#oops pressed post instead of queue

[dailyayao]

[plural-culture-is]

plural culture is how do we keep introjecting the genocidal and mass murdering characters???? (and then making then trans and/or communists)

.

[zestialmorde]

Can we pat ur kitty? (His big spider)

“Thou mayst try, though I am unsure how friendly she is to strangers. She hath not bitten a soul yet, but I do theorize she is venomous, so caution should be taken. I shall take no responsibility for any harm.”

[furiosity-wills-the-cat]

Exciting Snail Fact #8

Snails can have gills, lungs, or both!!! They’re so wonderfully diverse!!! Snails are a common metaphor for patience because of their steady determination, but they’re also a reminder to keep breathing however you need to!!! You are strong and beautiful and amazing!!! Be like a snail and keep on breathing and enjoying life in your own way!!! I love you!!!

[reidyoulikeabook]

#38 on the “i love you” dialogue prompt list with spencer reid where maybe like he’s trying to finish a report and bau!reader is distracting him ?? thank you <333333

Ship: GN! Reader x Spencer Reid

Warnings: Small implication of smut at the end but nothing more than that!

Word count: .8k

Prompt: “You’re making it so hard to concentrate right now.” “Good, pay attention to me.”

From this list! (Feel free to send in any that you’d like, I’m finding these good for getting my writing brain in gear again!)

A/N: I wasn’t actually intending to post this right now but I didn’t know you couldn’t queue asks from the web version so anyway oops have this tonight as well I guess!

---

Hotch will have his ass. You know this for certain, because you’re fully aware that Hotch will have your ass too if you turn up tomorrow without having completed all your consults. The fact that it’s a Sunday, your day, however, makes it too tempting to throw all caution to the wind.

Spencer is sat on the couch, fiddling with his pen. He has a process for how he works up his profiles, one that involves a certain amount of tapping and, occasionally, pacing if it’s one he particularly has to think about. He rarely does.

You’ve intentionally sat yourself in the armchair. Spencer knows as well as you do that you can’t be trusted to keep your hands to yourself.

“I know what you’re thinking,” He says, not looking up.

“What am I thinking?” You tilt your head to the side, trying to look the picture of innocence.

He still doesn’t look up, “You’re thinking about stopping me doing this report.”

You huff, “I am not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not.”

He finally looks up, pen caught trapped between his plump lips. He smiles at the indignant look on your face, “If you weren’t thinking about that, then you’d be doing your own report so we could both be finished at the same time.”

He’s got you there.

You shuffle, pulling the blanket further over you so he can’t see how your arms fold defensively underneath it, “That’s not true.”

“Then why aren’t you doing yours?”

“I am. I’m just doing it in my head.”

“I think Hotch and the Arizona PD would prefer it written down,” He teases, gaze falling back to the pile of papers in front of him.

“I’m going to write it down. I’m just thinking about what I want to say.”

With a sigh, he places the report down on the arm of the couch, shifting so that he turns to face you head on, “What have you got so far?”

“Well-” You start, frowning. It’s right about now that you could do with an eidetic memory, because quite frankly you can’t remember any of the facts of the case. It might have something to do with the fact you haven’t opened the file yet, but admitting that only serves to prove him right, so you opt for sighing, “It’s a process, Spencer.”

He mimics you, “It’s a process that would be sped up by you actually reading the file, ____.”

You roll your eyes, tossing the cushion behind your head at him with no real mirth or intention.

He catches it with a grin, placing it behind his back, “Thanks. I’m a lot more comfortable to finish this now.”

He misses the glare you give him entirely. Instead, he picks the papers back up, letting out a small sigh as he makes an annotation in the margin.

***

You manage to make it through about twenty more minutes, alternating between absent-minded scrolling of your phone and theatrically exaggerated movements designed to get his attention. He doesn’t bite. So, you settle for a different tactic.

Scooping up your blankets, you move over to the couch, plopping down with your head resting against his legs.

The jostling gets him to avert his gaze, affectionately shaking his head at you, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” You answer, wriggling so that your head rests on his lap. You look directly up at him, into the hazel eyes that are filled with amusement and affection in equal parts.

“Nothing?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Well then you won’t mind if I do this,” He plops the papers on top of your head, continuing to make notes. He lets out a loud sigh, “Ah, much better with something to lean on. Thank you.”

