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acid-ixx · 1 month ago

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worthless speculations (a loving family, an unpalatable desire drabble)

ft. yandere superfam x gn! neglected spouse reader x yandere batfam

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post !

all it took was a candid shot of the resident, widowed journalist who's not-so subtly hiding his affair with the infamous spouse of bruce wayne to spark immediately rumors.

for weeks, it seems, the table has once been turned on bruce as you've found yourself the center of attention, spending time with your new family, with the very man who has come to save you months ago from the cruel hands of the paparazzi.

it started with the first picture, which quickly blew up into many photographs in such a short span.

one of a simple date, where some stranger, a fan of you, saw you at a park, having a cute picnic with both clark and jon. at first, most would assume that clark's probably just a close cousin of yours, with just a kid you're babysitting, right?

wrong. the proximity you have with the unknown man is too intimate. someone's got a close shot, and through the lenses, you wouldn't even need a damn interpreter to just see how his palms are rested against your thighs, massaging occasionally without thought nor pattern, as if it's been a natural habit of his; or how in another shot, he handfeeds you the sandwich, then takes a bite in the same spot you have bitten. he doesn't take a napkin to wipe away the remaining condiment on your lips, and—

oh!

he licks at his thumb then quickly brings his lips near yours, closing the space in between with a peck that draws out too long to be even considered remotely platonic.

a kiss packed with longing and desire.

his tongue sneakily swipes at the remaining cream on the side of your tongue. your nose crinkles and you swat his face away, but you don't look disgusted, don't even pull away as you softly swipe away the strands of hair framing his glasses.

some commentor mentions how warm your face looked, another replies with just how your fingers quickly made their way to fiddle with the man's arm in another candid photo.

the child beside you, meanwhile, makes a grossed face, cringing at the obvious romance— then he clings to you, slapping his dad (?) away from you. his hands are wrapped around your waist, and click!

it looks like the kid's looking up at you with puppy eyes, mumbling something whilst you laugh and ruffle his hair. another spectator managed to capture a video.

then a lipreader on twitter made out the words the kid is saying. he's begging for ice cream, he says with a pout, neapolitan, he says, and that he made sure to eat all the vegetables in his sandwich. then he grins when you giggle at him and whip your head to the man beside you who replies with:

"oh, sweetie, don't fall for his lies; he just sneaked junked food last night to his bedroom."

the kid, who's now famously referred to as jon, your precious little baby, as you love to call him — and since the internet is so obsessed with drama, a lot of people were smart enough to piece the puzzle together, the man you're with is clark kent — sticks his tongue out his father, then stubbornly crosses his arm yet just as quickly return to his begging.

the person recording hidden behind the bush had to do a double take, their hands shook when the audio recording picked up your faint whispers, and they were sure to gods that you referred to yourself as... as clark's spouse?!

and did jon just call you his parent?

you're brave— no, scratch that, the people you're with are even braver.

it's like they're making it obvious that you've been claimed into another family; that you oh-so easily estranged yourself from the wayne's to live a mundane, yet peaceful, loving life with the kent's just to escape the constant torment of living under an empty roof.

but still, to be that obvious is a dangerous move, isn't it?

to show up in public, unannounced, in matching trio outfits, sometimes even appearing with another unknown figure who always has shades on, to a crowd of people who take pictures of you every moment is such an iconic, yet ruining admission that you've basically (and rightfully) had an affair with no shame.

after all, who would ever think of cheating on a billionaire, one of the most famous, too!? that's basically asking for a divorce, which leads to losing all your assets. most socialites who marry into old money families are aware that even if your partner cheats, you'll still be strong enough to bear through the pain, but god are you brave for making another scene just some days after, in a cinema no less without a care in the world if the people around you watched your barely disguised pda.

well, you aren't most socialites to begin with, you've only ever married for convenience.

even when news stations were going haywire for the rumors, when so many commentators on tiktok, podcasts on twitch and youtube have you as their main topic of the week— your little family is nonchalant about everything.

it was the number one trending tag, the only headline every person focused on.

and the best (or worst in your case) part of it all, is that this was all perfectly curated by your own affair partner.

a little handholding, soft touches and caresses on your cheeks, muscled palms resting comfortably on your shoulders, and jon's tiny hands latching onto your body, nuzzling on the expanse of your stomach whilst his head tilts up to look at you with the widest puppy eyes, asking you to buy him more sweets with his freckled smiled and toothy grin— it creates this immaculate opportunity for passerby's with enough knowledge about the wayne's messy relationship status to immediately catch on to the infamous face of bruce's poor, naive spouse now in a date.

and it's not even the first date you were all caught together.

who wouldn't whip their phone out faster than the well-known speedsters to conspicuously take shots of your seemingly happy and satisfied composure?

unlike with all the moments where you are with bruce, pictures of your uncomfortable hold on his shoulders, the stares from a distance never directed at you from galas, or the way your hands quickly unwrap from his the moment your magazine pictures are finished— you look refreshed, downright gleaming brighter than the sun that could even make some senile, grumpy man smile.

your small fanbase grows quickly: people never knew just how gorgeous you are not until they see your lips quirked up, mischievously peppering the unknown child with kisses, then standing on your tippy toes next to the hulking figure beside you to give him a gentle peck on the lips.

in your current place at the farmer's market, you are glowing like a ray of sunshine, never before had the crowd ever seen you without a strained smile, never seen your eager eyes at your affair partner's sweet surprises, never seen you so willing to pick up your child and pepper his face with kisses all over his face at yet another cheesy joke he concocted.

and it's perfectly become a topic of gossip for the citizens of gotham and metropolis on the seemingly new, and unexpected affair of one of the richest man in the world's spouse.

well, if they could even call you bruce's spouse, not when his eyes are always elsewhere. not when there's been dozens of news highlighting the gossips about bruce's past affairs.

and right now, it seems you're not even wearing the diamond encrusted ring on your finger anymore. the longer you are exposed to the public, the more people notice the lack of bedazzled jewelry, or even notice

and instead, you sport a simple silver promise band on your left hand, which somehow gleams brighter than your previous ring. you wore more casual clothes, sometimes match color schemes with your little family. most of the time, you wear your affair partner's huge jackets and let it drape across your body.

others say your lazy efforts, your carelessness compared to your rigid styles before felt more befitting for you— and you are... cuter whenever they see you beside clark to assist him with his office work with a matching messenger bag hanging off your shoulders.

some people were so invested in your relationship, a close-up zoom in on clark's wallet revealed a picture of your family with the addition of ma and pa kent in his wallet's clear frame. his fond smile while looking at the photo made fangirls swoon.

and with you always trying to reach atop the nest you call his hair, always ruffling it to fix the mess, people began seeing you two as the couple goals, an embodiment of what years of love looked like despite only being together for months in their; people are unaware of how long your affair has been.

never knew clark has set his sights on you since the day of your marriage with bruce.

but it's alright if people only see the surface level of his devotion to you—

because at least his beloved is thriving.

and at least their support, their obsession over your relationship with him helps in tying you even closer to him—

without your complaints, without your hesitation.

because you love him, and he loves you. jon and even conner has warmed up to you. they all love you, and no amount of material compensation bruce throws at you can amount to the dedication and patience clark has burnt off for years to scoop you in his arms at your lowest moments.

just like a true superhero does.

he loves seeing you as the best version of yourself everyday, and you only do so because you're with him and the people who actually love you, only them.

some people who bumped shoulders with you every time you dropped jon off to school said you even smelled even less intense, like you didn't feel the need to bathe in expensive perfumes anymore. you are softer now, more homely and buzzed with a familial joy none has ever seen or felt in you before.

unlike last time, you're more confident in greetings. reducing your appearances in galas lessened your eyebags. you were the epitome of new beginnings, a symbol for citizens that maybe second chances aren't too scare in the first place.

people whisper that you've probably divorced bruce, or that your previous husband doesn't give a damn about your affair.

a person occasionally tweets questions regarding your affair, if bruce is aware about the entire thing, if it hurts his ego, or if he doesn't care at all. his fanbase still loves him, obviously. they still see him as their beloved problematic playboy, but it's concerning how others sweep your affair under the rug with every new gala published, or how news about his children sometimes overthrows the current gossip of the day about you.

of course, the media feeds off the drama like bottom feeders. there's a resurgence of even more theories regarding your complicated relationships. one person even briefly mentioned what a coincidence it is that the dick grayson is found to be eating at an adjacent restaurant beside the one you and clark were found out.

there was a trending tweet once, one that highlighted the strangeness of your previous children's sudden frequent appearances in metropolis too.

others argue it's just an overreaction, but nobody ever denied that claim itself.

some people are anticipating bruce's reaction to the tweet, too. would he stay silent, would he grovel at your feet, or is this some sort of competition between these two?

there's a conspiracy that bruce is letting all the drama simmer down, that this may be a publicity stunt. a smaller fanbase that liked your complex relationship with the man wanted you both to return together, many argue that you look better off with him— clark feels the urge to find each and every individual who's stated this if not for your current laughs in the kitchen with jon distracting him from darkening thoughts at every annoying theory.

though most of the time, thankfully, others defend your actions and clark's, even stating that it's right that the once silent and solitary spouse of bruce deserves at least decent treatment; because from all the gathered news you before, it's always just you who fusses over bruce's children like a worried hen, it's always you who adjusts and kisses your husband's ties with a fond, yet tired smile.

and some miss those softer moments they've seen on screen, even bruce himself finds his fingers dangling on his past ties in his office, unknowingly reminiscing on the warm lips that once held the same tie. and the hot dinner left cold and diverse snacks untouched always left beside his desk, and your worried coo every night he stayed up late, and...

and just how much of a perfect spouse you actually are.

it's only when it's too late, when you're too deep into your romance with clark that he finally discovers how much he misses you, your concerned whispers, your frustrated quirk of the eyebrows that you hide from him every time he rejects your advancement, your constant presence in his life until it felt like it was never there, the way you weaved yourself so easily into his life and slipped away just as quickly because of his stupidity.

in a moment of weakness one evening, when restlessness and the yearning for your soft touch urged him once more, bruce finally gained the courage to confront all the rage about you—

he tells himself it's out of curiosity, just that.

nothing else, but god, the sight of you with someone else for once hurts more than intended.

it punches him even more in the gut once he realizes that you're with his coworker, his teammate, his trusted friend who displays himself as the perfect puzzle piece beside you in every article. you don't wear your old ring, don't even wear a single piece of clothing in your old wardrobe full of luxury items.

you're different, but you're still you... just better off without him, without his children, without alfred or the comfort and protection of the manor.

alluring as you've always been, but you shine even brighter now, draped in gentle sunlight that dims in comparison to you.

and the longer he stares at your pictures, at your smile, the way your cheeks would slot so perfectly between his palms, and your hair that he knows he'd soon love to bury his nose in—

the easier it is for his hands to make its way to his contacts, ready to call alfred and his children—

and he finds himself concocting a plan faster than the need for rest swept away from his thoughts when he sees your silver band, the same design he found one day on clark's fingers after a mission.

of course, bruce is aware that he has to deal with the consequences of his actions, that his idiocracy led him at a stalemate where he's aware that your chances of returning to him is a measly zero—

but heaven forbid him, for he's still bruce. he's no lesser than the cunning, strategic vigilante he's known to be.

he'll always be one step ahead, and rummaging through the records on his desks reveals no sign of divorce papers, no legal precautions taken for custody and no angry relative of yours (who only sold you off to him to earn their share of profit) angrily contacting him.

it'll be one hell of a night, but it doesn't matter.

why?

the headline and content for the next day on a newspaper for the gotham news—?

"y/n wayne, spouse of famous philanthropist, billionaire bruce wayne found back in the arms of their old flame—?"

"there's been newer speculations, of y/n's supposed ex-husband and their children finally reconciling with each after after months of rumors regarding whether their divorce is real or not."

"—and after some investigations and a statement from the husband, bruce wayne, himself; it was finally confirmed that their divorce, was in fact, never legally processed— because, as it turns out, it was never filed at all."

a/n: that took a dark turn HAHAHAH you guys think this will be something cutesy? NO! this is my late april fool's attempt at fluff bec i love drama. please comment about what you think about this and let me hope to god this gains interaction </33 i like writing affectionate scenes with a tinge of insanity scattered in between.

also hive minds and parasocial relationships are seriously creepy to think about. that's why i tend to not often disclose personal things relating to me because of how easy it is to track someone and their life down 😭 this has been sitting on my drafts for a long time and i nearly forgot about it until someone reminded me to write for this series soo... transitioning pov's is genuinely such a struggle btw, ugh ☠️ hope u guys enjoyed this bec this is by far the hardest drabble to write.

taglist:

@imjustasimp132, @mimiiiiiiiiisstuff, @chericia, @queenofspades403, @naina326, @neerathebrightstar, @lilyalone, @sweetconnoisseurgardener, @nickey-diano, @tsuniio, @ssak-i, @kore-of-the-underworld, @lollipoppersposts, @peptox, @kdjhubby, @weirdcore-fantasy, @thypplover, @asdfghjklgayblog, @prince-nikko, @phoenixgurl030, @antionwithadrawingpen, @circe143, @ferchu0406, @kittzu, @yuyuzi-ling, @moonieper, @esthxio, @ryuushou, @nickey-diano, @ssak-i.

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boypied · 5 months ago

Text

STUFFING [thanksgiving special]

pairings: henry cavill x male reader x chris evans.

summary: his father’s best friends; chris and henry, visit for thanksgiving dinner, and at the end, the readers' fathers get drunk and passes out. Leaving the reader, Chris, and Henry to get down and dirty.

requested by: @dangerousstrawberryshark

word count: 1,081

warnings: threesome, anal sex, double penetration, dirty talk, praising.

It's that time of year again, the time of year when your dad invites all of his hot dilf-y friends round for Thanksgiving. You try to make small talk, but the majority of them just kind of ignore you or actually just don't hear you because of how quiet and timid your voice is when they're round. Except something is different this year. Your dad only invited two of his friends round, and they've never been round for Thanksgiving before, which is strange because they get invited pretty much every year.

"Henry! Chris! Come in, come in" your hear your dad shout out from upstairs as you see two cars park in your driveway, you slowly make your way downstairs and you turn the corner to be met by two greek fucking gods. Perfectly chiselled jawlines, your mouth gaped open practically drooling over them right before their very eyes. You slowly wipes your mouth and walk closer to them "H-Hey" you say quiet and timidly as you face them both, "This is my son" your dad says introducing you to them.

"Don't worry he does have a life even though he still lives at home at twenty-five" you dad's snarky comment causes you to roll your eyes as you smile softly at them as you walk past them and into the dining room where all the food is set up. You keep mumbling things under your breath as your dad embarrassed you in front of the two hot dilfs, "so what if I still live at home at twenty-five" you mumble to yourself as you place the knives and forks down at the table.

"You guys didn't need to dress up" you hear your dad's loud booming voice echo from the hallway all the way into the dining room, after them chatting in the hallway for about ten minutes they all finally make there way into the dining room taking their seats. Your dad is at the head of the table and your next to him whereas Chris and Henry are on the opposite side to you, "I'll be back, I need to go serve up dinner" your dad says as he places his napkin down and he walks out of the dining room leaving you alone with the two hot men.

The awkward silence was deafening, but you couldn't take your eyes off of them. You wanted them. The way their suits clung onto their bodies was proof of how they must be muscular, and you wanted to see their sexy body's as they pounded into you. Fuck..you could dream. Your dad strutted in with plates of food, placing them all down, and you started to eat. Even though you were eating, you were watching Chris and Henry, the way the forks filled with food were placed into their wet mouths.

