.  Ella tried shouting over the hard rain, but thunder rolled in and it was a lost cause for her to be talking.  So, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the street.  The rain blurred my vision and it wasn’t until my body went from frigid to a comfortable temperature where I noticed the change of scenery from outside to somewhere indoors.  

We were in a coffee shop.

I looked around and saw that the decor was modern, but held a warmth to it.  In the back there was a brown large communal table packed to the brim with laptops and books as industrial lights hung from ceiling.  Along the side wall, there was a long wooden bench with purple and blue cushions paired with five individual tables in front of the bench.  There were other small seating arrangements scattered around the floor, and I noticed that customers also made their way down some stairs with their coffee in hand.  It was quite crowded up here, but it was probably just as packed down stairs.

Luckily, Ella saw a couple leave the couch that was in the front of the store and placed her bag on it before anyone else could claim it.  I walked over to her and placed my bag down with hers.

“Might as well wait the rain out,” Ella grumbled as she pulled out her laptop and the theatre book she just bought, “I’m gonna get something, hold down the fort.”

I nodded as I took out my own study materials and set it on the circular marble table in front of us.  It was definitely more of an area to lounge and chat with friends, not a study space.  Ella returned to the couch and slumped down.  With her eyes on me she pointed her index finger right in front of my nose, “You look like you could use a coffee.”

“Gee, thanks,” I rolled my eyes and pulled money out of my wallet, “lend me an extra pound and I’ll get an extra shot of espresso.”  Ella flipped me off and I made my way to the line.  

I was behind a few people and it gave me time to look at the large menu board hung up on the wall behind the counter.  They were a nice little establishment offering coffees, teas, an assortment of baked goods, sandwiches, and juices.  I stepped up to the counter when the person in front of me had ordered and I was met with possibly the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

“Hi, you alright?”  

His smile.

It was a small offering, nothing full blown, but the lopsided smile still showcased a welcoming look.  His hair was a bit disheveled, but looked like it was styled in place.  And his eyes…Most people weren’t fond of brown eyes, but they were the most beautiful pair of eyes I had ever seen.  They were a shade of brown, but with a closer inspection,  there were flecks of hazel and gold sprinkled through out.  His eyes were tired, but they still shinned brighter than the sun on a rare day.

Realizing that I hadn’t answered, my eyes widened, “Uh, I’m––I’m a bit cold.”

His eyes trailed up and down my soaked figure as he let out a bit of a laugh, “Got stuck in the rain?”  I only nodded in response, I couldn’t find it in myself to ramble.  “Looks miserable out there,” he continued to carry the conversation, “One minute there was only a few students here and then the next minute half of the city shows up.”  He leaned his elbows on the counter and rested his chin on his hands.  His black long sleeved shirt was rolled up to his elbows and it was then that I caught sight of a guitar illustration on his forearm.

I gulped.

“Yeah, not-–it wasn’t really ideal––But I––My friend dragged me here––We weren’t even meant to be over here––But she needed a book and then we got caught in the rain and––“  Unlike everyone after hearing my rant, the barista behind the counter didn’t look frightened.  There was a soft closed lip smile resting on his face as he looked up at me.  He looked intrigued.  “And now we’re studying.”

“Studying.”  He whispered under his breath.  He was about to say something else before a yellow paper cup hit him in the back of his head.  Both of our eyes shifted to the other person behind the counter.

“Oi, Romeo,”  His Irish accent had stood out to me in the sea of English accents, “Get a move on.”

The guy I had been talking to rolled his eyes and stood up, “What can I get for ya?”

“Uh––A latte.” 

He nodded and uncapped a sharpie as he wrote it on the side of a cup that looked like the one that had just hit him in the head.  He paused his writing and glanced up, “What’s your name, love?”

Love.

I swore I could feel my heart drop to the bottom of my stomach, but I did manage to get my name out without any rambling, “McLane.”

He nodded, “McLane.” his small smile spread out to a full blown grin, “Just listen for your name and it’ll be here.” 

I paid for my coffee and dropped a pound in the tip jar.  From the corner of my eye I saw his smile grow wider as he took a new order, not nearly spending as much time talking to the next customer.  I walked back over to Ella who had her highlighter out and brows furrowed.

I sat back down and stared at the deep purple wall behind her.  There was something intriguing about the guy behind the counter, something that made me want to just be in his presence.  He had a boyish charm to him, but his aura seeped of maturity and confidence.  And his smile.  It was inviting.  I was completely sober, but I came away from our conversation feeling slightly tipsy.

Ella jumped up when she heard her name and sat back down sipping her coffee.  She picked up her highlighter, but did a double take when she noticed the far off look in my eye, “Alright there?”

I blinked my eyes twice and cleared my throat, “I–-uh––Yeah, wonderful––so nice––still a little cold, but I–––“

“Mick.”

“Good, good,”  A small smile crept onto my face, “I’m good.”

Ella nodded slowly, looking at me with cautious eyes not believing a word I said.  But I was good.  More than good.  “You seem a little…off.”  I shook my head as I replayed the conversation with the barista in my head.  It was small, really nothing of importance, but just the thought of it brought a smile to my face.  Ella continued with her concern, “Are you––“

“McLane!”

I jumped up at the sound of the Canadian accent, knocking my knee on the underside of the table, as quick sharp pain started at my knee and made its way down to my toes.  The Irish boy behind the counter poked his head around from behind the stack of cups upon hearing the crash.  Ella’s eyes beamed up at me and a knowing smirk tugged at her lips.

I shot her a glare before I made my way to the counter where I saw the brown eyed barista holding a yellow cup with my name written in chicken scratch with all capital letters.

“Here you go, love.”  He handed over my latte that was filled up to the very top.  And as I was about to reach out for the steaming beverage he winked.

Winked.