“Spencer!” You object, sitting up.

Luckily, his tight grip on the papers and cat-like reflexes allow him to yank them away before you have the chance to scatter them everywhere.

“You know, you’re making it so hard to concentrate right now.”

“Then pay me attention,” You tell him with a pout.

It’s impossible for him to resist you when you’re like this: curled in a blanket, lying in his lap, demanding his affection. Sometimes he thinks you might be comparable to Sergio, who apparently walks across Emily’s files and bites the pen right out of her hand. You’re much cuter though.

He sighs, making a big show of setting down the papers and opening his arms.

You settle into them, curling up in his lap. You tuck the blanket around him too, and he nuzzles into it.

“We could watch Dr. Who. Or Star Trek. Or even one of your Russian shows,” You say, pressing a line of small kisses along his jaw. His breath catches in his throat as your lips graze over his favourite spot.

“Hmm, I’ve got other ideas.”

You pull back, admiring the smirk on his face and allowing him to roll over you onto the couch.

“Oh Dr. Reid, I quite like the sound of those.”

--

Permanent tagslist: (message me/reply to be added or removed!)

@takeyourleap-of-faith @sassiest-politician @calm-and-doctor @ssa-m-187  @seasonfivereid @averyhotchner @muffin-cup @purplewaterbottles082

[sparklysung]

good morning lia baby 💕

my stoopid ass almost blessed you bc i nearly pressed ‘post now’ instead of ‘queue’ for chapter 2 HAHAHAHAH OOP-

good morning sof sweetie♥️

NOOO WHY? WHY?! I COULD’VE READ IT FAST AND THEN WE’D ALL BE HAPPY AND IT WOULD’VE BEEN A GOOD MORNING😭 now there’s nothing good:(

–lia:)

[shinobicyrus]

“Le Mur”

I have no idea how this happened but I ran into @radsity‘s wonderful art of Graffiti-Tracer and got Inspired

Amélie had to remind herself when she traveled to not compare the places she visited with Paris. it wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. 

Getting lost for the umpteenth time in the tangled streets of London, she was feeling less than charitable. Paris had gotten their act together and rebuilt the city into an orderly grid. One wrong turn in London and Amélie was hopelessly lost in narrow, winding streets. Even following directions on her phone felt like going deeper into the labyrinth.

She wasn’t exactly sure when the road had transitioned from asphalt to cobblestone. The buildings pressed claustrophobically close like an ambitious alleyway. It was scarcely wide enough for anything larger than a compact to drive through. Honestly, this whole city was positively medieval. 

Somehow in a city of millions she’d found herself alone. Her heels clicked rhythmically on old, crooked stone, echoing down the quiet street. The phone insisted a route forward- Amélie saw the time and swore. She quickened her pace as fast as her designer shoes would allow, going past full rubbish bins waiting for pickup. 

On one wall, next to an outdated advertisement, a signature drawn from sharp lines in garish orange, trails sliding down where the paint had dripped. 

‘TRACER’ the masterpiece proclaimed.  Amélie snorted. Even the graffiti was better in Paris.

She arrived an hour late for rehearsal. Thankfully, the embarrassment was tempered by not being the only one to get lost. The members of their school that were local had a little laugh about it, which Amélie tried not to take personally, since a few of the more helpful ones offered directions after they were done.

Her phone had actually been not entirely wrong. According to one of the stagehands, that empty little cobbestone street was quite the shortcut. She rose earlier the next morning- just in case the city tried to swallow her up again.

She’d forgotten entirely about the graffiti. It had been taken down overnight, but replaced by a small fighter-jet, dropping paint spray cans instead of what warplanes usually dropped on people.

Bombs Away! it said. Amélie didn’t slow as she passed it. At least it was an improvement from the last eyesore.

That first day would be the only one that Amélie was ever late. After rehearsals she didn’t head straight home. Going off her route, she exploring the little avenues, dead ends, and side streets around her flat. On her days off she put on workout clothes, picked a random direction and jogged while she listened to their choreography music on her phone. 

It was like the city had issued a challenge to her, one that Amélie was determined to beat. Gérard always said she was stubborn. 

I never said it was a bad thing, mon coeur.

