- either eat really weird foreign delicacies or literally have a diet of just chicken nuggets and milkshakes
- see the amount of noodle cups in luka’s house, ‘ew i don’t wanna see those’ (luka: THEN LEAVE???? why are you even IN HERE???
XY: isn’t this a public place??? half of paris chills here??)
- suggest the couffaines turn their boat into a nightclub
:)c I can’t believe I finished them all, woah!!
also adrien and XY being stuck in a dry bathtub together with no context is so FUNNY TO ME YOU GUYS HAVE NO I DE A
This is Why Luka Shouldn’t Lose His Mind and Cook Dinner:
A chaotic comedy/unique horror crack-scenario from the POV of a 26 y/o Marinette.
Seriously. Give this a read, guys. I promise it’s fucking weird.
Marinette felt bad for Luka. He’d been a little off since Bob Roth made his move on Anarka, and consequentially, Xavier-Yves began invading Luka’s personal space, property and peace of mind. Of course, Marinette did think to partially blame Luka; a man two years older than her, still living with his mother. She already had a live-in apartment at twenty-six, enormous financial backing from top designers, and like, a double-life as a superhero.
Luka owned a guitar, and no social skills. He did have that pizza job going for him, though. Too bad it never really went anywhere, because he both forgot to collect money from the customers and literally abandoned his shifts midway to play his fucking guitar in some frivolous romantic pursuit. Though ‘pursuit’ was putting it lightly as well. It was more of a ‘here’s a song- oh never mind, it isn’t ready, bye’ interaction. It was ultimately the kind of thing that pushed her into the arms of Wayhem, the great, hunky super athlete. What a stunner that man became.
Of course, she was still breadcrumbing Luka on the side. It never hurt to have a variety of options, what, with Wayhem being so popular and all. Even Adrien joined his fan club, but he had nothing on her beret-making skills, which ultimately charmed him over, in the end.
But enough about Wayhem’s overwhelming beauty, she was here to offer her support in Luka’s time of need. The need was to not be left alone with Xavier, lest his rage channel into an alternate, murderous persona. Though, as aforementioned breadcrumbing had taken place in their natural dynamic, Marinette wasn’t quite sure about the context of this dinner. Was it a date? COULD it be a date, with Xavier lingering in the corner like a confused, thoroughbred puppy?
She wasn’t sure.
When she stepped onto the ever-crowded houseboat, she felt the sway of the vessel underneath her. It was an odd sense of unease, but one that quickly passed at the sight of Anarka, throwing down a handful of spades to her poker game with Bob. Marinette offered a quick wave in acknowledgement, before sauntering to the staircase in her click-clack heels. She grabbed the orange railings and thrust her bodyweight forward, taking one big leap down the stairs and hitting the ground with surprising precision. The pastel-coloured wood panelling the dank lounge wasn’t as clean as it used to be. The room was strapped with bright, painted barrels, amp and microphone leads, an alarming array of instruments, and a table equipped for a 5-star dinner. Funny, there were only two chairs. It was only when she made the full turn to the left, that she saw the soggy high-stack of magazines that Xavier had been propped atop of. A make-shift seat, with a chair pulled up to his neck, to be used as a table. Despite the horrific, albeit, almost third-world conditions occupying that space that Xavier seemed to be living in, he seemed not too much more than annoyed to be there.
“Ugh, the traditions that you commoners have for dates are like, so wack.” He piped up.
Marinette opened her mouth to speak, but was drowned out by a sinister,
“Yes…” from the kitchen. Luka had spoken with the intensity of an insane mastermind. With the clanging of a pot, and the sharp turn Marinette managed toward him, she found herself watching him through a cloud of steam. Ominous.
“Luka!” It was a bright chime that Marinette offered up. One that had apparently taken him off-guard. He seemed to have dropped a metal instrument on the countertop in surprise, but quickly shook it off with a wipe of his hands on his jeans. WERE they jeans? Whatever.
“Marinette!” He politely returned, dodging the steam in order to walk out of the kitchen and pull her into a hug. It was brief, with a cheek kiss, and a quick grab of her shoulders. “I am so sorry about the steam. A pipe burst on the wall. It’s really inconvenient.”
“Ha… yeah, it’s almost like something out there was trying to make you look as creepy as possible in there. Like you’re doing something sinister.” She responded, laughing it off.
“Yes. That.”
Luka made a quick gesture toward the chair facing Xavier’s corner. It seems, even the gentlemanly instincts he’d procured over a lifetime weren’t enough to make him want to look at the superstar over dinner. Interesting, that.
He did still pull the chair out for her, though, letting her rest comfortably in front of a clean tablecloth, and a setting of lit candles. A bottle of wine rested next to the small dabs of light coming from them, the flicker reflecting in the light green glass. She uttered a polite ‘thank you’, and tried to avoid eye-contact with Xavier. It was like having a romantic dinner on the street with some moocher staring at you from the ally. Why was he trying to make so much direct eye-contact? Had Luka confiscated his phone or something?
“So… Luka.” She’d forgotten he wasn’t much of a talker without his guitar in his hands. Honestly, she was partially surprised he wasn’t using it to cook dinner, somehow. “How have you been?”
“Oh, we’ve been good.” She watched him cast a longing glance over at his guitar.
Jesus, that was getting creepier over time. She should start sanitising her hands before she touches that thing. She’s really not sure how close his bond with it is, these days. Hopefully nothing that belonged on reality television- though, those shows exploiting people’s personal illnesses, addictions and attractions really were entertaining. She remembered when Adrien guest-starred on an episode. She hadn’t looked at cheese the same way, since.