I thought I was still daydreaming in my head, but our eyes were locked and a mischievous smirk made its way onto his face as my eyes widened.  Oh no.  I thought I had a hold of the coffee, but my hand dropped, and his eyes widened.  Some liquid splashed over the top and onto his hand as he sucked in a breath.  

“Oh, I––Sorry––This––Thank you,” I mumbled.  His eyes snapped back up to mine and softened.  I averted my gaze to the yellow cup and took it from his hold, briefly taking notice how our fingers brushed.  Now I was the one who snapped my gaze up to him to see that he was already looking at me, “Thanks, again.”  I swiftly turned on my heel and walked back to the couch as embarrassment flooded my body, where Ella sat with a scheming look in her eyes, textbook abandoned.

“How much did you ramble, McLane?”

“Shut up.” I grumbled as I took a lactose pill out of my bag and Ella threw her had back cackling.

a/n:  Woot! First chapter! And first meeting with Shawn (aka the unknown barista but we’ll get to that slkfjsfl).  As always with fics, the first chapter is a bunch of establishing everything so I promise the next chapters will be more exciting!! 

What are your thoughts? How do you like the characters? Favorite part? Least favorite part? Did you have a good day/afternoon/night? What’d you have for dinner? Lol. But honestly! Come talk to me about anything!! Chapter two will probably be up next week :) And in the mean time, I’ll be posting some requests that I’ve been working on! Woo! So! Much! Content!!!

I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day, night, or evening!! Thanks a million for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated, but never pressured :) 

let’s chat!!! | general masterlist | c’est toi masterlist

[burtlederp]

Grant(3), Caleb(4), Caetan(35), Tiburon(49) oops,, its a lot, huh? Your characters are just awesome hAHA sorrYY

Nooo don’t apologize thank YOU!!! I’M sorry for taking so long to respond!!!

Putting stuff under a readmore because holy hell there’s a lot of it

3. What is/was Grant’s relationship with his father like? tw: drugs, drugs, and more drugs; child abuse a la neglect

He’s laying on his back in the middle of his apartment, staring at the domed ceiling overhead. Coherent thoughts are far and few between, his mind muddled by the haze that fills it, fills the room, the whole apartment. Before he’d started smoking, he’d known he’d regret stealing so much weed, but for now, he didn’t. He floated in a peaceful bliss, utterly serene. No thoughts in, no thoughts out. Just smoke, curling and floating around him. Shapes moved amongst the haze, too faint to identify, passing, shifting forms. People, perhaps, walking by, walking around him. Legs passing by, nobody ever stopping to look down at him. People milling about, paces slowing, soon they’re coming and going. They enter the room, they talk, they leave after a brief exchange of currencies. His father is sitting behind him, on the couch. He’s high too, he’s always high, Grant can just barely see the shadows of his father’s hunched form when he tips his head back. His father never relaxed when he was high. He always became even higher strung, if that was possible. He only calmed down when he had heroin in his veins, or something stronger. 

Grant couldn’t see the face of the smoky form of his father. There wasn’t one. In his memory, there never had been. His father in the transient construction of smoke was as accurate as any depiction Grant could have conjured on his own. Never present, never really there, always drugged out of his mind, never sober. Just the same as the haze that filled the house permanently. 

4. Has Caleb ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed him? If so, does anyone else know? tw: war is hell, child abuse a la war is fucking hell, no I’ve not read the Silmarillion I just like the idea of Tom Bombadil don’t @ me

Caleb scrubbed his face on his arm and shivered, pulling the tattered cloth he called a blanket tighter around himself. It’d been raining for days now, with no end in sight, and it had transformed the prairie into a mudscape. He and one other lone figure huddled around a tree that stood tall in the midst of the brown sea, one solitary rise of solid ground, one lone spot of relative shelter. 

“B-beautiful weather, innit?” the other, the stranger, chuckled. It was the first thing they’d said since they arrived. They’d showed up last night, flopping down against the tree and falling asleep. Caleb had kept his distance, kept still, not showing any inclination of actually being alive. He didn’t reply to the stranger’s comment on the weather.

“Not in th’ mood ‘fer talkin’? Thas’ a’ight…” they sighed after a long minute, realizing Caleb wouldn’t respond. “An’ I know yer’ not asleep, ‘cause iss’ too cold t’be sleepin’ right now.” Caleb still didn’t respond. He was wary of the person. There was no such thing as a stranger with ulterior motives. 

“Don’ worry, I got enough words fer’ th’ both of us,” the stranger, a man, Caleb realized over the constant sound of rain, scoffed. Caleb looked heavenward, praying silently. 

Please, no, don’t let him talk, Caleb prayed, but unfortunately the gods were not on his side in this moment. 

“I’ve met a god before. Now, I know what yer’ thinkin’--’you? Dionisio? Seen a god? Ha! As if!’ But I tells ya’, I met ‘em. Hell if I’m to know which one he was or what he did or whatnot, but I met ‘im and he was a fabulous fella. Called ‘imself Tom, of all things. Can ye’ believe that? A god, named Tom! Ah, I hardly believed it myself when ‘e said it.” Caleb sighed, rubbing his face. The man’s name was Dionisio, and he was crazy. Excellent. I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with a crazy man who’s likely going to kill and eat me. 

A distinct crunch cut off Caleb’s train of thought. It wasn’t a sickening crunch, like a breaking bone or the like, but like a bite into an apple, a fresh, crisp apple. Caleb spun around, looking around the tree to see the man, as crinkled and wrinkled and dirty and filthy as he had sounded and smelled, leaned comfortably against the tree. His dark, beady eyes twinkled as Caleb stared at him.