After dinner and a couple of games and a lot of alcohol at least on your dad's part, the day was coming to an end. Your dad passed out from the amount of alcohol he had drank, Chris and Henry helped you carry your dad upstairs to his bedroom, covering him up to keep him warm so he doesn't freeze. You slowly close his bedroom door, and you come face to face with the two men, "I guess that's it for tonight" you say in a soft nervous tone as you look up at the two men but they both just smirk down at you.

Henry steps forward and grips the back of your neck, pushing his face against yours and pressing his lips against your soft ones, your eyes widen in shock but slowly close as you enjoy this touch of passion. Henry and you both stumble to the side, pushing your bedroom door open, and you both land on the bed bouncing slightly but not breaking the kiss. Chris slowly walks in as he watches this unfold, your body laying on top of Henry's as you both passionately make out, Chris slowly pulls down your smart trousers and your underwear just enough so that your tight pink hairless pucker is on display.

Chris leans in and begins lapping up your hole, rimming you to the best of his ability. His tongue slowly pushed inside you, curling and flicking against your soft, warm walls. Once your hole is all soaking wet and slowly opening up with Chris' hot breath against it, he leans away and strips off naked and presses his pre-cum soaked tip against your hole slowly pushing it in. You throw your head back breaking the kiss, you gasp out in shock and pleasure as your feel his cock completely fill your hole.

Henry manages to unbutton his shirt opening it up exposing his hairy chest and ripped abs, your eyes dart down and you gasp out at his reveal. Chris grips onto your hips as he continues to slowly pound into you faster and faster, whereas Henry's hands travel down to unbuckle his belt and he manages to get his thick uncut cock out. Chris stops pumping into you for a moment and helps you both strip off fully naked and you get back into the position you were just in.

Chris slips his cock back into your gaping hole and with the help of Chris' hand, Henry's cock slips into your tight hole. You gasp out in slight pain that eases away in pure sultry bliss as your hole accommodates to the size of both their cocks. Henry bucks his hips up into you and Chris digs his nails into your hips as he pumps himself back and forth into you his cock rubbing up against Henry's thick member. Your eyes roll back as they pound away into you relentlessly as your cock spurts out cum as they both stretch your hole to an orgasmic size.

Your hole tightens against Henry and Chris' cocks as they stop pounding into you and both feel your muscle ring tighten around them, their cocks can't take it anymore and they spurt out cum inside your asshole giving you the ultimate cream pie. "I think I know what I'm thankful for this year" you say in a soft tone as you feel both their cocks slip out of your hole and they pull you under the duvet to warm you up. "Happy Thanksgiving" Henry and Chris say in unison and they both place a kiss on either side of your cheek as your naked bodies rub against eachother.

Happy Thanksgiving. 🦃

taglist ~ @starboye @mailmango @ghostking4m @kingchaospostsstuff @crispysoup318 @inhumanshadows @its-ares @gayaristocrat @cronasluvr @irlsamcarpenter @lucerothings1 @gaefaeyae @dqrkhold

#henry cavill #henry cavill x male reader #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x male reader smut #chris evans #chris evans x male reader #chris evans gay #thanksgiving #x male reader #gay #fanfic #x male y/n #male reader #smut #gay smut #boypied #boypied smut #boypied fanfic

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writersdrug · 8 months ago

Note

waitress reader’s reaction to bartender Ghost getting hit on by someone they think is more attractive?

Oh, she would be so so jealous.

You're wiping down your table, standing on your tippy-toes to reach the middle of the high-top, when you spot the receipt tucked in between the sugars and the pepper. Another successful, big tip, and you're tucking your rag into your server apron and jogging across the floor to share your victory with Simon - when you spot her.

She's sitting at the bar; perfect, blonde waves of her hair cascading down her upper back. She's stylish, wearing a green, corduroy jacket and skinny jeans, wedges on her perfectly manicured feet. Her ankles are crossed politely on the edge of the barstool, her back is arched with perfect posture, and you just know her boobs are a ten out of ten, even though you're facing her back. She's definetly taller than you, you can see that while she's sitting down.

You're so jealous you're probably steaming - and the worst part about it is Ghost. He's not giving her the gruff, unbothered attitude he usually gives everyone at the bar - far from it. He's leaning back against the liquor shelf, eyes crinkled in what you can only assume is a flirtatious smile, hands gripping the counter to flex those goddam Greek-god muscles. He listens to her as she prattles on, laughing at everything and anything he has to say (he just asked if she needed more napkins. Why the fuck is that so funny?!)

Truthfully, he's over this chick. He's the same as you, playing up his charm to keep those tips rolling in - but this girl is exhausting. Always laughing, kinda daft, talks like she's the only woman on the planet... his muscles are tense as he fights the urge to throw his rag at her, he's grimacing behind his mask, teeth clenching to hold back an annoyed groan and god does she ever shut the fuck up-

He notices you, standing in the middle of the restaurant floor, pen tucked into your hair, with flyaways sprouting from your scalp like fireworks, chin slightly jutted out in a pout. Your hands are balled into fists at your sides - you're choking your notepad to death, and you have the nastiest, most adorable look on your face that Simon's ever had the pleasure of seeing.

He scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. "Doin' alright, luv?"

You blink at him, and he has to hold back a snort. The girl turns around to you - great. She's hot, too.

"Oh- hey..." she grabs her ramekin from her dish and holds it out to you. "Is there more ketchup?"

You glare at her for a few moments, not bothering to hide your distaste for her. Simon's about to get it himself, but you snatch the ramekin from her and storm past the kitchen door with a "lemme see."

Ghost furrows his brow at your irate behavior. He wonders if one of the customers gave you a hard time; he politely excuses himself from the woman (thank fuck, she's getting exhausting) and goes to check on you in the kitchen.

"-ye need a feckin' wot now?!"

"I need you to fill a ramekin with half ketchup and half tobasco!"

"Ye got hot sauce oan all th' bloody tables!"

"I need you to do it!"

Ghost chuckles to himself, putting the pieces together. He isn't blind - he recognizes that green-eyed monster anywhere, lord knows he's felt it too. Makes his chest ouff up a bit, seeing you get all ruffled and grumpy over him. It also makes him feel a bit better about fussing over you, when his patrons try to win you over. Guess we both have double standards.

You walk back out, smiling at the woman and handing her the ramekin back. "You got the last of the ketchup! Enjoy!" And, with a cheeky grin, you walk back off to tend to your tables.

She looks at Simon and he shrugs. "Looks like ya got lucky."

#bartender ghost #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #cod x reader #call of duty

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cupofteatoyou · 23 days ago

Text

Dreaming in Blaugrana

The first rule of being Cat Culer? Don’t break character.

No talking. No gestures that are “too human.” Be goofy, be silent, be the lovable cat that makes kids laugh and grown players roll their eyes—but in a fond way.

You were good at it. Almost too good.

What started as a fun, side gig to make some extra money during your internship had turned into something... more. Somehow, you’d given Cat Culer a personality—something between chaotic little sibling and emotional support animal. The fans loved it. The staff loved it.

And now, annoyingly, the players did too.

You weren’t just the mascot who danced during warm-ups and waved from the sidelines anymore. You were in it. Integrated. Like some strange, silent member of the squad who just happened to be covered in fur and couldn't speak.

Sometimes, the team would warm up around you. Vicky had started a ritual of kicking the ball at your feet to see how many times you could clumsily bounce it back before tripping over your tail. Aitana once tied a sweatband around your paw during a training session and told the staff you were “rehabbing an injury.” Even Patri tried to teach you the team handshake—painfully slowly, like she was working with a toddler.

But it was Mapi who first saw you as something more than a walking cat suit.

At first, she just teased you, like she did with everyone. She tossed her training bib over your head once and told you to “earn your spot.” She’d sneak behind you and tug your tail, then whistle innocently like she wasn’t the one who did it. Classic Mapi chaos.

But after a few weeks, the teasing turned into something more familiar. Something gentler.

She’d wave you over during breaks, gesture for you to sit beside her on the bench like it was normal. She started talking to you—not just playful jokes, but actual talking. About how training had gone. How she was tired of certain drills. How the new boots she got were “literally trying to kill her.”

You couldn’t respond, of course—not in words. But you’d nod, shrug, act things out when it felt right. You became her sounding board.

Some days, she brought an extra snack and just handed it to you without a word. A granola bar. A piece of fruit. Once, an entire slice of pizza smuggled in a napkin, handed off like contraband.

One quiet afternoon, she flopped down beside you on the grass after training, her curls still damp, and sighed. “You know,” she muttered, “you’re actually a decent listener.”

You mimed writing that down in a little notebook. She snorted.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

It started with a dare.

Something stupid—classic Mapi.

“Bet you can’t nutmeg me,” she challenged, already halfway into a pair of too-big goalie gloves she’d found in the locker room. The rest of the team had filtered out after training, and the sun had started dipping low, casting long gold shadows across the empty pitch.

You—still suited up as Cat Culer—pretended to crack your knuckles, gave her a dramatic nod, and stepped up to the ball.

Mapi widened her stance like she was guarding the Champions League final.

You tapped the ball forward, danced left, feinted right—and slipped it between her legs.

She let out an indignant squawk and spun around. “No. No way. That was illegal. There’s dark magic in that foam.”

You threw your paws up in celebration and did a full-body wiggle, which only made her groan louder.

“You are such a menace,” she said, laughing. “I swear, I don’t know how none of us have figured out who you are yet.”

You sit down on grass slowly, gave her a thumbs-up with one plush paw.

She walked over and plopped down beside you. “I’ve always wondered who’s behind that thing, you know. Like—do they hire a stunt double? Is it one of the interns?” Her eyes glinted, teasing.

You froze.

Mapi nudged your foam elbow with hers. “You gonna tell me or is this a lifelong secret kind of situation?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

And then—without letting yourself think about it too hard—you reached up, grabbed the mascot’s oversized head, and pulled it off in one slow, silent motion.

The air hit your face like a wave.

Mapi blinked. Her mouth parted in surprise, eyes scanning your features like she was making sure she was seeing right.

“No way,” she whispered. “You?”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Surprise.”

For a second, she just stared. Then—suddenly—she burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” she said, slapping her thigh. “You’ve been Cat Culer this whole time?!”

You nodded, heart pounding.

“You’re the intern! The one who helps with post edits and carries tripods like they’re sacred.”

“Guilty.”

Mapi grinned wide, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’ve been emotionally bonding with the intern in a cat suit.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just kind of… became one.”

Her smile softened a bit. “Hey. Your secret’s safe with me, okay?”

You met her eyes—grateful, nervous, kind of dizzy. “Thanks.” You preferred it that way Because when the suit came off, you weren’t Cat Culer.

You were just… you.

The new girl.

Quiet. Polite. The one who held boom mics just out of frame, who adjusted camera angles in the rain, who edited clips at midnight so the club’s socials would be ready for the next day.

Technically, part of the media team—but more like the background noise of it. Your job was to capture the spotlight, not stand in it.

You’d shared maybe four conversations with Alexia outside the suit. And "conversations" was a generous word. They were more like transactions.

“Lighting’s too harsh.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Let me know when this is done.”

No eye contact. No small talk. Not even a nod.

She wasn’t mean. Just… clipped. Cold. Efficient. She said what she needed to say and moved on. You were just another staffer in black Barça gear with a badge around your neck and a checklist in your hand.

She didn’t know your name. Probably didn’t realize you had one.

You could’ve been swapped out for someone else the next day, and she wouldn’t notice.

And it hurt.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

You told yourself it was fine. She had other things to worry about—pressure, performance, expectations that never seemed to loosen. She didn’t owe you anything. She didn’t have time to smile at every intern fumbling with a tripod.

But still…

It was strange. Jarring, even.

Because when you were in the suit—when the fur was zipped up and your face was hidden and your voice silenced—that’s when she smiled. When she sought you out. When she saw you.

Not the person underneath. Not the girl with tired eyes and a half-eaten protein bar in her pocket. But the character. The mask.

Cat Culer was allowed into her world.

You weren’t.

And no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t personal—

It still felt personal.

But in the suit?

She looked for you.

She laughed with you.

Like she didn’t even realize that just an hour earlier, she'd walked right past you—barely sparing a glance, barely recognizing you as a person, let alone the one she’d end up sitting beside in silence, sharing a moment that felt achingly close to something real.

Something you wanted to be real.

It was confusing. Unfair, even.

Because outside of the suit, you were no one.

Just the girl behind the lens. The one holding the mic.

The one taking up space but not attention.

You were used to being behind the scenes, but this? This was different.

She didn’t just ignore you. She didn’t see you.

Not until you stopped being you.

And yet you kept coming back.

Today was one of those rare, quiet afternoons—the kind where time slowed down just enough for your thoughts to catch up to you. No matches. No press. Just the sun low in the sky, spilling gold across the grass like it was painting over everything you couldn’t say out loud.

The stadium was mostly empty. A few distant voices. The echo of water running in the showers. The sharp, clean scent of freshly cut pitch.

You could’ve gone home. Everyone else had.

You should’ve.

Instead, you suited up.

You weren’t even sure when it had stopped being part of your job. When slipping into the oversized fur and foam had become something you needed. Maybe it was gradual. A slow shift you didn’t notice at first—how Cat Culer started feeling safer than your own skin.

When you wore the suit, no one judged.

No one asked questions.

You didn’t have to perform you, you just… performed.

And they loved you for it.

The players—especially Mapi—treated you like family. Even the staff smiled more. Fans waved, kids screamed your name. But most of all… she saw you.

Alexia.

In the suit, you were someone worth walking toward.

Someone worth talking to.

She would joke. Nudge you with her elbow. Give you that quiet little smile she rarely wore around anyone but teammates. A smile that felt rare, almost private. Like a gift.

And yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself read into it.

But how could you not?

When it felt like the only time she actually saw you was when you were hidden behind fur and mesh eyeholes?

The irony stung. That she connected with the version of you that wasn’t real—wasn’t even allowed to speak. That this—this character you created to survive the sidelines—was somehow more lovable than the real thing.

And still, you pulled the head over your face.

Still, you zipped it up.

Because the truth was…

It hurt less to be seen as a cartoon than to not be seen at all.

The suit was hot. Suffocating, even.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin, that crawled down your spine and made every breath feel a little heavier. But you didn’t take it off.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

You stayed near the edge of the pitch, wandering the sideline with your usual exaggerated movements—half warm-up, half act. Knees high, arms flopping in all the wrong ways, tail swaying with each bounce. The sort of routine that had become muscle memory now. Familiar. Safe.

It was stupid, probably. No one was watching. No cameras. No kids. No coaches.

Just the empty stadium stretching around you, golden light pouring in from the last slant of the sun, and a silence so thick it felt like it could swallow you whole.

And then—

“You know you’re not on the clock, right?”

You turned so fast your oversized feet nearly tripped over themselves.

Alexia stood by the railing, one arm resting casually against the metal, the other folded across her chest. She was still in her Barça training gear, hair damp from a quick shower, the tips of it curling slightly as they clung to the sides of her face. Her expression was unreadable—half teasing, half tired. But she was smiling.

At you.

At Cat Culer.

Not the girl inside.

You gave a familiar shrug—shoulders high, paws out, head tilted dramatically to the side like a guilty cartoon.