After three weeks, getting lost anywhere between her flat and the studio took deliberate effort. The layout of the streets, winding, haphazard patterns on a map, started having a certain organic flow to it. Sometimes during practice she’d come to points in a song and think of the corner coffee shop she passed on her jog, or the little graffiti murals on that wall in her neighborhood: a girl with her open heart replaced with a clock, or a cute jet fighters ‘pew-pew’ing at the city’s omnipresent CCTV cameras. 

She was starting to recognize the artist. Their style was very distinctive; Amélie spotted more of their handiwork in other places, besides that wall on the cobblestone street that seemed to be their favorite. Nothing stayed up for very long, a few days at most. Maybe London was more diligent about graffiti removal. 

The choreography was starting to intersect with her walks. Queues in the music aligning with certain landmarks. London was starting to grow on her, all the twists and turns like steps in a routine. Assemblés at the corner, glissade when you reach the streetlight. Wait, walk signal, en avant.

Listening to music for blocks instead of paying attention, she should have known it was bound to happen eventually. Something knocked hard into Amélie’s shoulder. She stumbled after a step, but regained her balance- of course. 

“Oops! Sorry ‘bout that, luv!”

Amélie swore in unflattering French. “Why don’t you watch where-”

She was a slip of a girl- skinny leggings stained with paint, swallowed up in a bulky blue hoody in slightly better condition. Her hood was up, and covering her face was a painter’s respirator. A pair of goggles coloured her eyes a familiar shade of orange. Garish. 

Amélie frowned, taken aback. “What-”

“Over there! Halt!” A voice shouted behind Amélie. 

“Oh crap,” The hoodie-girl said, muffled by her mask. “Sorry again, gotta run!”

She ran past Amélie, but not down the street. Taking a running hop onto a rubbish bin, the girl grabbed the top of a chain-link fence and vaulted clear over into the slim alley between two houses. 

Two policemen, their footsteps and breathing awkward and heavy, ran panting to the fence while the girl smoothly scurried up the wall, then hung off a window’s security bars one-handed. 

“What’sa matter bobbies? Skip your cardio?”

“Cheeky little squirrel.” One of the officers panted, head between his knees. 

“You’re only making it worse for yourself, Tracer,” The other officer said, skinny where his partner was more rotund, like a classic British comedy pair. “We’re gonna catch you eventually.”

"No chance of that happening anytime soon, I think," spotting Amélie behind the officers, she winked from behind her goggles. "Cheers!"

The police impotently watched her clamber the rest of the way up, disappearing when she made it over the lip of the roof.

“Call it in,” the bigger one snarled at his partner, eyeing the rooftops. Neither of them paid Amélie any mind- which worked just fine for her. 

Further down the road, at the same spot  Amélie had first seen that signature in ugly orange, a new mural had taken its place. A cartoonish tableau of a small figure in a blue hoddie running away from two old-fashioned constables waving billy clubs, completely ignoring the man in a business suit behind them carrying off a bag of money over his shoulder like a bank robber.

Amélie was almost surprised by the little laugh escaped her. She looked up and down the street like she’d been caught doing something uncouth; but no, even the police had moved on. The street and rooftops were empty. 

It rained a lot in London. One of Amélie’s first purchases was a purple umbrella and proper rainboots. She didn’t care for it; the boots made it impossible to practice her steps while she waited for the light to change, and even with the umbrella she kept her phone and headphones in her dry purse. It made her walks quiet, cold, and dreary- and it being London, it happened often. 

The hiss of a straw being sipped behind her. “What'cha lookin' at?”

It wasn’t one of her usual spots, but Amélie knew it was one of hers. Without meaning to she’d stopped to look. Maybe even take a photo of it with her phone. She’d been doing that, lately. Even started showing the local dancers and stangehands before rehearsal.

“It’s running.”  Amélie said, not looking at her. On the wall beneath an overhang, a young girl reached for something just past its shelter. The haunted, despairing anguish on her face as the rainwater melted her hands and arms kept Amélie transfixed.

“I usually use temp paint,” the girl, Tracer, said. “Safe on the environment, don’t harm nothin’. Just sticks around until London decides it doesn’t like it anymore.”

Amélie finally turned away from the piece to look at her. Still the hoody, but wearing torn, faded jeans. The goggles hung around her neck, a phantom tanline around her face, framing a cluster of freckles. She slurped at her drink again. Amélie recognized the logo from the cafe she went to sometimes for breakfast. 

