more ask from the crazy crew? their such icons and i very much miss the baddest bitch, Crazy (sorry Kinky but crazy will always have special place in my heart)
Okay bet, Thank you and everybody for the input. Let me cut yall a deal, Lemme get all the refs redone and in proper order so I can have something to reference to for my continuation. Along with making a few characters more appealing.
Im currently working on a script to work off of, It's legit gonna be my first time making a comic script since before my highschool self literally just made stuff with no plan (Which is why I fell into such a rut before as I did not plan for after the OT Invasion) But now I know how to get the ball rolling and get things set up properly for asks so any old + new comers aren't totally lost given my long absence
Can't ask questions if I don't give people the mysteries/shenanigans to ask about, wink wonk.
this all goes for the Rejects Crew, any other side ocs I have I can answer but Imma put a pin and save questions I have for The Rejects as of now.
When Katara returns to visit the Fire Nation after nearly a year away, Zuko is struck by how much his feelings towards her have changed.
It's all he can do to not blurt his emotions out to her, or to make a fool of himself -- but, with some advice from Uncle Iroh, Zuko decides to be patient in his courting of the Waterbender.
Is up for tomorrow (the 20th) the sugars are all excited, and strong write has gone private on her twitter. Even Toronto paper is predicting a “big day” for Megsy. Surrogate making the delivery? Shower? Who knows but something is happening.
We shall see, I doubt delivery that would mean the baby would be in an incubator as a premmie. We wait and see. Meh
I’ve decided to write shorter chapters for this one going forward, in the hope of more frequent updates. With this in mind, this chapter is from Marcus’ point of view. There’s also part i and the original fic concept as a prelude, for anyone coming in new.
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.
In this chapter: Marcus discovers that weak at the knees isn’t just a figure of speech when it comes to Oliver Wood wearing his football kit.
i: marcus.
It was the last Thursday in November, and that meant the one night of the month that Marcus didn’t particularly enjoy taking the late shift: open mic night. It wasn’t that he had any objection to people expressing themselves creatively, no, but it meant that his usual background noise of choice wasn’t available and his concentration levels for studying in between serving were below zero. It was the one night of the month that made his class the next afternoon more difficult than he wanted it to be. Though in every other respect, change and taking risks were things that he actively enjoyed, sought out even, when it came to working at the coffee shop, he liked routine. He hid his scowl behind the coffee machine and didn’t speak to anyone much, and that usually got him through it when he was obliged to work it. Susan, understanding why, left him be for the most part, and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve a co-worker and friend as understanding as her, but he was grateful nonetheless. The gratitude communicated itself in frequently tucking away her favourite pastries of choice when they were running low and making sure she had first choice when new stock came in of which blend to try.
“I guess tall, dark and handsome isn’t coming in tonight either,” Susan commented from her place at the counter, leaning on her elbows and not bothering to hide her wince at the theatre major currently making their foray into bad experimental poetry. “Did you warn him in advance or something?”
Marcus shot her a look at that, and it was enough to make her raise her hands. “I’m just asking. I know you see him now and then even when he’s not holed up here.” Her brow creased as she surveyed him, and Marcus couldn’t help the uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing right through him. “Is that why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking,” he said defensively, suddenly sharply aware that that had been exactly what he was doing. “And it’s got nothing to do with Oliver not being around. You know I don’t like working this one. I can’t focus.” As the theatre major’s incoherent warbling about love and disaster seemed to reach fever pitch, he gritted his teeth. “Especially when that squalling is going on. Really, I’m not a poet and even I can tell that this is complete and utter shit.” Judging by the very, very faint smattering of applause when it finally came to an end, he wasn’t the only one relieved when it stopped. “Thank Christ.”
Susan lifted an eyebrow at him, and once again, he was reminded that while he could generally fool a lot of people, she wasn’t usually one of them. Though she was basically the equivalent of sunshine in human form and easily the best person to take the counter for customer service amongst the staff, she was also shrewd and to the point. “Stop pouting. It doesn’t suit you. He’ll be back tomorrow and you know it, for his caffeine fix and to flirt with you.”
That caught Marcus off-guard and as a result, he let slip a bit more than he should have. “What? What are you talking about? I mean, he’s all right looking, if you like that sort of thing, but he doesn’t flirt with me.”