She let out a quiet laugh. Just one breath. Soft, but real.

“You just like the attention, don’t you?” she said, stepping down from the railing and walking toward the bench behind you. “Can’t go one day without being a menace.”

You placed a paw to your chest in mock offense, shaking your head like how dare you?

Another breath of laughter, and she sank down onto the bench with a heavy sigh, legs spread, elbows resting on her knees. The kind of posture that said I’m done for the day. That she didn’t have to be Captain Putellas right now. Not here. Not with you.

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat near you like this.

But it never failed to catch you off guard.

Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself beside her. The fur brushed her sleeve for just a second. Your heart skipped.

Alexia was quiet. Just breathing. Letting the air fill in the spaces between the words she wasn’t ready to say. Then finally, voice low: “I think my legs are turning against me.”

You made a small stretching motion, cartoonishly showing off your ‘injured’ legs in solidarity. She smiled without looking at you.

“I’ve done, like, eight interviews this week,” she muttered. “They ask the same stuff every time. Like they want me to say something groundbreaking, but only if it sounds good in a headline.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

That was the thing about the suit. You couldn’t speak. So you listened. You heard people in ways you never could outside of it.

She sighed again, voice softer now. “I think I’m just tired of being who everyone expects me to be.”

That line hit you straight in the chest. Deeper than anything else she’d said.

Because you knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

“I’m the captain. The face of the team. I can’t mess up. Can’t be off. Can’t even be quiet for too long without someone thinking something’s wrong.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes on the pitch, but her voice was directed toward you. “But you… You don’t care about any of that, do you?”

You slowly shook your head.

Not in judgment. Not in pity. Just… listening.

“It’s nice,” she murmured. “Being around someone who doesn’t expect anything.”

She paused.

Then: “I talk to you more than I talk to half the staff.”

You went still.

There it was. The part that always hurt.

You were part of the staff. She’d walked right past you hours ago, when you were setting up lights for post-training interviews. She’d looked through you like you didn’t exist. Like your presence didn’t matter.

But now? In this suit? You were someone she opened up to. Someone she could breathe around.

And you couldn’t say a single word back.

You lifted your paw and gently bumped it against her shoulder. Just once. A plush, silly gesture. A peace offering. A silent I’m here.

She looked over, and for the briefest moment, her face softened. Not the public smile she wore for cameras. Not the polite mask she used in interviews.

Something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not so bad, gato.”

You wanted to tell her it was you.

That you weren’t just this suit. That you were listening.

That you saw her, even when she didn’t see you.

But the words stayed trapped inside the costume.

And your silence made it easier for her to keep pretending.

She stood with a quiet grunt, brushing imaginary dust from her sweats.

“See you around,” she said. Then paused.

Added, more gently:

“Don’t work too hard.”

And then she walked off. Just like that.

Leaving you on the bench, still in the suit, paws resting in your lap, body aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

The stadium was quiet again. Empty. Still.

She didn’t know you.

Not really.

But for a moment—for that moment—she saw something in you.

Even if it wasn’t the version you wished it had been.

It was getting harder. Harder to keep track of which version of yourself people were talking to. Harder to separate the suit from the skin underneath. Harder to pretend it didn’t sting when Alexia smiled at Cat Culer like an old friend… and barely nodded at you the next morning in the media room.

You were crouched low behind the training cam—hoodie up, fingers adjusting the focus, keeping quiet like always. You liked the quiet. You had to. It was easy to disappear when no one was looking for you.

Alexia passed behind you. You felt her presence before she even spoke.

“Camera’s in the way,” she said.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… indifferent.

Like she was speaking to a wall. Or a chair. Or another piece of equipment she didn’t know by name.

You muttered, “Sorry,” and scooted out of the way.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t realize you were the same person she’d sat with on the bench yesterday, shoulder to foam shoulder, sharing pieces of herself like secrets whispered into the night.

You watched her walk off, and something hollow settled in your chest.

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. You weren’t someone she was supposed to notice.

You weren’t a teammate. Or a coach. Or anyone with enough authority to be worth remembering.

You were just… staff.

One of dozens of faces tucked into the background of her world. The quiet girl behind the lens. The one who clipped post-match quotes and adjusted microphones and sent edited reels for approval before most people had even finished their breakfast.

You were the one who waited in tunnels for interviews to wrap, who carried backup batteries in your pockets and held Cat Culer’s oversized head in your lap during travel so it wouldn’t get crushed under gear bags.

You did your job. You blended in.

You shifted back behind the camera, hit record, and told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because you remembered every moment. Every soft glance. Every laugh.

Even if she didn’t know they’d ever been yours.

And every day, it got harder to pretend that being half-seen was enough.

But later that afternoon, suited up and pacing the tunnel outside the pitch, tail swaying in loose, idle arcs behind you, you felt her before you saw her.

It was always like that with Alexia.

A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. Like her presence had its own gravity, and you couldn’t help but be pulled toward it.

“Guess who’s early today?” came her voice from the tunnel entrance—low, teasing, touched with something lighter than you ever heard when she talked to media or press.

You turned, paws to your chest like who, me?

Alexia grinned, and you felt it hit you square in the ribs.

“I knew it,” she said, stepping closer, arms crossed over her chest in that relaxed, effortless way that made her look like she belonged to the moment. Not the captain. Not the face of a franchise. Just... a woman with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

Her tone with you was different here. Softer. Unpolished.

Not the rehearsed charisma she pulled out for interviews. Not the carefully edited warmth of someone used to being seen from behind a lens.

Just real.

She leaned her shoulder into the wall beside you like it was habit now—like finding you here was part of her routine. Like you were her routine.

“You’ve got good timing,” she said, tilting her head slightly toward the field. “Mapi and Patri are already out there arguing over who gets to play with you first. Pretty sure Patri has a full game plan. Tactics and everything.”

You let out an exaggerated shiver, paws flailing in mock fear, and Alexia laughed—really laughed.

And something in your chest cracked open just a little more.

“I swear,” she said through a breath, shaking her head, “you’ve got everyone wrapped around your paw.”

She paused.

Then added, offhand—but too easily:

“Even me.”

Your whole body went still.

Even me.

You knew it was just a phrase. A playful throwaway. Something she didn’t even think about.

But you felt it anyway. Like it had weight. Like it had meaning.

And worse—you wanted it to.

You lifted your plush thumb in a slow, shy thumbs-up, and she rolled her eyes in that familiar, fond way. But there was something behind it. A softness that didn’t exist anywhere else. Not with the press. Not with the fans.

Just here. Just with you.

She nudged your foam shoulder with hers—gentle, warm. Nothing anyone else would notice. But to you? It was enough to make your knees weak inside the suit.

And you hated how much you wanted to lean into it.

How much you wished you could stay in this stupid costume just to stay in her orbit a little longer.

Eventually, the rest of the players filtered onto the field in waves—half-laced boots, tangled ponytails, loose energy from a long day and not enough sleep. The air buzzed with lazy chaos.

You stepped out with them, tail bouncing, paws waving, and instantly Mapi was on you—trying to toss a training bib over your head, shouting “Get over here, ratón!” while you ducked and scrambled and flailed dramatically in slow-motion.

The girls were in stitches. Patri egged her on. Ingrid filmed the whole thing. Someone tossed you a cone like a weapon and you wielded it like a sword.

But through it all—every dance, every ridiculous skit, every exaggerated pratfall—you felt her watching.

Alexia.

Not hovering. Not orchestrating.

Just… present. Just there.

You heard her laugh when you tackled Mapi and held her down in victory. Heard her whistle when you attempted the latest TikTok dance and butchered it in the best way.

You didn’t have to look to know her eyes were on you. You could feel it.

And then the cameras arrived.

Lights. Lenses. Boom mics and branded windbreakers. They swarmed like a reminder that this was still a job, still a performance.

But when Alexia leaned in—quietly, casually, just loud enough for the crew to hear—it didn’t feel like performance at all.

“You’re the real star of this team, huh?” she whispered near your foam ear, voice low and laced with a grin.

You froze for half a second.

Then nodded.

What else could you do?

You were sweating inside the suit. Your heart was a thunderstorm.

But on the outside, you were calm. Cute. Carefree.

You were the mascot she liked.

Not the girl she didn’t see.

Later that night, long after the stadium had emptied and the echo of cleats had faded into memory, you sat curled up in the dim glow of the media office. The only sound was the quiet whir of the desktop fan and the occasional click of your mouse as you scrubbed through hours of footage.

Your hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, the scent of hotel soap clinging faintly to your oversized hoodie. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest in the rolling chair, ankles crossed, fingers moving on muscle memory. The kind of work you could do half-asleep.

But you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

You were too focused on the screen—on every frame where Cat Culer bounced through training, taunting teammates and soaking in the chaos. You zoomed in. Watched it again. Slowed it down.

Alexia, in the background.

Her eyes.

Tracking the mascot.

Not once. Not twice. Over and over.

Lingering in shots she didn’t need to be in. Smiling at moments no one else caught. Laughing, just slightly, even when the camera wasn’t on her.

You paused the clip.

Frame by frame, you scrolled to the moment her gaze landed right where yours would’ve been—if she’d only known who she was really looking at.

It wasn’t in your head.

It wasn’t.

She saw you.

Just not… you.

A quiet knock against the doorframe jolted you from your spiral.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice.

You blinked, turned, and found Mapi lounging casually in the doorway. She looked like she’d just finished a shower herself—hair damp, socks mismatched, water bottle tucked under one arm and a bag of off-brand chips in the other.

She gave you a once-over, like she was evaluating your life choices. “You’re always here. Don’t you ever sleep?”

You tugged your hoodie down over your knees, suddenly aware of how small you looked in the chair. “Deadlines,” you mumbled.

Mapi made a noncommittal sound and strolled in, dropping into the seat beside you without asking. She peered at the monitor. “You were on fire today. The kids are gonna eat this up when it goes live.”

You blinked. “You mean… Cat Culer?”

She raised an eyebrow, giving you a sideways glance like don’t play dumb.

“Obviously.”

You let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sit right in your throat. There was something about the way she was looking at you now—curious, amused, but… sharper than before.

You felt your smile slip. “What?”

Mapi tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing,” she said slowly. “Just... you and the gato. Same height. Same build. Same—how do I put this nicely—chaotic little limbs? I am suprised I didn’t realized it before or others… you are really good at hiding ”

Your heart tripped over itself.

She tapped a chip to her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’re not, like... secretly training for Cirque du Soleil, are you?”

You shook your head too fast. “No. I mean—I just—”

Careful.

Mapi snorted. “Relax, I’m joking. Kind of.”

Your eyes darted back to the screen, needing somewhere to hide. Alexia’s face was frozen mid-laugh, body tilted toward the mascot, eyes soft in a way that made your throat go dry.

Mapi followed your gaze. Her voice dropped, just a little. “You know… she likes her.”

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. “Who?”

She gave you a look. “The gato.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “She likes the mascot?” you said, hoping that maybe answer of that question would make it sting less.

“Yeah,” Mapi said with a shrug. “More than she likes most people.”

She said it so easily. Like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because it meant Alexia had made room in her heart for something that wasn’t you.

It meant the warmth wasn’t meant for your name, or your face, or the real version of yourself sitting here, half-curled in an office chair with tired eyes and raw nerves.

She liked the suit.

She liked the part of you you could never keep forever.

You stared at the screen again, at the still image of her laughter, frozen in time. So close. So far away.

“That's something,” Mapi had said.

It was.

And it wasn’t.

Because you knew how this story usually went.

You were the invisible girl. The one behind the mask.

The one who stayed after the lights went out, cleaning up the pieces of other people’s moments.

It was an off-day for media staff—no filming assignments, no urgent emails, no TikTok drafts or caption rewrites waiting in the queue. The team had a closed training session, no press allowed, just players and coaches and the hum of routine.

By all accounts, you should’ve stayed in bed. Slept in. Breathed.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you were there before most of the players, slinking in through the side entrance with your staff pass tucked inside your hoodie, like even that was too bold. You walked slowly, deliberately, as if convincing yourself that every step was justified. As if the weight of the camera slung across your shoulder was reason enough.

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was something lonelier than that.

Because staying home meant silence. Meant stillness. Meant your mind running laps around itself with nowhere to go—loops of what-ifs and what-are-you-even-doing and she-laughed-at-you-yesterday-but-was-it-real?

So you came here instead.

You didn’t suit up. The costume was still in the staff locker room, tucked into its usual oversized duffel bag like some sleeping beast. Today, you couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Not yet. Not until you figured out why you needed it so badly.

Instead, you lingered at the edge of the pitch, hugging your hoodie tighter around yourself as you fiddled with the camera. Checking battery levels that didn’t need checking. Adjusting light exposure even though the sun hadn’t moved. You acted like you were preparing to shoot something, like you were gathering B-roll for a nonexistent project.

Truth was, you didn’t know what you were doing.

You just… couldn’t not be there.

The players began arriving in pairs and small clusters, loose and sleepy from the early hour, their voices carrying in bursts of Spanish and Catalan. Some waved. Some nodded. Most didn’t notice you at all. You blended in like always—part of the furniture. A blur behind the lens.

Then she walked in.

Alexia.

Even from across the field, she changed the air. It was subtle, but undeniable. Her stride was confident, loose hoodie tied around her waist, hair scraped back in that way that made her look effortlessly in control. People shifted as she passed. Some greeted her. Some didn’t dare. But all of them noticed.

You watched from your corner, not daring to lift your camera, not even pretending now.

You told yourself it was curiosity. Professional habit. A media reflex.

But really, it was gravity.

She had it. That quiet pull. That way of moving like she belonged to the space and the space belonged to her.

You told yourself not to stare. Not to expect anything.

Still, you searched her face from afar—looking for a trace of recognition, some hint of softness she only ever gave the mascot.

But her expression was unreadable. Focused. Her eyes scanned the field, the layout, the drills—not you.

She never looked in your direction. Not once.

And that should’ve been okay.

You weren’t her teammate. You weren’t her friend. You weren’t anyone.

But the silence where her smile used to be?

It echoed.

You adjusted the lens on your camera—though it didn’t need adjusting—just to give your hands something to do. Just to remind yourself you were real. Even if she didn’t see it.

Especially because she didn’t see it.

And maybe it would’ve been easier if she had never laughed with you.

Never leaned into your shoulder.

Never whispered, “Even me.”

But she had.

And now every glance that didn’t come your way hurt more than it should.

Because she saw the suit.

Not you.

Not yet.

Maybe then it wouldn’t have mattered that she didn’t look at you today.

But she had. And it did.

You busied yourself filming Mapi and Ingrid warming up—banter, light jabs, the usual chaos. It was easier to focus through the lens. The viewfinder gave you distance, let you pretend. Through it, everything had edges. Framing. Control.

You could hide behind autofocus and ISO settings and pretend the gnawing in your chest wasn’t real.

Mapi was spinning a ball on her finger while Ingrid shouted something half-sarcastic in Norwegian when you caught movement from the corner of your eye.

Mapi jogged over.

You dropped the camera slightly, instinctively straightening up like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

She squinted at you under the morning sun, sweat dampening the edge of her hairline. Her tone was quieter than usual. Gentler. “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… needed some extra footage. B-roll. Might use it for the mini-doc.”

Mapi didn’t buy it.

Didn’t even pretend to. She crossed her arms, hip cocked slightly. “You’re filming warmups on a closed training day. You didn’t even tell Carla you were coming in.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just wanted to be useful.”