“I thought street artists preferred their...art to be as permanent as possible.”

Tracer shrugged, shoulders soaked. “Eh, I like that it’s temporary. The transience of art and whatnot. Makes it feel more special, knowing it won’t be there forever.” She grinned. “’sides, I post pictures of them on my blog.”

Amélie rolled her eyes. For a second there, she almost sounded like a real artist. Almost. 

“So what’dya think?” She nodded at the mural. 

“It’s certainly not the Louvre.” Amélie said coolly. 

“Ouch. Talk about stiff competition.”

“The stiffest.” She pulled down her sleeve to check her watch. Damn, she was going to be late at this rate. “I need to go. Bonne journée.”

Tracer stepped aside readily enough for her, but then started matching pace with Amélie, avoiding the canopy of her umbrella. “I’ve seen you around the neighborhood once or twice. Are you new?”

“Last month. It’s only temporary for my job.”

“Ooh, and what job might that be? I bet it’s something posh, like fashion or design. S’gotta be a pain to keep that ink hidden- too many places get their knickers in a twist about that kind of stuff.” 

Amélie involuntarily glanced back in askance. “What?”

She lifted right her arm. “Your tattoo.”

Amélie had to juggle to hold up her umbrella and pull her sleeve snugly back over her wrist. Too late, of course. The girl had already seen.

It had been a foolish, wine-fueled impulse that had almost cost her a spot on Coppélia. Some misplaced desire to memorialize her mother and embrace an old phobia. 

She’d been terrified of spiders since she was a little girl. Everything about them was wrong. Too many eyes, too many legs. The way they skittered quickly across a room, or the slow stalk as it hunted, a jumble of limbs moving with an unnatural coordination. Just the sight of cobwebs made her shudder with prickling goosebumps. Like she could feel them on her. 

Costume and makeup always complained about having to cover it during shows. Amélie always intended but never got around to just removing it, once and for all. 

Not entirely dense, Tracer (such a foolish, childish little street-name!) hurried to placate her. “Oh, sorry I didn’t mean to- It’s real nice, though! Don’t have one myself, if you can believe it. I guess I’m so busy paintin’ the world I never got around to the easiest canvas. “ She laughed at that. The rich, easy sound of it told  Amélie she laughed loudly and often. 

“What’s the whole thing say?” Tracer craned her head as if to peek down the sleeve. 

There’s nothing to be afraid of, mother said. Things will get better, Amélie. All you have to do is wait out the night.

“‘Araignée du Soir.’” Amélie replied thoughtlessly, turning her arm away.

“What’s that?”

“It’s French.”

She rolled her yes. “Well of course I know it’s French. I was asking what it means.”

Amélie stopped at the intersection and shot the girl an impatient look. “Google it.”

At least she didn’t keep following when the pedestrian signal turned on. 

“Alright, maybe I will!” She yelled across the street, then stuck her tongue out like a child.

Amélie snorted. ridicule fille.

Rehearsals started earlier and went on later into the night. Opening night was creeping towards them with momentum, looming over the whole studio, the whole city. 

The rain intensified. Amélie’s commutes were clipped and hurried, huddled under an umbrella without the benefit of any sun or songs. The walls she passed where wet and bare.

She lived and breathed the music. Even at home, she would put the tracks on repeat. Practiced her steps around her leaky apartment, while she picked up, did dishes; wrapped the performance herself around until she was entangled and helpless to it. 

More than just her career was riding on this. It had been years since she was a struggling dance student, before she fell in love and married. Now she was alone again, and needed to support herself. She wasn’t young anymore, and constantly surrounded with rival talent, fresh but not as experienced. 

At home she danced with the curtains drawn, and felt the winding, chaotic, twisted turns down London’s street right outside. Corner assemblés, glissade at the streetlight. Wait for the signal, en avant.

She spun lightly in her living room in time with the music, next was the arabesque, one leg raised straight back, her right arm reaching up. The light from outside painted phantom raindrops on her forearm, sliding down the webs of her tattoo. 

Araignée du Soir

Opening night was like a stormbreak. Being swept up in the hurried, final preparations. Dressing room, lights, choreography, an understudy pulled in last minute. Amélie balanced herself in the middle of it, closed her eyes, heard the music, and danced a pattern-step like a London streetmap on-stage.