“Mm, I knew that’d get yer’ attention!” he laughed, a hand lowering to his side. Before Caleb could react, jump back from the man’s drawn sword--he realized the man hadn’t drawn a sword at all. It was another apple. He held out the bright red fruit to Caleb. “Go on n’ take it, lad, y’probably more starved than I am!” 

Caleb sat there, hesitating, eyes flickering between the apple and the man, weighing his options. He could take the apple, but… what did he want in return? Was the apple cursed? Poisoned? Was this a trick? He backed up a step warily, like a shy animal.

“Ayee, I’m not gonna ‘urt you! I jus’ wanna give y’ somethin’ t’eat. I swear I ain’t mean nuthin’ by it,” Dionisio insisted, holding the apple out further. Caleb stared, waiting. Dionisio tilted his head, giving a wry smile. “C’mon laddie. I ain’t mean ye no harm, c’mon.” His voice softened as he spoke, getting a little quieter, more gentle, not so rough and abrasive like the coarse mud that surrounded them. Caleb swallowed, his stomach twisting. It’d been days since he’d eaten. He didn’t remember when he’d last eaten. And here it was, food, offered with no strings attached. It was too good to be true. But his hunger overrode his instincts now and he snatched the apple from the man’s hand, leaping away right after. 

“Aye, there we go, there we go, see? An’ I didn’ even ‘urt ye!” Dionisio chortled, watching as Caleb devoured the apple. The old man kept smiling, but it faded somewhat as the small, one-armed boy ate. “Ye been hit as ‘ard as anyone else by this war, ain’t ye?” 

Caleb, chewing, looked up briefly at the man through messy, curly, wet black hair that fell in his eyes. He nodded, ever so slightly. 

“Ye… Ain’t we all…” Dionisio sighed, letting his head rest against th’ tree. “I got more apples fer’ ye if ye want ‘em after that ‘un.” Caleb frowned.

“Why?” Caleb was surprised as the sound that came from his throat was not one he recognized. It was a croak, rough and unused. Though it had been… well, Caleb didn’t even know the last time he’d spoken. He cleared his throat and tried again, questioning the man. Dionisio huffed a laugh.

“‘Why’? Whaddya’ mean, ‘why’?” the old man looked to him with a grin. “‘Cause I want to, and ye look half-dead, and ye barely a child! Ye need it more than I do.”

“But….” Caleb looked down at the core of the apple in his hand. “You could last so much longer if you kept them to yourself.”

“But you’ll last so much longer if I don’t, won’t ye?” Dionisio pointed out simply. “That’s reason enough fer’ me.” A spot of red appeared in Caleb’s peripheral vision, and he raised his head to see another apple being offered to him, Dionisio smiling. Caleb took it slowly.

“No… no other goal…?” Caleb asked cautiously, and Dionisio shook his head.

“None. I jus’ wanna see ye get outta’ this war alive, lad.”

Caleb leaned back against the tree as Dionisio kept telling his story, listening out of one ear as he thought about the apple. Food, so precious in this time of war and chaos, and he’d given it away freely. 

Perhaps there are good people in this world, still… Caleb thought as Dionisio talked and talked and talked, and it rained and rained and rained.

35. How does Caetan behave around people he likes? in a word: badly tw: implied to-happen noncon/r*pe

Caetan drummed his fingers on the bartop, chin resting in his other hand. He nudged his drink around a bit, bored. He didn’t really know what he was here for. Well, he did, he knew very well. He’d been more than busy the past couple weeks, and was yearning for some company. But he wasn’t sure what mood he was in. 

And then someone sat down a few seats from him at the bar and he did a double-take. A man, maybe 6-foot-one, with short, dark hair that was well-kept, well-styled. Lean, well-muscled, but not brawny. His face was narrow, and by god that was the most perfect nose Caetan had ever seen in his life. 

Caetan realized what mood he was in and got to his feet.

“This seat taken?” Caetan inquired. The man turned, looking up at him with deep, chocolate-y brown eyes that made Caetan pray the man said no because his knees were about to give out. The man shook his head, and Caetan tried to slip into the seat without giving away how weak he was already. “You here alone tonight?”

“I am,” the stranger responded, eyeing Caetan somewhat warily. 

“That’s a shame,” Caetan shook his head. “A beautiful creature like yourself on your own on a Friday night? I’d say that’s a crime against humanity.”

The man stared at him, and Caetan suddenly second-guessed everything he’d said or done already. What had he done wrong? Could he fix it? What--

“I’m straight.” Ah. That’s what’s wrong. Caetan’s face fell a bit.

“Well, damn. You sure?” Caetan sighed.

“Very,” the man replied stiffly.

“That’s an even bigger shame, then,” Caetan grunted, motioning the bartender over. “Let me buy you a drink then, to save some face.”

“No thanks,” the man said quickly, getting to his feet. “Have a good night.” With that, the beautiful stranger turned and walked away. Caetan watched him go, and slowly got to his feet, moving stealthily through the bar as the man headed to the door of the bar, and he followed him out into the night.

49. If Tiburon was put into ______ situation, they’d rather die than live to see it through. I had no idea what to do with this for a looong time, ngl cw: cannablism(?), consumption of human flesh, gore, Tiburon doesn’t give two shits about your ‘ethics’, he’s got his own that he’s following; oh and implied kidnapping, planned torture that never happens

It occurred to Tiburon, now too late, that perhaps he was in over his head. ‘Infiltrate the mafia,’ they said, ‘it’ll be fun,’ they said. ‘You surely won’t be forced to torture and kill someone!,’ they said, he thought bitterly as he stood in front of a man tied firmly to a chair, a black bag over his head. His head was bowed inside the bag, but he wasn’t unconscious; Tiburon could hear the man choking on sobs, shoulders shaking. Tiburon had killed people before, he’d eaten people before, he had no issue with that; it was the torture that made him hesitate. Every time he’d killed, he’d taken special care to not let them suffer, he hated suffering.