Mapi gave you a long look. The kind that peeled back your layers even when you weren’t ready. She tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “You know you don’t have to put on the suit every time you want to be seen.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You let out a half-laugh—dry, automatic. “I’m not trying to be seen.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You blinked too fast and looked back down at your camera, adjusting your grip like that was the problem. Like if you just focused hard enough, everything else might fade.

Mapi didn’t press. But she stayed close, silent for a beat longer than usual. Then, without warning, she gently bumped her elbow into yours.

“For what it’s worth…” she murmured, “I think she’s starting to notice.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Mapi didn’t look at you. She tilted her chin toward the field instead, voice low, unreadable. “Look.”

Your eyes followed the motion.

There, just past the midfield line, stood Alexia. Hands on her hips. Posture loose but alert. Her gaze drifted across the field—casual, scanning—but when it passed over you… it paused.

She looked once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

Like she was trying to place something. Like she didn’t quite understand why she was looking at you at all—but couldn’t help it.

Your pulse stuttered.

Mapi didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching you carefully. Not with judgment—just that quiet, unnerving perceptiveness she slipped into when she thought people were hurting.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Mapi said finally, voice low. “But something in her does. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

You swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out.

Later that afternoon, you suited up.

You told yourself it was for content. Just a few silly videos to keep engagement up. Something harmless for the socials—Cat Culer doing crossbars or mimicking warmups or being chased by Mapi again.

But deep down, you knew.

You did it because you missed the way Alexia looked at you when she thought you were someone else.

Because the ache of being ignored that morning hadn’t gone away. And this? This was the only version of yourself she saw.

The moment your paws hit the edge of the pitch, the atmosphere shifted.

Patri lit up and waved like you were a long-lost sibling. Ingrid shouted something loud and impossible to decipher, but her grin said enough. Mapi didn’t even hide her smirk—just threw you a lazy salute and mouthed, “Showtime.”

And then there was Alexia.

She turned as if pulled by instinct. As if she’d felt you before she even saw you.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t wide or showy—barely even noticeable if you weren’t looking. But you were always looking.

It was a smile that reached the corners of her eyes. That softened her whole face. That made your stomach twist.

She walked over like she always did now, no hesitation, no curiosity. Like you were already part of her routine.

“You’re late,” she said, arms crossed, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “We had a whole debate earlier. Mapi swears you dance better than half the team. I told her she’s dramatic. Don’t make me look bad.”

You covered your face with your paws and gave a sheepish head shake—me? never.

Alexia snorted. “Coward.”

So you gave her a tiny shimmy. Just enough to get a laugh. Foam hips swaying in exaggerated rhythm.

It worked.

Her laugh was instant—unfiltered and real—and it tore something open inside you.

Because it wasn’t a laugh she gave to the cameras. Or to reporters. It was the kind she gave when she forgot to guard herself. The kind you’d never heard outside the suit.

You couldn’t help it. You leaned into her, just slightly.

She bumped her shoulder against your padded one without missing a beat. The same way she always did. It felt like a secret ritual now. A quiet way of saying you’re here.

Then—quietly—“You’ve been weird lately.”

You stilled.

Her tone wasn’t suspicious, exactly. Just… observant.

“Not bad weird,” she added quickly, glancing toward the field. “Just different. Like you’re… distracted.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held your stupid foam paws in front of you and tried not to panic.

“Don’t know what it is,” she said, quieter now, almost to herself. “Just feels like something’s shifted.”

Your breath caught.

She was noticing. Maybe not enough to connect the dots. But enough to feel it. Enough to sense that something wasn’t adding up.

You raised one paw and tapped your chest, then pointed at her—You know me, the motion said, you already do.

Alexia looked at you, really looked. Her eyes lingered like they were searching for a crack in the surface. A tell. Something to anchor what she was feeling.

She gave you a crooked smile. The kind that felt too intimate. Too knowing.

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because maybe she did.

And maybe she didn’t.

But whatever this was—it was slipping past the boundaries you’d built. She was reaching into something you weren’t sure you could keep hidden much longer.

And the longer you wore the mask, the more it started to feel like it was the real you.

Or worse—like it was the only version she wanted.

That night, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and most of the players had filtered out with echoes of laughter and slamming lockers, you stayed behind.

You told yourself it was to finish uploading footage, to organize the next day’s social queue, to label files and adjust sound levels.

But really—you were hiding.

Your back ached from hours of crouching. Your hands still trembled, your whole body buzzing from the heat and adrenaline that clung even after the mascot head came off.

It sat on the desk now—Cat Culer. Big foam smile. Empty eyes. Watching you.

Mocking you.

You stared back at it like it had betrayed you.

Because in a way, it had.

She’d fallen for someone who wasn’t real. Not entirely. Not fully. And the terrifying part wasn’t that she might find out.

It was that maybe she never would.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

Then a voice—casual, distracted. “Sorry—forgot my charger.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned just as Alexia stepped into the room.

She paused instantly.

Eyes on the suit first—still clinging to your body, tail and torso intact—then slowly lifting to the mascot head on the table. And finally… your face.

Your real face.

Exposed.

Still flushed. Still damp from the heat.

The room shifted. The silence tightened.

Her brows pulled together, confusion flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth like she might say something—then stopped.

Her expression flattened. Neutral. Guarded.

“I, uh…” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the locker behind you, though she didn’t move to grab anything. “I didn’t know you were…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

The air between you was full of everything she didn’t say.

You wanted to speak. To explain. To apologize. To do something rather than nothing. But nothing made it past your lips.

She lingered there for one breath. Then another.

And finally, her voice low and distant, she said, “I gotta go.”

She turned before you could answer. Before you could stop her.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And just like that, the silence returned.

The only sound left was your own breath, shallow and uneven, echoing back at you through the empty grin of the mascot head beside you.

#barca femeni #woso fanfics #woso x reader #fcbfemeni #woso #woso imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia x reader #alexia putellas #woso community

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pukefactory · 26 days ago

Note

In dream bbq, froggy mentions that Ena becomes “more of a disaster” when drunk. Would you be willing to write a reader and Ena going out for drinks. I like to imagine the salesperson side becomes less polite while the meanie gets not quite polite but at least less gruffer, but they both g egg grumpy when recovering from a hangover.

•☽────✧˖°˖ DOUBLE MINT FIZZ ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Drunk Salesperson Ena X Reader Drunk At A Bar & Hangover Aftermath

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Mentions And Descriptions Of Alcohol

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You made the mistake of calling it a “casual night out,” which somehow translated in Ena’s brain to “full-blown networking gala.” She showed up overdressed, overcaffeinated, and already rehearsing a pitch to “sell your liver to a better candidate.” You hadn’t even ordered drinks yet. She flagged down the bartender like she was interviewing him for a job. “Do you offer loyalty programs? How much to rename this bar after us?”

☆ One drink in and her smooth, customer-service tone starts cracking. Two drinks in and she’s swinging her leg over the barstool, making finger guns at strangers. By drink three, she’s calling people “consumer-class parasites” and asking if she can “return your attitude for store credit.” “Excuse me, miss, is that your real personality or did you get it from the clearance bin?” You try to stop her. You do. But she’s too fast and way too articulate.

☆ While Salesperson is talking business like she’s running a stock scam in the bathroom mirror, Meanie slips out with glassy eyes and a quiet confession: “I th-think…I’m bad at parties…” You blink. She’s got her head on your shoulder and is mumbling something about her “internal marketing failure.” When you offer her water, she whispers, “You’re the only person who hasn’t emotionally bankrupted me tonight.” You might die.

☆ Shot glasses are the worst possible idea. Salesperson slams hers back and immediately yells, “I’M INVESTING IN YOUR POOR DECISIONS, BABY!!” while Meanie swats her own off the table and mutters, “Only suckers drink blue-liquid lies.” Then she looks at you and shouts, “CHUG IT OR I’LL SOB.”

☆ Salesperson Ena tears a napkin into the shape of a phone and tries to convince the bar’s patrons to invest in a new “emotional expense tracker app.” “We’re calling it Feelance. Now, who wants to monetize their heartbreak?” Meanie insists she’s the beta tester. “I already logged nine traumas tonight. You owe me five bottles of wine.”

☆ Ena refuses to walk in a straight line. Salesperson is trying to hail passing clouds like they’re Uber cars. Meanie is whispering insults to pigeons. You’re holding her elbow, and she’s shouting, “DON’T TOUCH ME I’M WORTH MILLIONS—wait never mind I’m dizzy—carry me, employee of the month…”

☆ The next morning, both she’s devastated. “I feel like a failed IPO.” “I think I bit a karaoke machine.” She lies on your floor like broken wind-up toys. Meanie has her face pressed to the cold tile and whispers, “I miss my dignity.” She throws a pillow over her face and groans, “Why did I sell it for tequila shots?...”

☆ Salesperson Ena insists on calling every single person she insulted last night. “Hello, is this the woman with the unfortunate scarf? I’d like to formally retract my statement. Your fashion choices are legally protected under the Geneva Conventions.” Meanie then chirps in and throws the red cup phone into a plant and hisses, “NO MORE BUSINESS. NO MORE BULLSHIT. ONLY PANCAKES.”

☆ You ask if she wants to go drinking again. She stares at you. Unblinking. “Are you out of your revenue-driven mind?” But by next Friday? Ena’s at your door with coupons, a flask, and a full slideshow presentation titled: “Why You Should Absolutely Let Me Embarrass Us Again – Q2 Edition.”

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chlorinecake · 1 year ago

Note

imagine taking care of riki while he’s sick and he can’t resist the urge to give you kissies all over bc he’s so inluv with you :(

[Vitamin C]uddles —⊹ N.RK (西村力) 🛏️

Pairing… ⊹ ࣪ ˖ sick boyfriend!niki x gf!reader

Warnings… ⊹ ࣪ ˖ kissing, lots of teasing, fluff

Words… ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 521 -> “I’ll take care of you. Duh.”

Despite his usually intimidating appearance, Niki was a huge baby on the inside, and those attributes were only amplified whenever he wasn’t feeling well.

The poor boy had been sick ever since he got back from traveling, so you took it upon yourself to care for him until he got better.

“Hey, this needs more soy sauce… I can hardly taste it,” Niki whined, taking a dissatisfied sip from the chicken soup you ordered.

“Niki, there’s already so much in here that the broth turned brown. Now eat up before it gets cold,” you said, placing a napkin on the table tray beside him.

“I will, but only if you stay with me this time.”

You turned your head at his words, “Aww, d’you miss me?”

“No, I’ve been in bed all day and I’m just bored.”

“Riigght,” you said, spoon feeding him a glob of the grape flavored medicine.

He made a weird face, trying to get over the bitter taste of the cough syrup, “My God, that tastes like poison!”

You giggled at your boyfriends words, climbing in bed next to him with a large plate of assorted sushi rolls, “Try some with wasabi, too! It might help unclog your sinuses.”

Using the chopsticks, you dipped a sushi roll into the chunky green paste, bringing it to his mouth with an airplane motion.

You must’ve put too much, because his eyes immediately started watering as he ate it.

“Do you have any other talents aside from torturing me everyday?” He asked, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Yup,” you said plainly, escaping his side, “I’m pretty good at leaving sick people to fend for themselves.”

He watched as you walked toward the door, “Byeeee… wait! NOO!! I miss you already!”

“But you just said bye?”

“I didn’t mean it, baby. Come back please!! You forgot to give me vitamin C.”

“Vitamin what?” You asked, turning to face him with your arms crossed.

“Vitamin C… for cuddles,” he clarified, pouting.

“Fine,” you said sharply, “but only if you promise not to say anything else stupid… or mean.”

“Ok, ok, just stop stalling and get over here already!”

You walked back to the bed, lying next to Niki under the covers as he put the sushi platter on the bedside table.

“Wahhh, you’re so warm,” you giggled, your silly boyfriend swinging his leg over your body.

“Okay, now what are you doing?”

“Making a cage for you, my naughty little kitten,” he smiled, poking your nose.

“But I don’t like cages,” you sulked.

“Well then pretend it’s a seatbelt instead,” he chirped.

“Fine…”

“Double FINE! Can I get a kiss now?”

“What? No, what if you get me sick?”

“Then I’ll take care of you. Duh… and before you ask, yes, I promise,” he chuckled, resting his hand on your neck before cradling your face in his hand, leaving feather light kisses all over your face.

“Thank you for not rejecting my heebie-jeebies,” he said in between pecking your cheeks.

“Well when you put it like that, it kinda makes me want to,” you teased, squirming in his warm embrace.

More like this: Kisses with Riki in the dressing room

౨ৎ Thank you for reading this quick little fic, and special thanks to the lovely anon who requested this piece!

౨ৎ Feel free to check out more cute and fun reads like this at the pinned post on my blog :3

౨ৎ Tags: kinda got lazy here but bear with me ~ @squoxle @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @nikisdubblchococake

update 12/03: Thank you all so much for 1,000 likes!!

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woncon · 5 months ago

Text

➳ sick duty.

➶ poly!ateez x gn!reader (yungisang focus) ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ Yunho is sick, and you and Yeosang are on sick duty. When the others still haven't arrived with jelly, you decide to go to the nearest shop in the raging storm and buy some, because Yunho really wants them.

➴ genre: slice of life, sickfic, estabilished relationship, polyamory, non-idol!au

: ̗̀➛ warnings: yungisang focus, but everyone gets screen time, poor yunho has a fever, one sexually suggestive offer, petnames, nudity

⌨ :: 3.5K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ This idea came to me when I saw a double rainbow in early June while listening to Golden Hour Pt1. It was supposed to play in the summer, but I never got to the end. Now autumn came and I decided to write it. But in this rainy, gloomy weather it seemed better to set it in a more autumnal setting. That changed my basic idea a lot, but I'm happy with it as it is.

⁀➷ My lovely @wonsheep, I'm still sorry the rain poured on you so heavily on Wednesday. :( But it was very motivating, as you can see. Many thanks for reading through the story and founding my silly mistakes!

➳ mlist

I'm hot.

I want tea.

I'm cold.

The sickly season of the autumn-winter months spares no one. Yunho, who is hard to dislodge from whatever well-endowed giraffe's legs he has, is now curled up in the middle of the bed, disconsolate because he didn't pull on a thick enough scarf, or was carelessly underdressed in the living room, or simply spent too much time around a co-worker who has been lurking with some virus. Whichever the case, the poor guy is in a terrible mood.

"I want medicine," he whispers his next wish.

You look at your watch.

“One more hour before you can take the next one,” you say, brushing his hair away to touch his sweat beaded forehead. It's still as warm as underfloor heating.

Frustrated, he rolls to the side and buries his head fully into the pillow. You drop your hands back into your lap, helpless. It's simply exasperating to watch him suffer, to listen to his snotty, ragged breathing mix with the rain beating against the window.

“Do you want something to help?” you ask, when he turns to you again and raises his feverish eyes to you. The skin around his nose is flushed from all the blowing.

“Jelly.”

Yunho is convinced that jelly sweets can help him. Or at least when he's sick, he likes to eat sweets. Other times, not so much. Unfortunately, you guys weren't prepared for Yunho being sick in the near future. Plus, there's a storm brewing, the kind you haven't seen in a long time. It's been raining steadily for a week now, sometimes more, sometimes less. The others went to do the shopping with the car, leaving Yunho behind with the promise to bring him some jelly. He responded with a small, grateful smile.