Amateur critics updated their blogs in the lobby. Amélie tided herself over with them until the newspapers printed proper articles in the morning. All the nitpicking one came to expect from cosmopolitan arts pieces, but still the consensus of a show worthy of accolades.

Next morning she walked to the studio at the usual time, even though they’d all celebrated late. There was already talk of an extension, booking at least a few more weeks of shows. Amélie would have to adjust her temporary lease. Or maybe it was time to find a new place, she hadn’t yet decided.

Her walk home was early- a brief reprieve before they had to come in for tomorrow night’s show. She took the same route, the music from the stage still in her head, making her feel lighter.

The rain had stopped that morning. Amélie stepped over puddles that looked impossibly deep, rippling with the seismic motions of the streets.

It had rained for so long, she almost walked right past the wall. 

The dark silhouette of a spider, tethered on a thread. Two of its long, spindly legs were poised like knitting needles, wrapping up a helpless candy-red heart in its web.

A police radio crackled. The skinny officer from before turned it down. His partner had a thick hand wrapped around Tracer’s arm, which seemed unnecessary, considering the handcuffs.

“Move along,” The big officer sniffled. 

Tracer blushed, shuffling on her feet, wincing when the grip on her arm tightened in warning. “Oh. Uh...hiya.” The handcuffs jangled when she waved. “Been a while. So...whaddya think?”

Amélie looked back at the mural, then looked back at Tracer. “Actually,” she smirked. “I hate spiders.”

Tracer gaped at her, caught completely by surprise, then burst out laughing, like Amélie thought she would. Loud and giggling, ringing up and down the cobblestone street.

“Hey. Fancy grabbing a cuppa after I make bail?”

[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?

[dailyayao]

[paintingmymoon]

The magic of trees and shrines, and a Moroccan man who bought us donuts

In February, last year, after posting clothes and textbooks from my hostel back to my hometown, I celebrated the completion of my final two Masters courses over a long weekend in Japan with Jess. Here is an account of our adventure:

Friday, 23:35PM: The taxi driver is exasperated because I’m fumbling over my hostel address in Korean. Unfortunately, skipping a red robot in his attempt to get rid of me lands him a hefty fine. Stuck halfway to my destination, and the taxi driver is still trying to convince the policeman that it’s the foreigner’s fault. See, I am SOMEWHAT competent in Korean. I ponder walking the rest of the way, and offer the taxi driver W10,000 to see what he thinks. He hurls his wallet and some profanities at me, so I trudge all the way up the hill to Jess.

Saturday, 5:50AM: Me, Jess and luggage are slumped on a dark pavement with the shuttle’s disappearing tail lights casting us all in a rosy glow. We’re too terrified to venture into Incheon Airport teeming with more people than should ever be awake at ANY hour, let alone this one.

Saturday, 7:10AM: Four failed self-check-in attempts later and all three of us (luggage weighs as much as a medium-sized human) are at the end of a queue winding itself around Section H of the domestic departure floor three times. No sign of the check-in counters from here, 30 minutes before check-in closes. Holiday contingency plan?

Saturday, 10AM: We’ve discovered the only Korean in Narita Airport and she’s serving us in a shiny little pharmacy. Got anything to subdue our still galloping hearts, on account of almost failing to arrive at this charming airport? Nah, just some toilet paper, actually. Can’t have our bums blasted with miniature hoses once we’ve finished our business, and nothing with which to dry them before pulling up our pants. We make our way to the bathrooms, armed and prepared, delighted to be able to thank the Korean in a language much more familiar to us than Japanese.

Saturday, 11:45AM: Eventually find the train station, only to discover we have the wrong tickets. Acquire correct ones, only to have Asakusa station gobble Jess’s ticket on arrival, barring our entrance to the suburb in which our hostel resides. Train station officials would rather we missed our flight.

Saturday, 16:10PM: Leave our closet of a hostel room (albeit with a delightful view of the Sumida River and a golden turd, better known as the Asahi Flame) in favour of Akihabara, home for those with an obsessive interest in everything anime and manga. Japan actually has a word for people like this/Jess: otaku. Get lost on the way to this cultural centre, obviously. But, fortunately, a cheerful old man, seemingly unfazed by his lack of teeth, points us towards the costumed coupon girls and giant, flashing billboards. He is unfazed, even, when we thank him in Korean. Oops.