And now here he was, being compelled to do it. Well, he would be, it hadn’t happened yet. He was trapped in this shipping container, another man standing by the door, waiting, watching, playing witness to Tiburon’s actions to let the boss know he was legit. Tiburon sighed, rubbing his face. What a fucking inconvenience. Six months--six fucking months of work, all down the drain, just like that. He tortured this man, made him suffer, or they would kill Tiburon. Well, they thought they would. Unfortunately, they were currently on the docks, so Tiburon would make his getaway before they ever knew he’d changed his mind about the work. 

He turned away from the sobbing, bound man to face the guard, crossing his arms. The man, at least a head taller than Tiburon and fifty pounds heavier, every ounce made of muscle, eyed him.

“What?” The man’s voice was exactly what Tiburon had pictured--deep, raspy, heavy. Appropriate.

“Nothing,” Tiburon replied, looking away with a sigh. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. He had to cut to the chase before things started getting iffy. He turned back around and walked close to the guard.

“What’re you doing?” the guard grunted, sizing up the supposed torturer while the supposed torturer did the same to him. Tiburon did not reply, not verbally, grabbing the man by the head and pushing him against the wall. The guard barked in alarm and fought back, but Tiburon was quicker and slippery. Before the large brute could get a good grip on him and make the whole ordeal a lot more trouble, he leapt forward and sank his teeth into the man’s throat. The guard’s shout of alarm quickly twisted into a scream, then into a gargled wail that was silenced as Tiburon pulled away, trachea still in his teeth. The guard slumped to the floor, grasping at his own neck with wide eyes, and Tiburon hated it. A swift kick, and the guard’s body shuddered and went still, skull dented. Tiburon chewed thoughtfully on the trachea for a moment, surveying his work, and went to the captive man. The poor creature yelped in alarm at the touch as Tiburon cut through the zipties, but went quiet as the black hood was yanked off. The man’s eyes went wide as he saw the cartilage in Tiburon’s mouth, the dead body, and scrambled backwards with a terrified shriek.

“No, no, no no no please!” he begged, tears rolling down his cheek, one hand outstretched protectively. Tiburon frowned.

“Don’t worry, I won’t, I just figured it’d be cruel to leave you alone in the summer heat. Toodles.” With that, the merman turned and stepped out of the shipping crate, walking to the edge of the water, at some point discarding the trachea (cartilage wasn’t good eats anyhow) along the way. He dove in, relishing the cool ocean saltwater as it closed over his head, pleasant in the summer heat. 

Six whole months… he thought again as he swam away, his legs fusing into a long tail, skin becoming rough, teeth sharpening. Ah well. Now I know; the mafia isn’t worth the work.

[mrs-berry]

Concert

By mrs_berry

Read on AO3!

Part 1 of ML Love Square Fluff Week 2020

@lovesquarefluffweek

Summary: Marinette is given two concert tickets for Jagged Stone’s concert, but who will she end up taking with her?

Word Count: 1598

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jagged Stone was the best. Not only had he commissioned Marinette again, but on top of paying her for her creative services, he gave her two free VIP tickets to his concert!

So, of course, the first thing she did was squeal and freak out about it to Tikki.

The next thing she did was invite Alya to go with her.

The third thing she did was demote Alya from best friend, because Alya had turned down her invitation (how dare she!) due to “prior engagements.”

Which Marinette knew was a load of bologna.

The truth was Alya was being Alya. She was being her devious, cunning, sneaky self and plotting something.

It became even more obvious when literally everyone she asked had given her some bullshit excuse about being unable to make it. Seriously, who would turn down a free VIP Jagged Stone concert ticket?!

No one, that’s who!

After asking everyone she was good friends with and receiving more excuses than the ones she constantly gave out as Ladybug, she was down to her last resort.

Well, maybe not her last resort. Because that would be Lila. With Chloé being a close second last, of course.

Finally, after much persuasion and reassurance (and downright peer pressure), Marinette asked her crush to attend the concert with her.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, he gave a resounding yes and proceeded to smother her with gratitude and excitement. (Though how he happened to have a free schedule and gain permission to attend was a real mystery—one that will never be revealed.)

Suddenly, Marinette couldn’t remember why she had been reluctant to ask him in the first place. He was as big a fan of Jagged Stone as she was, for goodness sake!

“Okay, so my bodyguard will pick you up at 6 o'clock?”

Oh yeah. She was going to spend several hours of her evening with him. Alone. With only her foot to shove in her mouth if she became an awkward stuttering hot mess around him.

Great.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, after school, Marinette tried to count her blessings and good luck as Alya did her hair and makeup while Marinette tried to re-teach herself the French language. 

“Sit still, girl, or I might burn you with the curling iron,” Alya scolded, as Marinette was currently fidgeting in attempt to soothe her nerves. Smirking, she added, “We wouldn’t want Adrien to think you got a hickey from someone other than him, hm?”

“Ack-Alya!” Marinette choked in exasperation at her friend’s teasing. It was certainly not helping with her already fried nerves.

Alya proceeded to give her a pep talk— pointing out why Marinette was amazing, reminding her to be her friendly self, and reassuring her that Adrien was as scary as a cute golden retriever puppy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While Marinette appreciated her best friend’s words, it turned out whatever advice and encouragement she had received had conveniently drained out of her mind. Only panicked and anxious thoughts remained as Adrien greeted her before leading her to the car and opening the door for her.

“T-thanks,” she managed to squeak out as she practically tripped and fell onto the car seat.

Mercifully, Adrien either didn’t notice her disastrous clumsiness or respectfully decided to ignore it in order to spare her feelings or dignity (if she even had any left—at this point it was up for debate).

In the car, they sat in semi-awkward silence for about three seconds before Adrien requested that his bodyguard put the music back on.