Now, looking at his tortured expression, you would give a lot to see that smile again, the hope in his eyes. You reach out and take his hand. You sigh. Gently, slowly, you caress the back of his hand, knowing how sensitive he is to touch when he has a fever. You don't want to overdo it and hurt him, but at the same time you want to let him know physically that you're there for him.

"It's on the way." You really hope it is. The last time Jongho called, they were already at the checkout. Your youngest friend boasted that they were bringing five full bags of jelly beans. That was about twenty minutes ago. No news since then. It bothers you that you can't offer an immediate solution to Yunho's every wish.

Before Yunho can ask any more questions, the door opens. Yeosang arrives with a tray holding a steaming mug and something wrapped in napkins that you can't identify yet. With cautious steps, he moves to the other side of the bed among some discarded clothes - because Yunho didn't want to shower this morning, just threw everything off the bed he'd chosen as his regular place - and then takes a seat, placing the tray safely on the bedside table, gently moving Seonghwa's half-finished book.

“I've brought the tea," he says to Yunho. "And I found some biscuits to go with it."

Interested, the patient moves up on the pillow, but still looks vulnerable. Yeosang holds the cup in his hand and gives the man small sips. Meanwhile, you get up and gather up the laundry strewn around the bed and take it to the bathroom. On the way, you hear a conversation emanating from the kitchen, from which you hear the word 'jelly bean' clearly spoken at one point. So after throwing the laundry in the hamper, you go to the kitchen instead of the bedroom. The room is filled with the smell of hot water and tea leaves. Mingi is putting away the tea ingredients. The call is already finished, his phone is on the counter.

Originally, Mingi wouldn’t be on sick duty today. Today's subordinates are you and Yeosang, Mingi just didn't want to leave the apartment in this crazy weather and he’s helping you instead. It's not like this sick duty thing is strict in your relationship, and it's set in stone that Mingi can only nurse Yunho on Mondays and Fridays and holidays or anything. That said, there are rules. For example, Mingi usually only needs one nurse when he gets a cold or something more serious, but at such times it is Yunho for most of the time. Then there's Jongho, who, if he falls ill, no matter what the schedule, has all eight of you at his disposal twenty-four hours a day. Or, again, there's Seonghwa, who hides the fact that he's sick until it's too obvious, and you're all freaking out as to why he won't let you take care of him.

Yunho usually hardly gets sick. When he does, even a mild cold will get him down. And when he is ill, he's even fussier than the sick Wooyoung, and only one lover has a hard time coping with his demands. Usually two people are enough to care for him if there are jelly beans nearby. Which, for now, there aren’t.

“Are they on their way home?” you ask Mingi, who's packing honey.

"It's worse downtown than here," he says. "The traffic's bad. They're just moving towards home inch by inch."

You both look out of the window, and the tapping of the rain remains as unrelenting as the fever that plagues Yunho.

“Is the tea to his liking?”

“I'm sure of it,” you smile at him. Mingi is usually insecure when it comes to Yunho's well-being. You suspect that the boy's illness was a more significant reason for Mingi to stay home than his desire not to get wet. “But you can ask him.”

You return to the bedroom with Mingi at your side. You remind yourself that this room now functions as a ward. The patient is huddled near the edge of the bed, munching on biscuits soaked in tea, so that they don't scratch his throat.

“It's not jelly,” he mutters, then pulls away from Yeosang and lies back on the upholstered cushions.

You look at Yeosang. Your theory is that you're thinking the exact same thing. If jelly beans are the only thing that helps your boyfriend, you'll do anything to get them. You're even willing to go to the convenience store in the pouring rain, because when you are on sick duty, Yunho mustn't lack anything.

"We'll go and get jelly beans," you say. Yeosang nods his head in commitment.

“We'll go?” Mingi looks terrified. “All of us?”

You can't leave Yunho alone in this state. It's a good thing that Mingi is here, in addition to Yeosang and you, ready for action, and not stuck in traffic with the others downtown.

“No. You stay here with Yunho and look after him.”

Mingi continues to blink.

“We'll be quick, don't worry, you don't have to multitask. Yuyu will probably fall asleep soon.”

"It's not me I'm worried about," he protests, "You'll get wet and cold."

"The store is not far away. We won't have enough time in the rain to freeze to death."

Yeosang wraps Yunho in a blanket and kisses him on the head.

"Mingi?" The man folded in a burrito addresses the worried individual.

“Yes?”

“Gimme a hug.”

Mingi doesn't resist, but climbs onto the bed, swapping places with Yeosang, who pats his shoulder as he passes. Before you even leave the room, you hear Mingi apologize and ask for Yunho's forgiveness.

Yeosang sticks the umbrella out the door. Just a little to test how much it rains. There's really barely any surface out, but the wind immediately grabs it and tugs it further. He pulls it back in time before the umbrella swings out or the wind wins, and you close the door with a great struggle, which also wants to jump off its hinges from the violent gusts of wind.

“I think this will stay here,” Yeosang says, and then drops the solid black umbrella behind you.

You zip up your raincoat. It occurs to you that maybe Mingi is right, and you'll be so wet you'll get stuck in a puddle of icy water. Yet the idea doesn't discourage you, doesn't make you stay, because Yunho needs the jellies.

Yeosang adjusts his hood, then holds out his hand. You embrace him tightly. You check your wallet stashed in the waterproof pocket one last time and place your hand on the doorknob. Then you push it down. The door swings open, and you let it drag you along with it. The back of your coat gets soaked immediately. The rain doesn't fall, it instead pours down from behind in a wave with the wind. Clinging on to Yeosang in vain, it's hard to keep up your own pace and not lurch forward like a rag doll. It's a wonder your boyfriend can close the door.

Although the shop is indeed a block away, at this time it feels like you're wandering for eternity. For one thing, the scenery is completely different in the rain, it's harder to navigate, especially in the raging, commanding wind. Around one corner, Yeosang has to pull you in, because out of nowhere a car appears, its wheels gallantly splashing a full puddle onto the pavement.

Somehow, you do reach the store. As soon as the automatic door closes behind you, the storm is out of the way. Inside, the weather is pleasant. Only the clothes clinging to your skin and the small puddles and mud stains on the floor left by other shoppers are reminders of what a doomsday is happening outside.

“Huh,” you sigh in relief. The first game of the war against weather is over. You only have one more to go to succeed in the jelly bean mission.

“We're crazy," Yeosang shakes his head in disbelief. Then he smiles up at you, sweetly and lovingly, because he's proud you're crazy. You return it.

Insanity is part of sick duty to some extent. Last time San must have used up thirty tissues a day, and ran out in the middle of the week. Hongjoong ran so fast to replace the used-up packets that he was almost hit by a truck. And when you were sick and craving nothing but a mug of hot tomato soup when all the shops were closed and there were no tomatoes at home, only ketchup... Well, Jongho tried.

You purposefully seek out sweets. Luckily, you don't have to wander around and scout the place, you'll often find yourself here. You take off two bags of Yunho's favourite flavour, sour apple. You remember again how pitiful your otherwise healthy and cheerful boyfriend looks.

“This will help him,” Yeosang says encouragingly, as if he's reading your mind.

You nod, then head for the cashier. You get in line. From here, you can see the window and the rain pouring down.

For the first time since the jelly bean plan was born, you have time to think about Mingi's excuse when he cuddled up to Yunho. It's my fault. I'm sorry. But how could it be his fault that Yunho caught a cold?

You're rewinding the previous two weeks. Yunho was in home office the whole time. He really enjoyed it, and when he wasn't working, he was playing video games. He didn't put his foot out until one time when he had to pop down to the shop for something. It didn't rain so heavily that day, just a gentle drizzle. Maybe Mingi had taken off Yunho's blanket one night? It couldn't be, either, because they'd been sleeping far apart lately.

It's your turn, so you suspend your musings. When you get back, you'll ask Mingi and hope it's not too embarrassing for him not to tell you. If he feels guilty, you could help him and reassure him that it's not his fault.

You and Yeosang pay. You put the bags in your coat pockets. You pull the hood up, not that it matters. You cling together again, then step out onto the soggy pavement.

The way back is harder. This time the wind brings the rain from the front. Each blast smacks you in the face. Neither of your hoods can stay up. Your hair gets wet, the rain drips under your coat. You successfully step into a puddle, literally splashing in the muddy water, and the inside of your boots get soaked. You're wet everywhere, from your elbows to your toes. It's really annoying, but you don't falter, clutching Yeosang's arm until you reach the sheltering door of your home to drop in like two wet rags on the threshold and with a combined effort you shut out the cold, ominous wind. Yeosang slides along the door, his hair leaving a wet streak on the wooden panel.

“We did it,” he sighs, and proudly rattles one of the jelly beans he pulls out of his pocket. The bag is intact, of course.

“We did,” you agree, and pull him up off the ground.

Suddenly you're faced with the problem of not knowing what to take off first because everything is equally soaked. It's almost as if your clothes are the cool part of your skin, plus outer layers. Finally, following your boyfriend's example, you throw your coat on the floor first, then your shoes on the doormat, and socks after.

Before you reach for the next layer of clothing, there is the sound of footsteps. You think Mingi is coming, but when he sighs, you realize it's not your tall lover.

“You guys are adorable and dedicated, but silly at the same time," says Hongjoong with crossed arms.

“But at least Yunho’s jellies will hold out until he heals,” answers Yeosang, taking off his shirt.

“When did you arrive?” you ask.

“About a minute ago. But we'll talk later. Now go take a shower before you too end up feverishly next to Yunho,” Hongjoong advises, then retreats and San steps forward. He unconcealedly runs his eyes over Yeosang's naked torso, and yours, which still has your shirt stuck to it, rather tightly, so it might even be useless.

“If you get sick, I'll be on sick duty every day. The thing is, the adorable, dedicated, silly people are just my type” he winks.

“Move over, Sanie," Wooyoung appears and nudges the other one in the side, "You promised to help hyung pack up.”

San hums and walks away, but still smiles in your direction. You all love to oblige Hongjoong and Seonghwa, and that goes for when there's an opportunity to flirt as well.

“You two are sexy, all wet,” Wooyoung admits. “If you need help with the shower, let me know. I'll be within earshot.”

“We'll consider it,” you promise. Wooyoung nods with a grin, and he also retreats to the kitchen.

You pass through the hallway, but before you can go to the bathroom, Jongho stands in front of you with a plate of jelly beans. “Here. I thought you should be the ones to give it to him. You made a greater sacrifice, and most of us stayed dry. Except for Hwa hyung, who opened the door and held the umbrella.”

“Thank you,” you say at the same time. While Yeosang takes the bowl, you press a kiss on Jongho's cheek.

When you retire to the bedroom, the scene is quite cozy. Yunho is in bed, hugging Mingi, craving jelly beans, and you offer him what he craves most, and what you fought Mother Nature for.

“We got it,” you report.

Yunho snaps his head up. The mere hope brings life to his sick features. You stand by the bed, careful not to get rainwater on it.

“Here, hyung," Yeosang hands the bowl to him in a soft whisper.

“I hope you weren’t too desperate, baby. We hurried as much as we could.”

“You're the best," says Yunho, touched, between bites. “I love you.”

“We love you too, giant baby. Very much,” you assure him.

And he smiles up at you. The mission is a complete success. Whether all that time and getting soaked was enough to put you to bed remains to be seen. In the meantime, you bask in success.

Mingi sneezes. Then he reaches under the pillow and takes out a handkerchief. “My throat may be a tiny bit scratchy.”

“Should we set up someone on sick duty for you too?” Yeosang offers readily.

“Our poor boyfriends,” you sigh, watching them. Yunho in the midst of illness, Mingi as he probably slips into a state of flux.

“I deserve it,” murmurs Mingi, looking ruefully at Yunho.

“Why do you think so?” you ask the question that has been nagging at you for a good twenty minutes.

“When we ran out of milk last week, Yunho and I went to the grocery store... I offered to make out with him in the rain. It didn't rain much, and there was no wind. Still, that's how Yunho got cold.”

"Come on," the other protests hoarsely. He sucks on a jelly bean with great enthusiasm. You wouldn't believe he can taste it. “You offered, I agreed, I could have said no, but I didn't. All in all, it was worth it.”

“Worth it?” Yeosang raises his eyebrows. “You were dying before the jelly arrived.”

"If you haven't kissed Mingi in the rain, you won't understand," he declares, then turns to Mingi. “Want a jelly, princess?

Yeosang and you leave them alone, let them romance each other in the infirmary. Barefoot, you stomp off to the bathroom. You open the door, and a thick, fragrant steam rises from the room. A pleasant warm breeze reminds you how cold you are. You hurry inside. Yeosang closes the door to keep the comforting steam from escaping.

Seonghwa is already drying his hair and got dressed. You look at him expectantly, ready to be reprimanded. But he has no such plans. He takes your face with one hand and Yeosang's with the other. “I am proud of you. Take a bath, then we can watch a movie. We made a whole list while we were stuck in traffic.”

Yeosang hums, you nod in response. Good idea. At this time of year, there's no point in doing anything other than curling up on the sofa together.

You bask in Seonghwa's soft touch until the last moment, and the knowledge that he's proud of you. It's really enjoyable to play good cop, bad cop with Hongjoong, and they don’t scold you twice. Regardless, you need to figure out a way to cheer up that boyfriend of yours who called you adorable, dedicated, and silly all at the same time.

“So he probably caught it while kissing,” you acknowledge what you've heard by tugging your trousers down after Seonghwa has left you alone.

“Interesting.”

“And understandable. Sounds romantic.”

“Do you want to go back?” Yeosang glances up at you as he pulls towels out of the closet. The look in his eyes is willing. It embarrasses you to know that he would take a single word from you and go back with you into the pouring rain to fulfill that desire.

“I wouldn’t do it in this weather. But, for example, standing in a cool summer drizzle, refreshing after the heat. When me and my partner won’t be so likely to have a fever for a week.”

“Last summer Woo did it with someone. I think it was with Sanie, but I'm not sure. Maybe he caught Hongjoong hyung in a moment of weakness.”

“Really? Is it fashionable to kiss in the rain in our relationship?”

“A bit.” Yeosang undresses completely.

Your hand is over the laundry basket, you've dropped the last of your clothes in it, yet you don't move. You’re looking at Yeosang. At his naked back, how rainwater is dripping from his hair, onto his delicate muscles. The line of his shoulder blades as his back narrows, ending in the lovely hips you'd hold in your hands for days. And of course you can't neglect his ass or his thighs or his whole being, because once you start looking at him, one part of him is not enough, and the whole of him is overwhelmingly wonderful.

He turns back to you. “Are you coming?”

“Sure.” You follow him into the bath. You take his face in the palm of your hand and kiss him on the lips. “Wooyoung was right.”

“About what?”

"You're sexy when you're wet," you explain, and at the same time you probably reveal that you were just staring at him.

"He didn't just say that to me, love," he replies, pulling you close. Then he opens the water. The warm, soothing drops fall on your head and drip down your chilled skin. Like rain.

“I have an idea. Let's kiss here like it's raining.”

“Oh,” Yeosang smiles sweetly. His thumb caresses your cheek. “Okay.”

And you shower until the hot water runs out.