Saturday, 19:50PM: Despite our dwindling energy, we decide we have to see Tokyo from the sky. One snaking queue and a 350-meter elevator ride later, Jess and I are gawking down at the capital of Japan from a fair way up the tallest structure in the country. Lights, lights, lights as far as the eye can see them.

Sunday, 7:30AM: Jess wakes with body aches and a fever. Not sure how I managed to avoid the chills – I was the idiot who went to bed damp in 5°C, on account of having dried myself with the communal bathroom’s shower mat. Note to self: ALWAYS pack a towel.

Sunday, 11:00AM: I’m breakfasted, Jess is drugged and we’ve successfully navigated the train system to Shinjuku. But this station is so enormous, our navigational triumphs grind to a halt. Attempts to locate the intercity bus terminal keep landing us back at the local bus stop, and since a ticket booth is far beyond this country (commuters load payments onto a card using a talking machine), there is no one to ask for directions. A sign for JR lifts our spirits: the express bus company we discovered online! (About the only thing we bothered to discover online) But, alas, all buses are chock-a-block. A quivering, weak mess of a Jess cowers in a corner of Burger King while I follow her Maps App to the next nearest JR.

Sunday, 13:30PM: My legs are wobbly, and Jess is passed out on her food tray, but, get this: I have our overnight bus tickets to Kyoto dramatically pressed against my chest as I launch myself triumphantly into the fast food chain. With nine hours until departure, we catch a train to Harajuku, nailing the subway system for the first time. Well, almost. Jess drops her ticket into the wrong machine, but it doesn’t count. She’s barely able to lift her feet to follow me around Tokyo.

Sunday, 15:05PM: I’m not sure if it’s the forest of evergreen trees towering above me, or the fact that I’ve just purified my hands at a fountain using a ladle of bamboo, or perhaps that we’ve just stumbled straight into a traditional wedding procession, but Meiji Shrine has me wrapped in its awe and delicate beauty. The newlyweds link arms, and I bow in front of the shrine entrance, vowing to harmonise with nature and be pure of heart.

Sunday, 20:25PM: It’s way past rush hour, but Shibuya Crossing is a sea of activity - a far jump from the serenity we’ve just left. For a whole, bewildering minute every robot cycle, this intersection is for people instead of cars. As all lights turn red, in every direction, hundreds of pedestrians instantly spill into the street. But, 60 seconds later, they’ve vanished, just as fast. Jess and I join the sea of bustling bodies (despite having no interest in the surrounding 100+ boutiques). Twice.

Monday, 6:00AM: The temperature is below zero, we’re in an exhaustion-induced trance, and people keep opening the door of the bus station, allowing wafts of frosty air to whip our weary faces. Don’t get me wrong: the bus was impressive. But, despite the conveniently-placed toilets, sufficient plug points, reclining seats, and dark curtains, a deep sleep was a little too optimistic on my part. With some straining of the eye, I notice dim lights in a nearish-by coffee shop.

Monday, 7:00AM: The stink-eye I would have directed at the next human who opened that damned bus station door… Luckily, the low lamps were not a mirage. We’re getting the stink-eye instead, for munching our store-bought snacks next to those we bought in-house. Or, maybe the waiter disapproves more of our audible laughter at the ‘flushing noise’ device we found equipped in each toilet stall. Surely bathroom prowlers will catch onto your number-two anyway if they hear more than one flush?

Monday, 8:40AM: We’ve decided it’s a reasonable enough hour to dump our hefty luggage at the hostel, even if we can only access our room at 3pm. In return for our bags, the staff, unpredictably, hand us our key card, so we decide to take a quick peak. The shriek escaping from inside the room is so sudden and so shrill, that all I notice before the door slams shut is some discarded clothing sprawled across the floor. Well, at least it’s a larger floor than at the last spot.

Monday, 10:45AM: We appear to be much more successful at navigating the bus system than the subway, because we have arrived at the entrance of Kinkaku-ji with our only misdemeanour being some short, unintended naps on the floor of the vehicle. We’ve chosen a good day for such an enchanting endeavour: standing magnificently before us is the Golden Pavilion, probably Kyoto’s most famous temple, shining against the backdrop of a sapphire sky, and its perfectly still reflection in the lake before it. We can’t quite bring ourselves to leave, so we wander the stone paths woven around small shrines, ponds and moss-covered floors, inhaling the magic of the place, and trying desperately to earn some luck by landing our loose coins in their collection bowls.