To her surprise (though maybe she should not have been surprised, considering their destination), Jagged Stone’s music flowed through the speakers.

Almost inexplicably, Marinette felt her body relax. The tenseness in her shoulder dissipated. A smile spread across her lips. And before she could consciously stop herself, she was humming along to one of her favourite songs.

Adrien took notice of this, of course, and felt greatly relieved. He always worried over Marinette, especially when she became all stiff and weird around him—as if she was afraid of him or perhaps disliked his company. He always bottled up those anxious thoughts and chalked it up to being paranoid, but maybe one day he would broach the subject. Today was not the day, though, as he was determined to keep a happy and fun mood.

With an adoring smile on his lips, he began humming along with her.

Marinette sputtered, looking at him as if she just realized he was there.

Biting her lip, she gave a shy smile, before starting to hum again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The concert was the best; deafening rock music boomed through their chests and rattled their hearts as they stood near the stage. Lights flashed, glow sticks waved, fists pumped, and the audience screamed and danced to powerful guitar chords and lyrics.

Marinette and Adrien were in close proximity to each other, often finding themselves pressed up against one another as bustling bodies moved to the music.

Marinette could feel the heat radiating from Adrien (and other people, but they did not matter) and felt like fainting from happiness and utter bliss.

Adrien experienced similar feelings, though perhaps not from the same reasons as his short friend.

Marinette and Adrien sang to their heart’s content at the top of their lungs as they enjoyed every vibration, every chord, every lyric, and every moment of this concert.

(Marinette also enjoyed every second of contact with Adrien.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the concert had ended, the duo made their way over to the VIP section of the concert, where they would be able to meet their idol.

Voices raspy and ears ringing, Marinette and Adrien found themselves gushing excitedly over the best concert of their lives, while they waited in line to meet Jagged.

The moment Jagged Stone spotted Marinette, he excitedly waved his arms at her.

Marinette beamed and greeted him enthusiastically.

“Marinette! It’s mighty rock ‘n’ roll that you could make it out here t'night!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

Marinette went to give him a handshake, but he opted for a bone-crushing hug instead.

Flushed, but happy, she continued beaming as he released her from his vice grip.

“And who’s this, hmm? Oh, wait, you look familiar,” he observed, scratching his beard. “Is this yer boyfriend? Well, I definitely approve, seems like a nice lad for ya!”

Marinette went from beaming to red lobster in milliseconds.

“Agrestien—Adrigeste—ugh—Adrien Agreste is not—he is my friend!” she vehemently denied, struggling to make sensical words form from her lips. “And fan! A huge fan! Of yours, I mean! Not me. Not my fan.”

Marinette facepalmed at her own inability to be an articulate human being around her friend.

Adrien smiled sheepishly, possibly too star struck to have noticed the spazzy mess that stood beside him.

“Riiiight then,” Jagged drawled in a tone that clearly didn’t believe her denial for a second. “Would you like a hug as well? Or perhaps a handshake? Maybe a signed CD?”

Adrien wordlessly nodded rapidly. It seems Marinette was not the only inarticulate one at the moment.

Jagged beamed and swept the tall blond model into a bone-crushing hug identical to the one he had given Marinette.

Afterwards, Jagged took the CD that had mysteriously appeared in Adrien’s hand and signed it—signing it right next to Marinette’s signature.

He also signed Marinette’s Jagged Stone concert shirt, since she had not brought a CD along with her and said she didn’t need a free CD since she already owned all his albums.

By the end of their meeting, Adrien was pretty sure he would melt into a happy and fulfilled puddle at any moment.

Marinette felt the same way, but for slightly different reasons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Gorilla drove the two teenagers home.

Both of them switched between speaking animatedly about their night and daydreaming about how surreal the whole event had been.

Once they reached the bakery, Adrien walked Marinette to the door, while his bodyguard waited for him in the car.

“Thank you so much for inviting me tonight,” he spoke quietly with complete sincerity. “It was the most fun I’ve ever had. I don’t know how, but I’ll definitely make it up to you, I promise.”

Marinette’s heart lurched at him feeling like he owed her. He was too sweet and he certainly didn’t owe her a thing.

“Oh, no, you don't—please don’t feel like you owe me anything! The tickets were free and I am so glad you were able to come!” Somehow, her strong feelings on the subject made her more coherent than she had been all night. Perhaps knowing he had so much fun had also dashed away some of her insecurities. “Honestly, I am really glad it was you who came with me and not anyone else. I had a blast. So, really, it should be me thanking you.”

Adrien was touched by her kindness and she could see it in his expression.

Looking into his soft eyes, she mustered what courage she had and tip-toed to give him a peck on the cheek.

He smiled brilliantly in response, a tinge of red seeping into his cheeks, but the darkness of the night and shadows hid it well.

“Goodnight, Marinette,” he said softly.

Turning around, he went back to his car, opened the door and got in. Closing the door, he gave her one last tender look (which she couldn’t see in the darkness) before his car took off into the night.

Marinette was confident no concert would ever top that one.

(Unless a certain blond boy came along with her again.)

[lennonknowsmysins]

tell me when you’re sober

beatle: john lennon

summary: you’re drunk and try to get into john’s pants. john is a bit of dad friend. 

warnings: uh, intoxication and dirty suggestions being thrown around, no one actually acts upon these suggestions (as john is much more sober than the reader), real sad bois hours towards the end

a/n: yeet, this is my first attempt at posting something. i’ve seen this kind of prompt done a couple times in different groups on tumblr, i figure its a pretty safe one to start with. it’s kind of rough but i’m still trying to find a groove, so what’re ya gonna do. if i wrote something that sounds too close to something you or someone else have written, please let me know so i can tweak it! the last thing i want to do is accidentally steal someone else’s work like eric clapton stole george’s wife

John hadn’t really pegged you as the heavy drinking type. But he could be one to admit that he’d been wrong as he watched you down yet another alcoholic beverage.Then again, he was pretty sure this was unusually activity for you, seeing as the boys had practically had to drag you down here with them.