#ateez x reader #ateez x gn reader #poly ateez x reader #poly ateez #yeosang x reader #yunho x reader #mingi x reader #hongjoong x reader #san x reader #wooyoung x reader #jongho x reader #seonghwa x reader #gender neutral y/n #ateez fluff #ateez ot8 #poly kpop #ateez oneshot

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 1 month ago

Text

Glitch

Pairing: Javier Peña x Steve's Little Sister Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: "We were supposed to be just friends." Warnings: smut, infidelity, secret relationship, jealous javi watching you touch yourself, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m), fuckin' in steve's bathroom yet again, cum eating, panties used as a pocket square, washington d.c. Words: 6,800

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for the past week and well, it's time to let these two start figuring things out. My thanks, as always, to @devineconjuring for her dot eating and telling me this is some of the hottest smut I've written. 🙂‍↕️

Suburban Sparks Masterlist Masterlist

—-

In the month following Nomad’s opening night and your reunion with Javier, the two of you find a balance that works. Friends.

Indeed, Javier Peña–the heartthrob of your late-teenage dreams, the man who made every other person pale in comparison—is now your friend.

A friend who has been to four of your performances, always sitting in the same seat in the back. A friend you call every night to say goodnight, waking him just so he can hear your voice. A friend you travel thirty minutes on the subway to visit on the very few nights you’re free from rehearsals or performances, no matter how tired you are. A friend you kiss hello and goodbye, your lips sometimes lingering against his longer.

Yes, a friend. A friend who you lie to your boyfriend about. Poor Elliott doesn’t even know Javier exists or about your feelings for him.

Tonight, your friend is visiting your apartment for the first time. You straighten up your tiny place as much as you can–tucking away your pile of to-be-finished crafts, dusting off your hardly used entertainment console, hiding the pile of newspapers you kept from those months of you and Javi reading the news. You double-check to make sure the ripped photo of him is well hidden in an old book on your bookcase. You chuckle at the selection—Persuasion by Jane Austen. You’re fine with Javi thinking you’re an eclectic hipster, but not an eclectic stalker hipster.

You recognize the quick succession of knocks at your door. Your nervous hands smooth down the wrinkles on your dress as you hop up from the couch and open the door.

Your friend Javi strides in with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers. Friends, right?

“You don’t have any sort of doorman or buzzer?” he asks, his voice low and tinged with concern.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Did you even check to make sure it was me?”

“Well, no, but I recognized the knocks.”

He grumbles, his shoulders shrugging in exasperation. “You live in the middle of Washington, DC. Anybody can just walk up the stairs and knock on your door—or do even worse.”

“Wow, you do know my brother, huh?”

“S-sorry, I just—I don’t like the idea of you being so vulnerable.”

“I’ll use the peephole next time.”

“And that needs to be covered, too."

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

He sighs, holding out the wine and bouquet to you. “And these are for you… as long as you cover your peephole right now.”

“I’ll grab a Post-It.”

—-

Two glasses of wine sit amongst crumpled napkins and scattered foil wrappers. Javi’s dark leather jacket is draped over the back of your tattered lounge chair while he relaxes on your couch, an arm stretched out and resting on its back. His side is warm against yours as your knees are tucked to the side, your head resting against his chest.

You’re not paying attention to the newscaster’s voice as they drone on and on about stock markets and the UN. All you can focus on is the feel of Javi’s fingers, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder. You sure are sitting mighty close for a friend.

“I told you those tacos would be better than anything you had in Laredo,” you tease, angling your head to look at him.

“It’s just like I remember it,” he says, thick eyebrows lifting high when he realizes what he just said.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you lean back. “Like you remember it?”

His eyes dart away, a hint of red coloring the apples of his cheeks. He shifts slightly beneath you.

“I, uh, went there.”

"You did? When?"

“A couple months ago. Before that impressionist exhibit left the Smithsonian. I wanted to feel like I was closer. To you.”

“Jav…” you breathe out, your heart skipping a beat at his confession. You can’t bear to think of him wandering your neighborhood, trying to feel closer to you.

“I missed you, and I was thinking that maybe if I could just see the places you go, eat the food you love, walk the streets you walk, it would somehow make me feel closer to you again. I was a goddamn fool, thinking that would be enough.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a stray lock falling against his forehead. “I understand why you moved on. And right now, I’m trying. I’m trying so hard,” he sighs, his head briefly tilting back before his eyes meet yours. He reaches his hand out, gently brushing his fingers against your cheek. “But… I can’t just be your friend.”

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you savor the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the honesty in his voice.

“I know,” you whisper. “I tried to move on with Elliott. But whenever he said my name, touched me, anything, all I could think about was you.”

The confessions settle heavily in the air between you, drawing you together. He kisses you tenderly, strong arms encasing you as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, soft curls slipping through your fingers.

His tongue glides along the seam of your lips, inviting you to part them. You open for him, a soft moan escaping. His tongue slips inside, exploring your mouth, a low groan sent from Javier’s throat vibrating through you when your tongue meets his.

There’s a steady thrum from his heart pulsing against your palm when it settles against his chest. The same heart you wondered if you ever had, let alone will ever have again.

A trail of kisses travels from your lips to your chin, his lips dragging along the contour of your jaw and down your neck. The sharp point of his nose nuzzles against your neck when he kisses you there. His hands roam your body slowly and reverently, finally able to take his time and not have to hide.

He’s been so patient, letting you take the lead, never rushing you, always holding himself back. Allowing you to stay with Elliott, though he knows you only ache for him. The month of barely restrained longing that lingered between you is erased as his fingers slip under the hem of your dress, running a trail up and down your thigh.

"Jav," you breathe.

He hums against your skin, long and low, growling when he inches higher, tracing the hem of your panties resting against your hips.

This is why you missed Javier. Elliott would touch you, but it felt so different compared to this. A pang of guilt flashes through your overwhelmed heart and brain. Sweet, patient Elliott, who always tried so hard to please you. You’d made excuses: you were tired, had a headache, needed to memorize lines. But the truth was, his touch was never Javier’s. Ever since those pillowy lips met yours in your brother’s dark kitchen, you knew there would never be anybody else.

You clutch at the fabric of Javi’s shirt, pulling him back to your lips, kissing him with need. Your fingers cradle his jaw, feeling the stubble and sharp lines of his face, so unlike Elliott’s smooth, soft skin.

“Baby,” he groans against your lips, pulling you onto his lap, strong hands planted against your back, fingers spreading wide and pulling you tight against him.

“I missed you,” you admit in between kisses.

Javi stands, surprising you when he lifts you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the small apartment to your bedroom.

He gently lays you down on your bed before standing at its edge. He’s made of golden, domineering shadows when you stretch over to turn your bedside lamp on. He’s so gorgeous it makes you breathless. You ached to feel his touch, prayed to see him again, and now… he’s here, broad chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths that betray his barely contained desire for you.

“Is this the same bed?” he asks, his voice low.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, arching an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

A finger trails along the edge of the mattress. “Where you’d think about me,” his eyes lock on yours. “Where you’d touch yourself and imagine it was my hands on you instead?”

Your body heats at his words. Memories of lonely nights spent on the phone until the early hours, aching for him, come rushing back. Nights where you’d close your eyes and picture his strong hands on you again, his lips trailing kisses across your body, his deep voice gritting out your name.

“Yes,” you admit softly.

“Show me.”

You inhale at his request, nodding and holding his gaze as your fingers trail down the buttons of your dress. Slowly, you unfasten each one, the fabric parting to reveal more of your skin. His eyes follow your every movement, fists clenched against his sides like he’s feening to touch you.

Your dress falls open, leaving you exposed in your delicate lace bra and matching panties. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t put them on in hopes Javier would see them. A sly smile tugs at your lips as you watch Javi’s eyes turn from brown to black with desire.

You ghost your fingers over the sheer fabric of your bra, breath hitching when you tease your nipples through the thin lace. Goosebumps follow the trail as you glide your fingertips down your body to your ribcage and across your stomach.

When you reach the waistband of your panties, you pause, running your fingers along the thin band. Javi’s jaw is clenched, a muscle in his cheek ticking with tension.

A surge of confidence lights you from within when you see the outline of arousal straining against his jeans. Capturing your bottom lip between your teeth and sliding your hand lower, you spread your legs wide for Javier to see the soaked gusset of your panties. A soft gasp escapes your lips when you cup yourself through the thin lace of your panties, hips lifting slightly off the bed as you stare into Javi’s dark eyes.

“Is this what you’d imagine?” you ask breathlessly. “My hands pretending to be yours?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

Pulling your panties down and gently kicking them away with your foot, you’re fully exposed. Your hand slips between your slit, and you gasp as your fingers graze your pussy, puffy and dripping with need. You’re so wet your fingers easily glide across your clit down to your entrance.

"I'd picture your hands," you pant, your hips rocking against your touch. "Your mouth. The way you'd look at me like you're looking at me right now."

“Would you think about me while with him?” Javi asks, his whole body taut with restraint.

Him… Elliott. Your hand pauses, and a surge of guilt meets your arousal as it pangs against your heart at the thought that Javier would ever think you could move on.

“No, don’t stop,” he rasps. “Tell me.”

You swallow hard, your fingers slowly petting yourself. “Yes,” you whisper. “I’d try to imagine it was you touching me, not him. But it never felt right.”

“Did he ever make you feel as good as I did? Even just on the phone?”

You shake your head. “No. His hands were too soft and hesitant. I wanted… I needed…”

“What did you need, cariño?”

"You," you breathe out.

His jaw clenches tighter. "Did he make you cum?"

You nod your head. “But we barely did anything. He was very respectful, but when we did, I-I was always thinking of you.”

A low growl escapes Javi's throat when he climbs on the bed, stalking towards you, stopping right in front of your cunt that’s aching with need. His hot breath fans across you, eyes locked on yours as he leans in, the tip of his nose deliciously bumping against your clit. A slow, deliberate line is licked up your pussy, and you gasp at finally feeling Javier where you’ve been craving him; you’ve thought about how good his pouty lips felt against your cunt since the first lick against it. His eyes flutter closed as he tastes you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Just as you’re about to reach down and pull him closer to you, he pulls away.

“Does Elliott’s tongue feel as good as mine?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“No,” you pant. “No one can make me feel like you do.”

Brown eyes search yours before he nods, lowering his head and sealing his mouth over you. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in his thick locks as he licks and sucks at your clit, drawing patterns that have you writhing and moaning. He grips your thighs, holding you open as he devours you like you’re all he’s ever craved.

He slips a thick finger inside you, groaning as you whimper his name. He slowly pumps it in and out, his tongue swirling on your clit. Heat coils low in your belly, spreading warmth between your thighs. You’re so close, teetering right on the edge—until another finger enters you, curling inside, running along the velvet spot that makes your legs tremble.

He works you, pulling his fingers out, tracing your hole slowly before diving back in. His tongue flicks against your clit as he seals his mouth around your sensitive bud and sucks.

“Oh god,” you moan, your hips rocking against his face.

He hums against you, your hands tightening in his hair as the pressure inside you builds.

You’ve missed him so much. Ever since you had him in that guest room, his touch is all you’ve dreamed about. You thought you’d lost it forever, until now–right now–as he swipes his tongue against your clit and thrusts his fingers into your pussy.

Javi’s eyes lift to meet yours, dark brown looking almost black with desire. The sight of him between your thighs–mustache glistening with your arousal, nose resting against your lips, brows furrowed in concentration as he makes you cum–seems like it’s right out of every single dream you wished to have.

You shout his name, back arching off the bed, toes curling, pulling at his hair as your orgasm lights through you.

He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re too sensitive and tears are pricking at your eyes. Only then does he pull his mouth away, his fingers still buried inside you.

His eyes stay locked on your cunt, his fingers slowly pumping, watching intently as your pussy pulses for him, your walls still clenching him.

Your chest heaves as you come down from your high.

He looks up at you reverently. “God, I missed you,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh as he pulls his soaked fingers out.

You reach for him, pulling him up your body until his face is level with yours. You kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue, relishing in the taste of your desire for him.

As you kiss, your hands roam over Javi's broad shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles melt under your touch. You tug at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

He breaks the kiss and sits back on his heels, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his golden skin. You instantly reach out, feeling the smattering of hair on his chest beneath your palms before moving down to his belt buckle.

He helps you undo his belt and jeans. He kicks them off, along with his shoes and socks, until he's left only in his briefs. You unhook your bra, tossing it aside as Javi's eyes roam over your now-naked form.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

It’s hard to believe this is only the third time he’s touched you like this.

"Javi," you whisper, sliding your hands down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. With a swift tug, you pull the fabric down, freeing his cock. What a sight. You haven’t been allowed to take all of him in like this–he stands long, thick, and hard, jutting from the thick nest of dark hair at the base. You trace the vein up to his head, glistening with a pearl of precum. He’s gorgeous.

He watches you, dark eyes never leaving your face as you wrap your hand around him. You give him a slow, languid stroke, savoring the feel of him. Warm, soft, hard. A hiss escapes his lips, his hips bucking slightly.

You lean forward, pressing a tender kiss to his chest, right over his heart. You stay there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat against your lips.

“I need you,” you confess against him. “I’ve needed you for so long.”

He cups the back of your head, gently pulling you up for a kiss. His lips move against yours, your tongues tangling against one another.

He pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m here,” he promises, breathing against your mouth. “I’m here now.”

You pull him down with you as you lay back against the sheets. He hovers above you, his weight supported by his forearms caging your head. The weight of him warms you as he settles heavily between your thighs. He’s so hot and hard against your core as you shift your hips up, trying to make contact.

“Javi,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reaches between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance. He watches you, his eyes locked on yours, as he slowly sinks inside. Oh, the stretching sting of him makes you lose your breath.

“Fuck,” he groans, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before snapping open again, watching every emotion cross your face as you adjust to the size of him. He moans low in his chest as he fills you completely. Finally, you feel complete, the months of longing dissolving away as he slowly begins to move inside you.

He rocks in and out, long and slow. His head tilts down, watching himself move, cock sliding in and out, disappearing with every deep thrust. The sight of him so focused on watching himself fuck you is too much—his lips slightly parted, his thick brows furrowed, the sharp slope of his nose. You can’t resist. You lean up and kiss the top of his nose.

He looks back up at you, a slight smile lifting his lips as he still drives into you. “What was that for?” he asks, panting against your lips.

“I don’t know,” you gasp as he fucks you harder. “You’re gorgeous.”

His mouth crashes to yours, kissing you harder and deeper as his hips snap against yours faster. He moans into your mouth, swallowing the sounds you gift him as he slams into you, your headboard clanging against the drywall.

You’re slick and wet from the ache of wanting him all this time, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body.

“Oh god, Javi,” you moan, your nails biting into his shoulders as you cling to him.

He pushes deeper and harder, arms trembling, his face tight with concentration. “Say my name,” he grits. “Say it again.”

You obey, loudly crying out his name as your orgasm swells inside your body, sparking you from within. Your cunt clenches Javi’s cock–you’re so tight around him that his pace stutters, his hands clasping the sheets as he braces himself. He swallows your gasps and moans as your orgasm consumes you, his hips faltering and getting sloppier as he nears his own release.

Your fingernails claw against his back, leaving thin red marks against his golden skin as you fall apart around him. Your name is moaned out as your tight cunt pulses and squeezes his cock. His thumb begins sweeping tight, firm circles against your clit as you force your eyes open, staring into his brown eyes as your second orgasm shatters you.

“Javi,” you breathe. His lips find yours as his hips stutter to a halt, buried as deep as they can as your pussy milks him. He pulses inside you, spilling himself in warm, thick shots that fill your accepting cunt. He moans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck as he kisses across your heated skin.