Monday, 12:30PM: We’re in a cosy eatery atop a cluttered curio shop because, for the first time in two days, Jess responded “I could eat” at the mention of my growling belly. We munch on tempura prawn udon, better than any we’d ever tried (and, boy, had we tried) two hours across the sea, in Korea.

Monday, 16:40PM: It’s not the best hour to be in the thick of the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove. The sunlight can no longer filter through the stalks and cast dazzling, dusty beams onto the paths. But, the famous forest isn’t any less charming now. Especially when we encounter an elderly man in a shadow, bent over a miniature canvas. If I hadn’t noticed the paint tubes beside his disintegrating shoes, I would have mistaken his artwork for a photograph.

Monday, 19:20PM: More hairy eyeballs headed our way. This time from the elderly in the bus, because we stole their priority seats. Maybe we haven’t got the bus system down after all.

Monday, 21:05PM: In an effort to slip inside before closing time, we’ve sprinted all the way to a popular sushi restaurant, but it doesn’t seem to exist. Evidently, I’m hopelessly inept at reading maps, even when they’ve been written by a hostel for tourists, in English, decorated with comically-drawn landmarks. We’ve gone up stairs, down stairs, across bridges, underneath them, and trespassed construction sites before Jess remembers to use her reading skills, and deciphers the sign of our no-longer-elusive restaurant in Japanese. Boy, am I glad she did. Five kinds of salmon sushi later (plain, fatty, pan-seared, lean, roe), I begin to indulge in the other fish circling before me, along with the green tea on tap at my seat.

Tuesday, 12:25PM: Of course we’re lost again, because I booked the traditional tea ceremony, assuming the directions on their website were child’s play. As my watch is about to declare us late, a foreigner in kimono waltzes past us and directly towards the gate we couldn’t find. I silently thank the employee for his perfect timing. But, he’s not an employee. He’s a Moroccan who attends tea ceremonies in the appropriate attire and is remarkably good at reading maps.

Tuesday, 12:40PM: Masumi, our host is precise in her movements, and concise with her words. She embodies the key concepts every ceremony vows to honour: wa – harmony in nature, kei – respect, sei – purity, and jaku – tranquillity. When it’s our turn to host, we use Masumi’s tea scoop, tenderly named after the snow atop Mount Fuji, to place the matcha into the tea bowl faced towards us. Our tea is whisked into an avocado-green froth – bitter, but beautiful.

Tuesday, 14:00PM: Omar, the Moroccan, decides to follow us to Nishiki Market for lunch, but since he’s a walking map, we find ourselves following him instead. Taking advantage of his new role, he detours slightly, and before we know it, Omar is handing us each a chocolate-pudding sensation from Krispy Kreme’s. I salivate at the sight of them but I also want to hurl them at his head, because just a few steps ahead of me is a food-filled alleyway which has no end. Spicy rice, teriyaki eel, honeyed sweet potatoes, and baby octopi on sticks, their heads bulging with the boiled quailed eggs inside them, are all cast in unfamiliar glows from the stained-glass roof above them. I squeeze every single one of these Japanese delights into my fast-filling belly, but linger on the last one longest, savouring each unusual mouthful.

Tuesday, 15:45PM: I like Omar, despite the donut incident. He tells me I have the spirit of a dancer inside me (he’s obviously never seen my moves), and that I should choose the road that feels ‘right’. He’s directing us again, this time to Gion, but he assures me he’ll land us there, no matter which path I choose. As I’m mulling over his superb directing skills, we arrive, not in Kyoto’s most famous geisha district, but at the Manga Museum. Jess, of course, is delighted at the mishap.

Tuesday, 18:20PM: A befuddled Omar had, after some badgering, agreed to a taxi, and so, eventually, we’re gazing up at the traditional wooden machiya houses against the backdrop of a pink sky. We’re not expecting to see a geisha. Their presence is restricted to those who dine at ochayas, exclusive and expensive establishments not catering for backpacking foreigners. But, suddenly, a short, strident noise escapes Omar’s lips, and he’s pointing. There, sitting respectfully in the backseat of a white Toyota, are two immaculate white faces, off to entertain as dusk falls on our final day in Japan.

See photos here.