Your giggles rang out across the pub as you leaned into an awkward Ringo, who was pretending to understand what you were saying. John’s jaw tightened as you patted the drummer’s cheek. He scoffed and looked away, searching for the other two members of his band. 

“You should take (y/n) home.” As if summoned, Paul appeared at his shoulder, eyebrows raised knowingly. “Give her some water and tuck her in, like.”

John nodded, setting down his own empty glass and striding over to where you sat. He pulled you off Ringo, saving the poor lad from anymore of your drunken hugs. Disappointment twinged in him at the sad look on your face from Ringo’s sudden disappearance, but quickly dissipated when you happily grinned upon realizing that it was John holding you. 

“Johnny, I’m so turned on by you!” You announced loudly. John’s faced flared a tad as he heard Paul snort from behind him. He wasn’t used to be in this position, usually it was him that was making drunken suggestive comments to you. 

“Let’s go home (y/n), you’re drunk.” He muttered, throwing your arm around his neck to help lead you outside. You looked up at him lovingly and he wished that your gaze wasn’t so obviously phased by alcohol. As he paraded you by a still sniggering Paul, he spat, “Choke McCartney.”

“Do see that she gets home with all her clothes in one piece, Lenny!”

“Yeah, I like that idea,” You babbled, stumbling along beside him, “Let’s go home so we can fuck.” 

John blinked hard, almost laughing at how casually that had come out of your mouth. He readjusted his grip on you as he turned up the stairs to your flat.

“You’re really fucking drunk, aren’t you,” He smirked, “How much did you have to drink, love?”

“I’m not drunk, I’m horny.” You argued matter-o-factly. John smiled apologetically to the old lady passing you by. You giggled your stupid, infatuating giggle as he shushed you. Suddenly, your lips were right by his ear, whispering, “I promise I’m tight, I’ve felt it myself.”

John almost choked on oxygen. The idea of you finding the time you feel yourself up was both incredibly arousing and humorous to him. Horny you was really something else.  

“C’mon Johnny, you always make jokes about wanting to have sex with me, why won’t you actually do it?”

“You’re drunk.” He reiterated, rougher than intended, throwing open the door to your flat. You pulled your arm from around him, stopping in your tracks. 

“So if I wasn’t drunk, you’d have sex with me?” 

God, he wished you weren’t off your rocks right now. There was something innocent in the way you spoke about the crass subject that was so enticing. But your eyes were still encased in the drunk woman and he doubted that anything you were saying was genuine. You had probably said the same things to Ringo, what with the way you were draped all over him. But John tried to push that image out of his mind.

“Darling, if you can say all the things you’re saying right now when you’re sober, I’ll pound you straight into that mattress.” He promised, smirking as he did so. He should have convinced Paul to come with you so he could have an eyewitness to your excited squeal. 

“I’m holding you to that!” You declared, throwing yourself into your desk seat and finding something to write on. You stopped suddenly, your entire demeanor shifting. “John, my head hurts.”

“We should get you to bed then, shouldn’t we?” You nodded almost sadly, allowing John to lift you and carry you to your bed. You looked around while John took off your shoes, as if you weren’t sure where you were. 

“I don’t remember where my pajamas are.” You huffed, in no mood to sleep in your stiff dress. John thought for a moment. In any other situation, he would have relished a chance to go digging through your clothes. However, there was nothing poetic to partaking in such an activity while you sat there in your unceremonious sad, horny and drunken glory. 

“Here, love.” He said, unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe it wasn’t the ideal choice of sleep wear, but it would do for the night. He unzipped your dress and slipped his shirt over your shoulders rather slowly, while you looked up at him shyly, seemingly waiting for him to say something rude. But he said nothing, only helped you get into the bed.

“You really are attracted to me though, right?” Your voice was meek, lacking the volume from earlier or your usual confidence. John tilted his head, confused. Clearly if you’d been paying attention for the past year, you’d have some notion that he had a real desire to get into your pants. “Like, I’m pretty enough for you and all that shit? Cause I’ve seen some of the girls you find after shows and they’re real knockouts. It makes me worried that you don’t really like me.”

Again, John didn’t say anything. He couldn’t figure out if you were really opening up to him about this or if you were trying to get him to stay longer. It was certainly the first he’d heard about it. He took a look at you in your current state. Your eye makeup was smeared about, your lipstick gone, your hair was falling out of it’s style with wisps here and there and the too large shirt swallowed most of your body up. Quite frankly, you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen - and he’d seen Paul for God’s Sake. 

“‘Sorry,” You began, the liquor and the need to sleep slurring your words, “I know that shit’s annoying, but I’m-I’m-I’m drunk, you see, I had a lot t-to, uh, uh, drinking tonight, s’it seemed like a good time to ask.”

“You’re more than pretty enough. You’re absolutely stunning. It’s me that’s not pretty enough for you, you gorgeous girl.” He murmured, sitting down next to you and stroking your hair. You let out a happy hum and nuzzled your head into his thigh. For a moment, he pretended that this domestic act was more. He was never really one for wanting a routine kind of relationship - not when there were tours, parties and girls to be had - but this gave him a feeling of contentment that no one night stand could ever.

“Well, I think that you’re pretty.” You whispered, peering up at him through your exhaustion. You reached up and patted his hair before burying your face back in his thighs and groaning, “My head still hurts.”

“You’re tired, dear.”

“No, I’m drunk.”