He slowly collapses, pliant and heavy on top of you, his lips leaving a gentle kiss against your chin. Neither of you move, both of you content basking in the sensation of finally feeling each other’s skin and heat after months of distance and heartbreak.

The last thing you hear before falling asleep that night is a contented sigh from Javier as you rest your head on his bare chest.

Definitely friends.

—-

Definitely friends. Friends who have sleepy morning sex after the alarm on Javier’s watch wakes both of you up at 6 AM. Friends who shower together, kissing as you both wash each other. Friends who stare longingly into each other’s eyes when Javier leaves your apartment, your chin clutched between two fingers before he leans in and kisses you goodbye.

“You’re right. Your place is perfect,” he says, giving you one last kiss before he leaves. “Except for the door situation.”

—-

Elliott notices your distance, but the sweet man allows you it. It’s so hard to even look at him, his big green eyes so honest and kind. You haven’t been the same since Javi left those flowers in your dressing room, but you go through the motions with Elliott as much as you can. What else can you do?

Acting is your one true love, so the whole living a double life thing works for you as you think of Javi’s touch when Elliott’s fingers brush against yours, or when you tell Elliott you’re exhausted as he offers to take you out.

You feel terrible whenever he sends you a tender smile or a sweet compliment.

“You’re quiet again,” Elliott notes one night after a performance, grabbing your hand.

You force a smile you don’t feel. “Just tired.”

You’re sure he doesn’t believe you, but he won’t push it. He never does.

Maybe he knows you’re untethering yourself from him, just waiting for the play to end… or maybe he’s just too good of a guy to call you out on it.

You still have a month left of performances, but that still doesn’t stop you from waiting for everything to blow up.

—-

A pretty tablecloth–embroidered with flowers that bloom throughout it–covers the table; fancy-looking dishes and wine glasses are set atop. Candles and vases filled with white and pink roses are set along the length of the table. You smooth down the shiny fabric of your dress; it’s also covered in flowers, making you feel like you match the tablecloth.

“Kid,” Connie catches your attention. She nods towards the house, signaling you to follow her. You know what this is going to be about. Damnit.

You follow her in, softly shutting the door behind you.

She leans against the counter–the same one Javi pushed you up against the first night you met him. “I’m sure you know Javier’s going to be here.”

“I do.”

“And Elliott’s coming too?”

“He is.”

“Damnit, Kid,” Connie sighs. “You and Javier know to behave?”

“We do.”

You need to tell him, you know that?”

“Who? Steve? I know.”

"No, Elliott. Hun, I've seen the way you and Peña look at each other," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "Elliott’s a good guy, and he’s going to see it.”

“And Steve?”

“Look, Steve is still oblivious, but the longer this goes on, the more and more likely it’ll be that he’s going to see something.”

“I know. I just… don’t know how to tell him.”

Connie sighs a long, drawn-out exhale. “I’m not happy keeping this secret from my husband. I’m sure you’re not happy keeping it from Elliott. But it feels wrong to hide and lie about something… so important.”

You nod, the guilt quietly gnawing at your insides.

“I know.”

“But,” her serious tone turns lighter. “I did seat you across the table from Javier, so you’re welcome.”

Damn Connie, she can never deny a good love story.

—-

Steve and Connie’s parties are always legendary, especially when they’re celebrating their wedding anniversary. A full bar sits stocked with specialty cocktails and drinks, a mixed CD curated by Steve–featuring his and Connie’s favorite songs–plays on the stereo he lugged outside earlier this afternoon, and torches and lanterns glow across the expansive yard. Your parties are much more… chill–a bunch of ashtrays laid across your various watermarked table tops, one of your friends lightly strumming the old guitar your ex-boyfriend left you, maybe a cheap case of beer or a jug of Carlo Rossi wine if you’re feeling fancy.

You’re midway through your second glass of wine, with Elliott’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You wonder if he feels the way your spine stiffens when you first spot Javier walk out of the French doors to the patio.

He looks so gorgeous and broad in his light brown jacket over a crisp white button-down shirt with the top two buttons hanging open. Good god, his shoulders look even broader.

His eyes scan the crowd, no doubt searching for you. He spots you across the crowded yard and gives you a small, secret smile that makes your heart flutter.

Connie walks over to him, hugging him hello before you see her tell him something, his eyes glancing towards you before he nods.

Javi makes his way through the crowd, stopping to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with familiar faces. As he passes you, his hand brushes against your back ever so slightly, making you choke on your drink.

“You alright?” Elliott asks in your ear.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” you stutter, trying to smile through the sparks lighting through your body at Javier’s touch.

It’s torture, constantly watching Javi as you try to pay attention to Elliott and the other party-goers. This was a bad idea.

—-

You splash water on your face, trying to cool down your skin, overheated from the warm summer night and Javier’s presence. Jesus, it’s not even dinner time yet, and you’re already praying this damn party is almost over.

knock knock

You knew it.

You smirk at your reflection in the mirror before gently opening the bathroom door.

Javier slips inside the bathroom, gently closing the door and locking it. Then, his body is immediately pressed against yours.

Same white tile bathroom, same feel of the countertop edge pushing against your skin. It feels just like that morning all those months ago.

He kisses you, his needy mouth all over yours.

“I've been wanting to do this all night," he whispers.

Your hands slide up his chest to rest on his broad shoulders. “Javi, we can’t. Not here. Everyone’s outside. Dinner’s soon.”

But even as you protest, you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

"Just a minute. Give me just one minute with you."

You could never deny him, even if it risks getting caught. You whimper softly. “One minute.”

All this secret running around is getting to be ridiculous, but before you can worry about it, his hands roam down your body, bunching your dress up and running his fingers along the gusset of your panties before slipping them to the side. “Jesus baby, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

He just touched you like this a few mornings ago before he left your apartment in the same suit he wore the day before, borrowing an old tie you had thrifted to keep up appearances.

You want to protest. You want to tell him he needs to leave. Steve and Elliott could easily catch you. But you stay silent, your head falling back, your teeth biting into your lip to stifle a moan as his fingers explore your slick folds.

He turns you around, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

"You can't expect me not to want to fuck you when you show up looking like this, can you?" he growls, his hands gripping your hips.

Before you can respond, he bends you over, your hands instinctively clutching the edge of the countertop.

Javi lifts your dress, bunching the fabric around your waist.

“Fuck, I-I can’t wait any longer,” he growls. He reaches down, unzipping and freeing his cock.

He grabs your panties and tears them off easily. Damn lace.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”

Javi runs the head of his cock through your wet folds, coating himself in the wet you’ve gushed out for him since he stepped into the backyard. He thrusts inside you, his eyes staying on you through the mirror as he begins to move. Your teeth dig into your lip to stifle a moan as he drags his cock in and out of you.

Slow and deep. Slow and deep. Slow and deep. He’s driving you crazy. You push back against him, silently begging for more.

Javi’s hands grip your hips tighter as he begins moving in you faster.

If you listen close enough, you can faintly hear the party outside over the sound of your quiet gasps and the light slap of Javi’s hips against your ass.

His rhythm quickens, his hips snapping against you with more urgency. Your fingers grip the counter’s edge tighter as you struggle to stay quiet. The mirror begins to fog slightly from your panting breaths.

“Look at me,” Javi growls softly.

You look up, a moan escaping your mouth when you see the intensity in his eyes. One of his hands slides up your back, tangling in your hair. He tugs gently, arching your back as he drives deeper into you.

You’re close, brought on by the way he’s looking at you, the way his cock stretches you, and the risk of somebody coming up the stairs.

“I’m close,” you grunt, barely above a whisper.

His hand snakes around to rub your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Nice and quiet now.”

Your walls clench around his cock as you silently orgasm, eyes wide staring at him as he grits his teeth and chases his own release.

“Fuck, I’m cloooose,” he growls as he pulls out, gripping his cock. “Suck me, baby.”

You move quickly, turning and kneeling down on the cool, tile floor.

You wrap your lips around Javi's thick cock, taking him deep into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his shaft as you bob your head. He groans softly, his plush bottom lip captured between his teeth, his fingers tangling in your hair.

“That’s it baby, you looks so good.”

Javi’s hips start to thrust slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth. Your throat relaxes, letting him slide in deeper.

You look up at him through your lashes, holding eye contact as he hits the back of your throat. He watches intently as his cock disappears between your lips.

Your hand comes up to gently massage his balls as you hollow your cheeks and suck him harder.

“Fuck, gonna cum,” he grunts, his grip tightening in your hair.

You double your efforts, sucking harder and faster. Your free hand strokes what doesn't fit in your mouth, twisting slightly as you move up and down his shaft.

Javi's breathing grows ragged, his thighs tensing beneath your fingers. With a low groan, he begins to pulse in your mouth. Hot spurts of cum hit the back of your throat as he finds his release. You keep sucking, swallowing around him as he empties himself.

His fingers gently stroke through your hair as the last aftershocks roll through him. He cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"Swallow it all, baby.”

You stare into his dark eyes as you swallow every drop of him.

Javi's thumb traces over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop and pushing it into your mouth.

"Good girl," he praises softly.

You rise on slightly shaky legs, smoothing down your dress. Javi tucks himself away and helps straighten your dress.

He reaches under your dress, his rough palm sliding over your bare skin. He grabs your ass, squeezing gently as he pulls you flush against him.

"Be careful out there," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "You don't have any underwear on now."

“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” you slap his arm.

"You're so beautiful,” he whispers as he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. His eyes roam over your face, drinking you in before he leans in and kisses you.

“Go on ahead, baby,” he whispers.

You reluctantly pull away and slip out of the bathroom to rejoin the party, your little secret tucked away for now.

—-

Connie calls everyone for dinner underneath the roof of their large gazebo. It’s one of your brother’s pride and joys. The perfect place for his wife to set up a beautiful table full of vases, candles, and little framed placeholders.

Elliott pulls out your chair as you take your seat at the table, the absence of your underwear making you acutely aware of every movement.

Javier takes his place across from you, his eyes meeting yours briefly with a knowing glint.

Everyone ooh’s and ahh’s as Steve brings over a large chunk of prime rib on a fancy platter. You sigh, already preparing yourself for a plate full of salad and rolls.

Steve stands at the head of the table, raising his glass. "I'd like to propose a toast," he announces. "To my beautiful wife. You’ve stayed by my side through thick and thin, Colombia and beyond. I couldn't ask for a better partner in life. And to our friends gathered here tonight, thank you for being part of our family." Steve raises his glass higher. "Speaking of family, to my little sister, who just finished her first ever lead role. I can’t believe how talented you are. I’m so proud of you.” Steve’s voice falters as he chokes up in pride. Elliott places a soothing hand on your back as your breath catches at your big brother’s support. “Anyways, to good food, good friends, good family, and the best wife a man could ask for."

Everyone raises their glasses in agreement. You catch Connie's eye, and she gives you a subtle wink before you look across at Javi. His gaze is heated, his eyes looking right at you as Elliott rubs your back. For the first time, you actually feel like you’d like to know how it feels like to celebrate an anniversary, to look across the table and see the person you love, to spend the rest of your life with someone… just as Elliott leans forward and places a tender kiss against your cheek.

Javi shifts in his seat, his eyes narrowing, until he scratches against his chest pocket, drawing your attention downward. That's when you notice it–a flash of delicate lace peeking out from his pocket. Your eyes widen as you realize what it is. Your panties are folded neatly and tucked into his jacket like an ornate pocket square.

It’s right there at that moment you know you need to let Elliott go. He’ll never be Javier.

—-

You’re exhausted. Nomad only had its last performance last week, and you just got done with the first rehearsal for the director’s next play, Saturn’s Sprites. This time, Elliott did not get cast.

You rest your head on the train window as it buzzes against the tracks, taking you across the Potomac to Arlington.

Last night’s conversation with Elliott still weighs heavily on your heart. You went to bed last night, tossing and turning as you remembered how his face looked when you finally told him you couldn’t stay with him. The confusion, flashing into hurt, then turning to a quiet resignation… somehow, that felt worse than if he shouted at you.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" he'd asked, his voice calm as you sat across from him at that little café you both used to love.

Your silence was answer enough for him.

“It’s the guy from your brother’s parties, the one with the mustache. Isn’t it?”

You looked down at your untouched cup of tea. Another nod.

“He wouldn’t stop looking at you. I could see it. I was just hoping it was one-sided,” he sighed. “I guess I was wrong.”

He didn’t even storm out. He wished you luck and left the money on the table for your order. That’s the kind of man Elliott was, decent to the end.

The subway doors hiss open, and you step out onto the familiar platform. You’ve memorized how many steps it takes to ascend into the more upscale streets of Arlington.

You’re thankful you changed into a light cotton dress when the bright summer sun reflecting off the Potomac hits your skin as you make your way to Javi’s apartment.

You buzz the familiar intercom.

“Yes?” Javier says, always a hint of uncertainty in his voice, even when he’s expecting you.

“It’s me,” you reply.

There’s a pause, then a buzz, and the door unlocks.

You take the elevator, leaning against the shiny wall as it takes you up to his floor. The now familiar ding alerts you that you’ve arrived.

The hallway is cool compared to the heat outside, your sandals tapping softly against its low carpet.

You’re always tempted to pinch yourself whenever Javier Peña answers his door. All broad-shouldered and golden-skinned. His mustache lifts up in a smile, his brown eyes warm when he steps aside and lets you in.

This was something you used to dream about.

“How was work?” you ask before depositing your purse on the table that now has two placemats on top of it.

“Same old bureaucratic bullshit.” He pulls you in close for a hug before kissing your lips. “How was Elliott?”

“He knew. I didn’t tell him about… us, but… he expected it. He took it better than I expected,” you sigh. “I hope he’ll be okay.”

“He won’t,” Javi says matter-of-factly.

“Hm?”

He holds you close, tightening his arms around you. “You’re impossible to get over. Trust me, I’d know.”

You stay held in his arms, relishing in the comfort of Javier and his words. You sigh, trying to cover your yawn.

He pulls away, his brown eyes roaming over your tired features. “Go take a seat. I’ll get you a beer.”

You flop comfortably on his black leather couch, sinking into the coolness. “I’m so tired. The whole Elliott situation, along with finally starting on rehearsals–which have been insane, and the director’s a lowkey maniac.”

Javi nods as he grabs two bottles of beer and hands one to you before he settles on the couch beside you. Without a word, he gently lifts your feet onto his lap, his strong hands beginning to knead your soles.

You breathe out a long, happy sigh, taking a sip of your beer before launching into your tale of woe.

“So, it’s the same dude that directed Nomad, right? God, you wouldn’t believe this guy. He’s got us doing all of these ridiculous exercises. Today, he wanted us to 'encompass’ trees for a warmup. I stood there, silent, acting like a gentle breeze was wooshing past me for like… three minutes.”

You throw your head back against the cushion and sigh.

“How in the hell is that going to to let me understand my character better? I mean, I get it, we’re supposed to be nymphs in this production, but come on…”

He chuckles lowly as his thumbs work small circles into your arches. His eyes flick up to meet yours when you let out a small moan when he hits a particularly tender spot.

“Sounds like you need a distraction.”

“I do.”

In one fluid motion, he grabs your ankle and tugs, pulling you across the smooth leather until you're sprawled in his lap. His strong arms encircle you, one hand splayed across your lower back while the other cups your face.

His thumb brushes softly across your cheekbone.

“This distracting enough?” he whispers, his lips quirking into a small smile.