“Aha!” Lifting one of the dishcloths nearby, Susan used it to point at him. “So you’re not completely indifferent, even if you are apparently one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever met. Trust me, he does. A lot.” There was noise at the door as the changeover commenced, trading out the would-be poet for someone with an acoustic guitar who wasn’t half-bad. It was far closer to Marcus’ preferences and he felt himself relax just a little at the sound. But even so, he was distracted by Susan’s words. “No, he doesn’t. He’s just being friendly. He doesn’t talk to me any differently than he talks to you.”
Susan sighed theatrically, shoving a few stray strands of red hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ears. “God, boys are stupid. If I had someone who looked at me the way he looks at you, I’d be working fewer shifts.” She opened her mouth to continue, but something stopped her in her tracks and she closed it abruptly. At the sound of people at the coffee shop door, Marcus turned away from her, and in approximately ten seconds flat ascertained the reason for staring and had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “Seriously, Susan?”
There were three people in football kits, and though Marcus couldn’t see their faces, it wasn’t difficult to observe Susan’s clear appreciation of other parts of their anatomy. Reaching out, he tapped her on the nose, making her blink before giving him a sheepish grin. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but grin at her. “Distracted there, Bones?” he teased, suddenly feeling better between the soft guitar that had continued and the opportunity to wind her up.
“Laugh now. Wait until you turn around again.”
He should have known better than to take the bait. He did anyway.
God fucking damn.
Because after the three that had already entered the premises stood another, far more familiar figure, hair damp and tousled from the shower, but still very much clad in a green football jersey that showed off the span of his shoulders and shorts that revealed all the muscles in lithe legs. Regardless of the fact that it was from a distance, Marcus knew the flash of that smile anywhere. Even as he watched, he clasped hands with one of his team-mates, grinned again and headed towards the counter, waving as they all exited bar Oliver and one other. He felt his stomach sink as he saw the other boy sling an arm around Oliver’s neck and mess up his hair, keep it there as they moved across the room. I hate it when I’m right. Retreating behind the coffee machine deliberately so that it blocked his line of sight, he let his focus fall back to the textbook he’d been trying without success to read for most of the night. “Yeah, it’s Wood. So?” he said, ignoring the fact that Susan had likely just seen his reaction, to the way her expression had softened slightly, just enough for him to catch it out of his peripheral vision.
“Marcus…” Susan didn’t get the chance to say anything more before the two approached the counter; Oliver’s exuberant greeting carrying to Marcus’ ears before he could turn and escape to the storeroom unnoticed. “Susan!” Marcus tuned out the rest of the exchange, trying to focus without success on the words on the paper that were suddenly swimming in waves (damn visual stress). Caught up somewhere between sulking furiously (he could at least admit it now) and completely stressing out over the fact that he’d been right, he wasn’t prepared when Susan put a receipt in front of him that had a note scribbled on it.
That’s just a friend, you idiot, so stop hiding and say hi. He’s waiting for you.
Despite the clear instruction, he opted to ignore it at least until he was done making the drinks, concentrating on measures and flavour balance, deliberately keeping his head empty of everything but the best way to make a flat white and a latte. After a moment, he took a breath, headed down to the end. “Flat white and a latte?”
Oliver’s smile was like the fucking sun and Marcus’ mouth went dry the minute that he saw him up close. “I didn’t think you were working tonight at first, until Susan said!” That the other was so clearly pleased to see him didn’t help, and it took him a moment to curve his lips, just a little. “I try to avoid it. Open mic’s not my favourite.”
“Yeah, I know.” And the casual way that Oliver said the words, as though it was something that everyone should know about him, was a further shock in itself, evidence that the other paid more attention than Marcus thought.
His friend interrupted the conversation at that moment, saving him from coming up with a reply. “Ah, hang on, you must be Marcus then.”
That floored him outright, as if he wasn’t already struggling with the way that Oliver looked in a keeper’s jersey (good enough to eat, God, I want to-), he now had to deal with that as well, the fact that Oliver had flushed deeply. “That’d be me. Nice to meet you…?” The words were much, much calmer than he felt.