John shook his head, unable to hide the smile on his lips as he readjusted you to tuck you in. Once he was certain you were comfortable and about to drift off, he kissed your forehead and stood to leave - only to be stopped when your hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“Will you stay with me? I’m not a perv.” You pleaded tiredly, “And I think this is Paul’s shirt, I’m gonna need back up if he comes to fight me for it.”

He almost laughed before realizing that that was a legitimate concern of your’s. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea but you were in a vulnerable state, leaving you by yourself when you were coherent enough to understand that he was leaving but not why seemed like a dick move. And the thought of you waking up hungover, only to find John Lennon in your bed was too good to pass up.

So John gave you your way, kicking his shoes off and sliding into the bed next to you. He sighed as you curled into him, looking out the window and wondering how to explain this all to you the next day as you both slipped off into sleep. 

[nnegan13]

the mood is hella depressing rn, save us with some fics before the beach date :( (half joking haha, you'll post when they're complete, no pressure, and they've all been wonderful so far!)

ok sorry that I didn’t respond before the beach date but here’s something for you bc this is fucking distracting me 

(also thank you for being so kind ily

@edonori @cachekakusu for you bc it’s incantava depression hours lads 

ft. eleonora “no brain cells only swearing” sava and edoardo “doesn’t actually know how to flirt” incanti 

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30 

21:02 

DOWNTOWN MILAN 

20:59, message from Eva 

[pic] 

Don’t be impressed or anything 

But edo taught me how to make tiramisu tonight 

And it’s fucking delicious

Bring Stephan over and have some 👅👅👅 

Eleonora shoves her phone into her pocket as Stephan exits the little pastry shop, paper bag in hand, and wonders for the fifth time that night why she bailed on dinner. Sure, it’s nice to be with Stephan again, he was her closest friend from the program—more than a friend, if she’s being truly honest—but they made fucking tiramisu—her favorite and Eva knows it’s her favorite even though it’s only been two months since they started living together, this is clearly bait and it’s working—and Stephan is insisting on taking her to tourist trap after tourist trap. She’s lived in Milan for three years now, a cathedral is a cathedral no matter how fancy they look, and she doesn’t want to talk about how the decoration on this particular set of buttresses compares to the decoration on the buttresses from the church they were at previously. 

Not to mention it’s fucking nine o’clock at night and all the cathedrals are closed and he’s offering this commentary from beyond their fancy fences in English because his Italian is shit and she only wants to die a little bit. 

“Here,” Stephan says, offering the bag to her with a smile, and Eleonora peeks inside at the two cannoli he got, thinks of Eva’s message, and reaches inside to grab one. Edoardo’s place is way too close for her not to be tempted.

“So,” she starts, biting into the cannolo and getting filling all over her chin. Stephan laughs a little, as does she, but before he can do something like wipe it off for her, she swipes the filling up her chin and into her already full mouth, turning away so he can’t see more of the mess. 

God, this night is going well. 

She chews and swallows hastily, looking back to him with her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” 

“No, you’re fine,” he says. “Perhaps I should’ve got napkins.” 

“Maybe.” She offers him a little smile, but judging by the look on his face it probably turned into a grimace. She starts walking again just so that she can stop making stupid expressions. “Listen, you said you wanted to try authentic Italian food, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, good.” She gestures with her cannolo and thinks of how best to phrase her proposition without it sounding like she’s trying to escape their outing. “Now, these are pretty good, but my friend just told me he made tiramisu tonight and he’s the best at cooking, baking, you name it.” Hopefully Eva lives up to the hype, or that Edoardo had a hand in most of the preparation. “Do you want to go try it?” 

Stephan sounds hesitant. “Would we be interrupting anything?” 

“No, no, he always invites people over when he makes stuff,” she says. “He even said I should bring you.” 

Stephan latches onto the wrong part of the sentence. “You’ve told your friends about me?” 

Shit, her eyes laser on the sidewalk. “Um, yeah, when we were making plans for this week.” 

“Okay.” His tone is smug and she takes another bite of her cannolo to avoid saying anything more. “Sounds fun.” 

It’s more of a relief than it should be to know that she’ll make it to Edoardo’s tonight. “Great! His place is right around here.”

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30 

21:37 

VILLA BOYS’ APARTMENT 

Everyone keeps trying their English out on Stephan. At first it’s amusing, watching him try to navigate Chicco and Rocco shouting every statistic they know about the football teams in the UK at him, and then Luca practicing his various accents (Russian is Eleonora’s favorite) for Stephan’s approval, and then Silvia and Federica having the bright idea that they’ll talk at him in English and he’ll answer back in his terrible Italian and they’ll give each other tips. 

Then it becomes her downright favorite thing that’s happened tonight because everyone is so invested in talking to him that Eleonora doesn’t have to anymore. Whether or not that makes her a bad person is a moral quandary she’ll explore later. For now? 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there.” Edoardo bumps into her, tone overly casual, startling her enough that she drops her fork, and leans against the counter next to her. He says, surprised, “Oh, shit, sorry,” and bends to pick it up off the floor.

She stares at the mop of curls on his head and regrets, again, not coming to dinner earlier. He holds it out to her, a little smile on his face. What the fuck is he up to? “Here.” 

“Ah, yes, exactly what I wanted,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him. “Floor fork to go with my fantastic tiramisu.” 

“Glad to know you think it’s fantastic.” He places the fork in the sink behind them and pulls another out of a drawer. A beat passes and he doesn’t hand it to her.

“Glad to know you don’t understand sarcasm.” It really is good tiramisu, the best she’s had in a while, but he’s holding her fork hostage and that is uncalled for. She holds her hand out, palm up. “Can I have that?” 

“It’ll cost you.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, gaze lingering on the little smile that’s come on his face again, and thinks. Seriously, what the fuck is he up to? “What?” 

He nods at the plate in her other hand. “Half your piece.” 

That fucker, she just barely started eating it when he made her drop her fork! He narrows his eyes as well, smile growing into something more like a teasing grin, and she relents. “Fine.” 

