#interactions: adrian

[rhodesshephard]

(closed event starter @adrivns )

rhodes cant tell at this point if the music is so loud the ground is physically shaking or it's just his head throbbing. in this case, its likely the latter with just a hint of the loud music. he couldn't remember how many drinks he had consumed at this point. he couldn't really remember his actions up to this point which almost made him laugh considering this is definitely how adrian feels nine times out of ten.

somehow, maybe by the grace of god, rhodes hasn't seen adrian anywhere. and maybe that's a little concerning to him, but he knows the male has to be somewhere. he wouldn't miss something like this. that's when he spots him. "you look like fuckin shit." it comes out of his mouth rather than staying in his head and he physically grimaces before letting out a loud laugh. "granted, i do too."

[butterflieshurt-ia]

@starstaiined continued from here!

[ message ; adri 🤓 ] ur wrong, it’s none of those [ message ; adri 🤓 ] actually jk, it is. it’s 🤓 [ message ; adri 🤓 ] bc ur a nerd but an awesome nerd so it’s okay

[ofstowontarn]

( @waywardsovls ) date: november 10th time: 7:36 pm location: christmas markets interaction: adrian & ingrid

These things never really get easier, do they? First dates. There’s always the silent pressure to force an awkward amount of formality into them, even after the fabled “first impression” has already been made. Or maybe that pressure is the blazer squeezing around Adrian’s shoulders a little too tightly. He was sure to pick up another from Rags ‘n Riches when he had a moment to spare—he wanted to make sure he wasn’t wearing the same thing he had to the art show. Still, it hugs his biceps with a grip he thought only saran wrap could achieve. 

First impressions, second impressions, third impressions... Somehow they all combine into one the moment the words first date come to mind.

Part one was easy, picking Ingrid up from her flat in the car he’d begged Tyler to let him borrow. Adrian managed conversation easily, posing questions, making gentle jabs until he got her to laugh. That all came simply. But now, as they meander the stalls of artisan crafts and foods he can barely pronounce, he feels a yank in his stomach.

He’s not even sure it’s his stomach anymore. It feels more like a pile of worms, wriggling and writhing until he’s not really sure which one is responsible for pulling taut, making a sensation sink deep in his bones until it shoots back up and threatens the back of his throat, his palms growing sweaty.

He hasn’t said anything in a while, has he? He should speak. Or did he speak last time? Should she speak? 

With a shaky breath, he bites the bullet, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat and eyeing a glazed pastry wrapped in a plastic baggy, tied at the top with a glossy white ribbon. “Y’know, that looks really good,” he decides aloud, gesturing toward it with a finger. “And I would totally try to get it, if I wasn’t so sure I’d butcher the name trying to pronounce it in German. I took Mandarin in school... and practically failed it. I can barely say Guten tag right.”