“James, I’m one of Wood’s team-mates.” The disarming grin that went with the words made Marcus relax quite suddenly, the sight he’d had at the door suddenly translating itself into tactile, exuberant friendliness. “Nice to put a face to the name. Wood hasn’t shut up about this place or the barista for weeks. I think I know why, now, this coffee’s really good.” The glare that Oliver suddenly directed at James a moment later shouldn’t have been attractive, but somehow was, but it also cut off Marcus’ chance to say anything more than, “Really?”
“You’re bloody hilarious, mate, you know I like it here. Piss off and take your drink with you. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.” Oliver’s words held a clear signal to go away, and the mocking salute that James returned it with left Marcus stifling a laugh. “Yes sir, future captain sir!” And surprisingly enough, he headed for the door, waving to them on the way out and winking at Susan, who at that point disappeared to the storeroom, leaving Oliver and Marcus alone at the counter.
“Sorry about him, he thinks he’s funny. Bloody good player, though.” And just like that, they’re back on much safer territory, at least for the moment.
“So do I take it that you won?” Marcus asked, leaning forward against the counter and regarding Oliver with steady amusement, the only thing that it felt safe to let show under the circumstances.
The smug, more than slightly pleased smile of victory that he received in answer to the question left Marcus in no doubt of the outcome, and God, it nearly killed him to remain neutral when Oliver looked like that. “Four nil and I got man of the match.”
Of course you did. “Nice,” Marcus said, tilting his head in Oliver’s direction. “And you came here for your caffeine fix, even knowing it was open mic night?” He wasn’t prepared for the wink he got in return, or for suddenly finding out that weak at the knees was in fact a physical reaction that could actually happen and not just a turn of phrase. “Couldn’t leave my favourite barista hanging on his least favourite shift.”
Trust me, Wood, you’re going to be leaving me hanging in ways you haven’t figured out if you keep looking at me like that. While the thought didn’t translate to Marcus’ expression, it took effort to keep it that way. He’s not flirting. That’s just how he is. Or maybe he is. I don’t know! There was only one person to blame for his confusion, and it wasn’t Oliver. Fucking Susan putting ideas in my head. Chancing it, his reply was deliberately ambiguous. “Well, thanks for not leaving me hanging, in that case,” he said, letting his smile widen. “Maybe I can return the favour sometime.”
Naturally, right at that moment was when he spotted someone else approaching the counter out of the corner of his eye. “Unfortunately, I’d better get back to work,” he said, tipping his head in the direction of the other customer. “So I’ll probably see you later, if you’re still around.” Is it his imagination, or does Oliver actually look disappointed?
“Yeah, sounds good. See you later, Marcus.” The smile to go with the words had dimmed slightly, and he was left reeling as a result. Disappointed. What did I do? The fact that as Oliver walked away, he only got an even better view of narrow hips and the way that his entire body shifted, somehow incredibly graceful despite the fact that Marcus knew he was probably covered in mud and grass not an hour prior to him being there, made the entire situation incredibly unfair. He let an exhale of breath out in a soft whoosh of sound, and muttered, “Jesus Christ, that should be illegal,” under his breath, not quite able to tear his eyes away.
“Told you so.” He didn’t need to turn around to know that Susan had returned from her suspiciously timed absence, and was quite probably smirking behind his back. “So did he ask you out yet?”
“Oh, shut up, you know that’s not a thing,” he grumbled. “Just for that, you can deal with this one. I’ll be out the back.” Disappearing from sight before she had the opportunity to sass him back, he shut the storeroom door behind him and had to take a moment to just breathe and resettle his thoughts. Somehow, picking up on signals he couldn’t read properly and being unsure of whether it was his own mind seeing what he would have liked to see was worse than nothing at all. Knowing as well that he’d probably be replaying the image of Oliver in his football kit for nights to come didn’t help, either, because it meant that he was no longer able to pretend he wasn’t interested.
It's Todd! Now he works too late on Mondays for us to game then, and since Saturdays are weird for me and the online group tends to be inconsistent in our ability to all be available at the same time on the weekend, quotes will be sparse in the coming weeks, so for now the queue is mostly full of asks and reblogs for the #bigotry in DnD discussion. As always, submissions are welcome! Send in quotes and anecdotes via ask or the SUBMISSIONS button at the top of the page in the navigation bar. Please, for the love of G@d, do not send them in via fanmail. FANMAIL DOES NOT GET POSTED. Thank you all so much for your patience. Keep gaming! Your Mod, Anna
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?