Shifting forward, Eleonora moves to lean her forearms on the island countertop in front of them, setting her plate down so that when Edoardo mimics her, it rests between them. She has to force her eyes from his forearms when he presses them into the countertop. He brandishes the fork, raising his eyebrows at her, when they’re interrupted.

“I think we’re gonna get going, guys,” Martino calls from the kitchen doorway and she looks over to find him and Niccolo standing very, very close to one another, jackets pulled haphazardly on, and cheeks slightly red. She wonders if they also took advantage of the hubbub around Stephan to do more…exciting things than practice their English. 

A chorus of goodbyes sends them off, Elia taking a dramatic moment to give them each a bear hug, and as the door closes behind them, Edoardo says to her, “One time I caught them in my room. During a party.” 

“In your room.” 

“In my room.” He shrugs, stabbing the fork into the tiramisu. “Not as bad as the time I walked in on Eva and some random guy, though.” 

She grimaces. “Also in your room?” 

“Also in my room.” 

Shaking her head, she pushes the plate closer to him as he puts the fork in his mouth. “Just for that, you can have as much as you want.” 

He laughs a little but hands the fork over as he chews and her eyes catch on his smile as he looks at her. Something wiggles in her chest and she takes her own bite to distract herself. 

Taking the fork back when she hands it to him, he asks, “How’s it been with Stephan?” 

“Um—” she swallows, tiramisu suddenly ash in her mouth, and that thing in her chest wiggles again. Why is he asking her this? “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you said you dated him back in high school, right?” He asks, glancing away from her. “Isn’t that what this whole week is?” He stabs at the plate again and she looks at the countertop. “A whole bunch of dates?” 

Maybe to Stephan. Fuck, is he thinking that? Does Edoardo seriously think she’s trying to date Stephan? “No, no. He’s just been coming to Italy every year for so long that it’s kind of like a habit at this point.” 

She bites her lip again and looks up just as he looks over, turning the fork upside down and putting it into his mouth, and, shit, she’s always known deep down somewhere inside her that Edoardo is attractive, but watching him pull a fork out of his mouth should not be that hot. More wiggling in her chest. “I don’t—I don’t know if we’ll do it again.” 

“Why not?” 

She shrugs and turns her gaze to the countertop, playing with her fingers and trying to say something coherent. Because the entire time I was on a decently romantic outing with him, I was thinking of being back here in your apartment. “We’ve both changed over the years, I don’t know if there’s much connection anymore.” 

A beat passes where neither of them say anything and, against all common sense, she glances over at him again. He must’ve had a rather large bite of tiramisu, because there’s filling dotted at the corner of his mouth and a little on his bottom lip. “You have—”

Her brain must’ve stopped computing. That’s exactly what happened. Because a normal person with a working brain would’ve just pointed at it, let Edoardo wipe it away himself, and left it at that. But, no— 

Eleonora finds herself reaching over, swiping the filling off his very soft lip with her thumb, making eye contact, and fucking sticking her thumb in her mouth. What are napkins? What is sanity? What is a normal goddamn human interaction? She’s never heard of any of those. 

His lips part just a hair as she pulls her thumb, clean now, from her mouth, and for the second time that night, she wants to die a little. What the fuck is she doing? 

Before she can make an even greater fool of herself, Stephan returns to the kitchen. “Nora?” 

“Hm?” She jumps at the chance to look away from Edoardo, watching her with something she might pin as adoration in his eyes (if she allowed herself time to think about it), and pushes off from the counter. 

“I’ve got to get going, we’re starting pretty early in the morning.” 

“Right.” He’s speaking in English and it takes her a moment to translate. What is he talking about? Why is he telling her this? Glancing down, she sees that Edoardo holds so much tension in his shoulders and swallows, nodding at Stephan. “Right. Um, let me just get my stuff.”  

Stephan nods as well, eyes darting between her and Edoardo, and heads back into the living room when she doesn’t move. 

Edoardo must feel her stare drilling into his back because he stands, coming to his full height, and turns to her. For a moment, her heart pounds so loudly she thinks he might hear it. But then he quirks an eyebrow at her, and repeats with a terrible English accent, “Nora?”

“It’s what I went by over there,” she says as a teasing grin spreads on his face. He’s laughing at her, and she shoves his shoulder lightly. “Don’t be an ass about it.” 

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Go get your stuff.” 

She almost forgot she has to leave now, and it makes her brain short circuit, again, to hear him say it. Surges forward, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and it takes a moment for his arms to come around her, large hands palming her back. This is the first time she’s really hugged him like this, entire body thrown into it, and there’s more damn wiggles in her chest. 

This is shaping up to be the most confusing night ever. 

There’s a cough from the doorway and when she looks over, Stephan is standing there, her jacket and bag in hand. Hastily, she draws back from Edoardo, somehow already missing the gentle pressure of his hands as they drop to his side. His head is bowed as he leans his hip into the counter, but he’s looking up at her through his lashes with a little smile, and she brushes a strand of hair from her face. “Um, thanks for inviting us.” 

He bites his lip. “Anytime.” 

In the living room, Eleonora finds herself giving everyone massive hugs, Stephan watching from the front door, so he doesn’t peg her goodbye to Edoardo as out of sorts. She doesn’t want him asking questions she doesn’t have the answers to. 

Edoardo watches as well, leaning against the kitchen doorway with an expression akin to smugness as her confused friends take her giant hugs instead of the typical cheek kiss in stride. Chicco and Federico especially make a big deal out of it, squishing her in a group hug between them, and Edoardo winks at her as she catches his eye. 

What a fucking mess. 

Stephan says as they make it into the stairwell, “Your friends are fun.” 

They’re a nightmare, is what they are. “Thanks.”