“Right. Maybe… we should get a third seat at the table for the guitar, aha…” It slipped out. She tried to ignore the way Xavier perked up.
“Actually.” Luka cast a glance toward the corner. “XY.”
Oh, Xavier thought he was being invited to sit with them. That’s why he had a fragment of hope in his eyes. Right!
“No more chair-table for you. It’s for my guitar at the table.”
Marinette jumped.
“Oh, no! No, no! It’s fine. I was just kidding! Let’s just keep it at us, okay, Luka?” She was beginning to feel like he was kind-of off. Behaviour-wise. Xavier lowered his head.
“Yeah, I suppose.” Luka shrugged, walking over to greet his guitar at the foot of the lounge. “But I guess… if we used her as a guest, I’d have to dig into my acoustics for plates.”
“Pardon? What?” Her tone held her last thread of sustained politeness. It quickly broke once she watched him walk that, and one other guitar over to the neatly-spread dinner table and slam them down like slap-bracelets onto each end of the table. Marinette couldn’t help but flinch, watching in horror as one of the strings on the guitar in front of her snapped under the pressure of this senseless violence.
“Here!” He maintained his cool inflection, smiling softly at her as the buzzing from the slam faded out. With his limited range of expression, she wasn’t really sure if he was playing a joke or not. She hoped he was, and just didn’t understand humour. Visibly concerned, now, she leaned back in her seat and tried to ride her smile out until he’d disappeared into the kitchen, again.
“I know it’s a little off-putting. I thought the idea was a little bit cheesy and impractical when I drew it up, but I figured that I’d just have to give it all my best shot. I’m not the best with… these sorts of things. I apologise if it’s making you uncomfortable. Hopefully my cooking with make up for it, huh, Marinette?”
Marinette felt herself relax at the shoulders. He wasn’t being a scary, insane asshole intentionally, like she’d initially been afraid of. He was just so horrendously bad at planning dates that he’d figured throwing a heavy, dangerous and potentially life-threatening object down in front of her with an alarming force was just a creative way to dress up the evening. In a way it was respectable. Like whenever Wayhem washed their shoes in the bathtub.
“It’s okay, Luka. Really.” Marinette said, turning one of the wine glasses upside-down and cracking open the lid to the bottle on the table. “I get it. You’re just not used to dates, is all. I wonder what we’re having for dinner. –Oh, don’t tell me, I’m excited!”
“Well, you’ll get to see, soon. It’s almost ready.” Following that, there was an alarming sound of crunching, like something was being ground up under pressure. Maybe he was doing some kind of… interesting foreign dish? One without a scent? Marinette hummed in anticipation, and poured the bottle toward her glass. Funny. It felt heavy, but nothing was really coming out.
“Hey, Luka? Is this-” Oh, the answer she received halfway through her question came in the form of the heavy clump of sultanas that dropped into her wine glass. She opened her mouth in surprise. “Oh, shit—shoot. I thought- I thought this was the actual wine, and not the… container for the accents.” Okay, no big deal. They had weird resourcefulness tactics on this boat. Probably the work of Anarka. Marinette turned her head toward Luka as she sensed him approaching.
“Do you have the real-…” She found her sentence trailing off. There, in the glass bowl Luka held in his hands, was a small hill of dried, broken pasta shards. Raw. No cooking. No moisture. Just a pile of fucking pasta sand.
“Oh, no, Marinette. That is the wine. Wine comes down to grapes, and… well, everybody knows the smallest form of a grape is the sultana.” Smiling, Luka then proceeded to place the bowl in the middle of the table, scoop up a large percentage of the pasta-crumbs with a soup ladle, and then dump it unceremoniously onto the back of the FUCKING GUITAR IN FRONT OF HER.
There were no proper words to describe exactly what she was feeling in reaction to… all of this. There was NO way that this wasn’t a joke, or… something. Maybe something masterminded by Xavier? Maybe a string-puppeteer job from the corner? She couldn’t even find the will to shift her eyes from the horrifying lump in front of her.
“Luka…” Her throat was dry, her shock audible. Luka offered a concerned look, before brightening up.
“Don’t worry, Marinette.” He said. Before she even had the chance for a sense of relief, he reached into his pants pocket and revealed a handful of croutons in his palm. “See? I’d never forget the real accents.”
There was no way that this could get any weirder- or worse. Or at least, that’s what she’d assumed. Her whole body froze up at the crunch of the croutons under his fingers. He was crumbling them in his hands- just crunching, and crunching under the wriggle of those practised tendons, and then he stopped. A moment of deafening silence. His smile held.
He salted the top of her pasta-pile with the dust from his palm.
He reached back into his pants pockets.
Two shiny, metal straws.
Marinette stared down one after it had been stabbed into the mess on her guitar.
“Bon Appétit!”
When she finally came-to, after the shock of the moment, Luka was dumping Xavier’s meal in front of him, on the chair. The look of disgust in Luka’s eyes made it clear that the meal was somehow worse than theirs, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe dirt?
She saw, once Luka had turned back around and found his seat, that Xavier, in discrepancy to their awful sand-paper smoothie, was given a bowl of FUCKING LASAGNA.
That pushed it past the point of any possible explanation. Any redemption. She scraped her chair getting up in a hurry, chest tighter and tighter by the second. She was actually just about to check herself into a short-stay mental ward for her own processing purposes. Perhaps she’d worked too hard. In the frenzy of thoughts that occupied her head, when Luka stood up as well and asked where she was going, the queen of excuses took one last look at the mess of sultanas and contaminated crouton-dust and yelped the only ‘out’ she could think of, before getting the fuck out of there:
“I’m Ladybug.”