He kisses you, softly at first, then with growing urgency. Your hands thread through his hair at the nape of his neck, his hand on your back pressing you closer, molding your body to his.

He peppers kisses down to your neck, nuzzling the sharp angle of his nose against your skin.

“Stay tonight,” Javi says, his lips against your collarbone.

As if you could resist.

—-

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satellite-evans · 2 months ago

Text

soft ice cream

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: evening walks with Lando is your favorite <3

Word count: 1.8k+

Warnings: fluff, lando being a sap

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Evening walks with Lando had become a quiet ritual, a way to steal moments of peace amidst the chaos of his schedule. The air was crisp but not cold, the streetlights flickering on as the two of you strolled down the path, your hands occupied with dripping cones of ice cream. The world seemed to pause for just a moment as the city noise faded into the background, leaving only the occasional murmur of a passerby.

Lando had gone all out with his order—double chocolate with extra sprinkles, an unnecessary but entirely predictable choice. He’d always had a tendency to go overboard, to indulge in the little things that made him happy. You had chosen something simpler—a vanilla cone with a dusting of crushed nuts—which he had already tried to steal a bite of twice, his mischievous eyes never straying far from your cone.

“Seriously?” you scoffed, pulling your ice cream away just as he leaned in again, eyes gleaming with mischief. There was an unmistakable gleam in his gaze, a playful challenge that you were all too familiar with.

“What? Sharing is caring,” he quipped, licking a stray drip from the side of his cone before glancing at you with that lopsided grin of his. It was the kind of smile that could melt any argument, any resolve, and you knew he was fully aware of it.

“You have your own,” you pointed out, though it was pointless to try and reason with him when he was in one of those moods.

“Yeah, but yours just looks better.” He shrugged nonchalantly, clearly enjoying the game of trying to coax a reaction from you.

Rolling your eyes, you gave in, holding your ice cream toward him with a resigned sigh. “Fine, one bite.”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He took the tiniest, most obnoxious nibble before pulling back with a smirk, clearly savoring the moment. “Tastes better ‘cause it’s yours,” he said, his tone playful but soft, almost affectionate.

You shook your head, trying to hide the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips, but your stomach did an involuntary flip at the casual affection laced in his words. It wasn’t the first time his offhand comments had made your heart race, and you doubted it would be the last. There was something so effortlessly charming about him, the way he could make you feel like the only person in the world even in a crowded street.

A comfortable silence fell between you as you continued walking, the distant sound of cars and the occasional laughter from nearby cafés filling the air, adding a quiet rhythm to the evening. The world seemed to shrink around you, leaving just the two of you in this shared space. You absentmindedly switched your ice cream to your other hand, wiping your slightly sticky fingers on your napkin, not caring about the mess. The simplicity of the moment, the cool evening air, and the easy companionship you shared with Lando felt almost sacred.

That’s when Lando suddenly stopped.

You walked a few steps ahead before realizing he wasn’t beside you anymore. Turning around, you found him standing still, arms slightly outstretched, his palms open and waiting like he was expecting something—or someone. His eyes were wide, exaggeratedly so, and he was giving you a look that could only be described as mock disbelief.

“Oi,” he said, feigning offense. His voice was playful but exaggerated, full of fake indignation. “What’s this, then? Just letting go of my hand like it’s nothing?”

You blinked, amused. You had honestly forgotten about the simple gesture in the flow of your thoughts and the walk, but it was hard to stay serious when Lando looked so dramatic. “Lando, I literally just—”

“Nope,” he interrupted, shaking his head dramatically. His tousled hair bounced with the movement. “No excuse. You abandoned me.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was a soft, almost affectionate sound, and Lando's expression softened as if he was pleased to have pulled that reaction from you. “I was wiping my hand, you baby.”

“That’s not the point.” He stepped closer, closing the distance between you as he wiggled his fingers in front of you like a child demanding attention. “This—” he emphasized, shaking his fingers slightly— “is important.”

You fought the smile threatening to break free, amused at how seriously he took the simplest of things. Sighing, you took his hand again, letting your fingers tangle with his. His whole face brightened, a small but genuine look of relief crossing over him before he pressed a quick, almost reverent kiss to the back of your hand.

“There we go,” he said smugly, as though he had just solved some great crisis. “Crisis averted.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head in mock disapproval, but it was clear you were anything but annoyed.

“You love it,” he said, his voice teasing but warm.

You couldn’t help the soft smile spreading across your face, though you tried to hide it by looking away. The warmth in your chest gave you away. Even now, in these small moments, it was impossible to ignore how much you liked having him by your side.

A few moments later, Lando bumped his shoulder gently against yours, his pace slowing slightly as he stepped closer. His voice, when it came, was quieter now, more genuine, and it had a different kind of weight to it. “I like holding your hand, you know.”

You glanced up at him, taking in the way his eyes softened, how his gaze lingered on you with a sincerity that made your heart do a little flip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, his fingers giving yours a gentle squeeze, as if anchoring himself in the present. “Makes everything feel a little better.”

You felt your face heat up at the simple honesty in his words, the kind that made your heart thrum faster than usual. It was just a hand, just a touch, yet in this quiet moment, it felt like everything. Instead of responding verbally, you pulled his hand up to your lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles, your lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Lando’s steps faltered for a brief second, his breath catching in a way that made you smile even wider. His voice dropped an octave, low and warm, filled with a quiet, lovestruck laugh. “Oh, you’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing absent circles against your skin in a way that made your stomach do somersaults.

You just smiled, giving his hand another gentle squeeze as you both continued down the path.

Lando squeezed your hand back and shot you a sideways glance. “You know,” he began dramatically, like he was about to drop some deep wisdom, “I think holding hands with you is my new favorite hobby.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is it now?”

“Yup.” He grinned like a fool, his eyes gleaming. “A hobby that just so happens to involve the best person I know.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re such a sap, Lando.”

He gasped, hand clutching his chest in mock horror. “Excuse me, did you just call me a sap? I’ll have you know, this sap is just very in touch with his emotions!”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You're ridiculous.”

“I am ridiculously in touch with my emotions,” he replied, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “And holding your hand just feels so right, you know?”

You snorted. “It’s literally just holding hands, Lando. Not a life-changing event.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s life-changing.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s the little things, like this,” he added, wiggling his fingers dramatically like he was conducting an orchestra. “The world could be burning, and if I’m holding your hand, it’s all okay.”

“Yeah, sure.” You gave his hand another squeeze. “You’re a lovesick puppy.”

“Nope,” he said with mock seriousness, "I’m a romantic. There's a difference."

“You’re a romantic with no chill.” You shook your head, but couldn’t stop smiling at the silliness radiating off him.

Before you could say anything else, he bumped his shoulder against yours with a playful grin. “You know, I think I’ve discovered something about you.”

You looked at him, waiting for the punchline. “Oh? What’s that?”

“You’re secretly a big softie too,” he said, his grin widening. “I mean, how could you resist holding hands with someone as charming as me?”

You rolled your eyes again, though it was obvious you were fighting a smile. “You really think that highly of yourself, huh?”

“I’m practically a national treasure,” he said, puffing his chest out with mock pride. “And you, my dear, are the lucky one who gets to hold my hand. You're welcome.”

“Oh, I’m so lucky,” you said, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d be a shell of a person, lost in a cruel world without my charms and emotional wisdom.” He paused dramatically. “And, of course, without my excellent taste in ice cream.”

You snickered. “You’re a mess.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “But I’m your mess.”

You shot him a playful glance, your hand still wrapped in his. “You’re lucky I love your mess.”

“Well, duh,” he said with a grin. “I’m a lovable mess.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but your heart was full of warmth. Even with his ridiculousness, his endless antics, and his over-the-top emotional declarations, there was something undeniably endearing about him.

A few moments later, Lando stopped walking and turned to face you. He held his hand up like he was about to present you with something precious.

“Before we continue,” he said, his voice far too serious for the situation, “I have one final request.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

Lando dropped his hand to his side and shrugged dramatically. “Just a kiss on the lips, you know. For good luck.”

“Really?” you asked, giving him a deadpan look.

“Come on, it’s for good luck!” he said, pouting. “I’m basically begging here.”

You sighed, shaking your head but unable to hold back a smile. “You're impossible.”

With a flourish, you pressed a soft kiss on his lips, trying to not give a show to the people walking by.

After breaking the kiss, his face lit up, and he gasped in mock surprise. “Oh my god, I think you just made my day.” He dramatically wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I knew you cared.”

You snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and ruin your reputation by acting like a huge sap.”

Lando just grinned, leaning into you playfully. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You smiled, giving his hand one final squeeze. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he said with a wink, pulling you along as the two of you continued your walk, the playful banter and warmth between you carrying on as easily as ever. With Lando, the simplest moments were always the most fun.

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avis-writeshq · 11 months ago

Text

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader genre: established relationship warnings: mentions of assault, tiny bar fight, mentions of alcohol consumption a/n: i wasn't really sure how much i liked this, but i hope you guys do! i wanted to post something because i won't be online much for finals :( wc: 1.16k

You meant it when you offered to get the drinks for the table. You offer to do the first round: four rum and cokes, whiskey (neat, because Aaron would rather get his money’s worth) and whatever bright pink concoction Penelope ordered written neatly in purple glittery gel pen on an old receipt. Rossi’s glass of wine that he ordered costs double the entire order, and Spencer orders an Arnold Palmer.

“Did you want to start a tab?” The bartender asks kindly, her pretty green eyes framed by dark brown hair clipped by a barrette.

“Oh! Um, sure.” You smile, gesturing to the booth where the rest of the team were sitting at. “You can put it down for that table.”

She nods, tapping a few buttons on her POS system before looking back up at you. “There’s already a card for that table. Under… Aaron Hotchner?”

Your brows lift in surprise at her words, a laugh of disbelief leaving your lips. “Of course he did. That’s fine, thank you.”

You return carrying a tray of far too many drinks, setting them down with a soft sigh of relief. Everyone takes their respective drinks while Aaron pulls you into his side, his thigh pressing against yours as he lets his lips linger on the side of your head.

“Thank you for that,” he murmurs lowly into your ear, squeezing at the flesh of your waist. His other hand swirls his whisky around the glass. “Did you carry them alright?”

“Mm. I’ll have to go back to get Penny’s drink. The lady at the bar said it’ll be in a couple minutes or so because the order was so specific.” You’re smiling at him despite your original annoyance. “I meant it when I said that I would treat everyone to the first round of drinks.”

“I meant it when I said that I would take care of you,” he responds simply. “The drinks they ordered was more than just a pretty penny.”

From the corner of your eye you spot the bartender waving you over, and you laugh before pressing a soft kiss against Aaron’s face. “I’ll be right back, handsome.”

You really did mean it when you said that you would be right back. With a napkin wrapped around the cocktail glass, you turn around to make your way back to the table when a voice catches your attention.

“Pretty drink for a pretty girl,” the man comments, and it takes a second for it to register in your mind.

“Oh. Thank you, it’s for my friend and she is really pretty.” You smile politely. Wrong move.

“Not as pretty as you, I’m sure,” he continues, his eyes gleaming in your direction. You don’t really appreciate the way he thinks that his words are a proper compliment. “Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart. The name’s Colby.”

“That’s alright, I really do need to get back to my group.” You take a hesitant step away but he takes another step forward.

This is dangerous, how close this stranger is. Anxiety wells in your throat and your stomach drops with nerves.

“Just one drink,” Colby insists, inching closer. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

“I don’t need one,” you say, searching for your voice. “Excuse me…”

Colby scowls, taking a step forward as he tries to prevent your escape. His fingers graze against your side dangerously close to the waistband of your pants and you can’t help but jolt, the glass slipping from your grasp and shattering against the cold tile of the bar floor. Your heart plummets to your stomach as the man grunts in frustration.

“Look at what you did,” he snaps, shaking the drink off his hands. His eyes are dangerous as he glares at you, his hand lunching up and out, aiming directly for your arm. “You little–”

“That is enough.”

You almost cry out in relief when you see Aaron step in front of you, effectively shielding you away from the assault. He’s big and tall, and though you do not see him upset very often, it is even rarer for you to see him angry and mean.

Aaron stretches to his full height, his eyes narrowed and his gaze dark. He stares down this man– this pathetic excuse of a human being– with the same hatred and disgust as he does with the unsubs he faces on the daily.

“Oi, back off, would ya?” Colby sneers, crossing his arms over his chest. Aaron has half the mind to think that he would start stomping around like a petulant child.

For once, Aaron wastes no time digging into his suit pocket and pulling out his badge, a grim look on his face. “FBI. If you make one more comment or so much as glance in her direction again, I will be arresting you and taking you in for custody before you can breathe your next breath. Do you understand me?”

The silence is almost deafening and Aaron finds his patience withering with every passing second.

“I said, do you understand me?”

“Fuck you,” Colby snaps, drunkenly lunging with his fists clenched to clock Aaron in the face.

Aaron resists the urge to roll his eyes as he handcuffs Colby’s arms behind his back, dragging him out of the bar. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court…”

Everything after that is a blur. The bar awards you and the rest of the team free drinks and food for the remainder of your stay, and Colby is taken off to the nearest police precinct in record time. Regardless of all the delicious food, your appetite no longer exists as you curl into Aaron’s side, his arm draped lazily around your shoulders.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, his lips grazing lightly against your forehead. “I’m sorry that something like that happened. You didn’t deserve to go through that.”

“You didn’t deserve to almost be punched in the face,” You respond back, a wry smile spreading across your lips.

He laughs, squeezing your shoulder. “He was punching air, sweetheart. I don’t really know where he was aiming, but there was no way that he was going to actually hit me.”

Aaron watches you, the way you turn away from him and pick at your fingers. He exhales after a moment, dipping his head to meet your woeful gaze. “None of this–” he gestures to where one of the staff members is carefully cleaning up the broken glass– “is your fault. I hope you understand that. What happened was not your fault and you shouldn’t blame yourself for someone else’s actions.”

His words make you smile a little and you can’t help but press a soft kiss against his cheek. “Yeah. You’re lovely, Aaron, you know that?”

“I could say the same for you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, squeezing your shoulder again. “You’re the loveliest.”

reblogs are always appreciated!

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revasserium · 2 years ago

Text

death before decaf

opla!zoro; 10,414 words; coffee shop/college!au, vague enemies to lovers, fencer!zoro, sports medicine!major reader, slightly ooc zoro (he's a bit more talkative), fluff and flirting, bff!robin, zoro makes the first move, zoro calling reader "princess", mutual pining, both reader and zoro are dumbasses, making out in locker rooms

summary: sanji and nami bet on how long it'll take you and zoro to finally crack over your caffeine-related discourse; or -- that one coffee!shop zoro au that literally no one asked for.

a/n: i keep on saying "this is the longest fic i've written to date" but this really is the longest fic i've written to date. and no, this will not be the only time zoro calls reader "princess" in one of my fics. trust.

one.

“How long did you say?”

“Two weeks, max.”

“Nah… you think?”

“Probably closer to a week. Week and a half.”

Sanji stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe before tossing the smoking nub into the bin, casting Nami a disbelieving look.

“They’ve been going on like this for like three months… and you think they’re gonna crack in the next week and a half? Nah, fam — I call bullshit.”

Nami shrugs, smirking, “Your funeral.”

Sanji scoffs as Nami pushes through the swinging double doors into the main body of the cafe, hitching a smile onto her face as she greets the customers already lined up in front of the counter.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters to himself, dusting his hands off on his apron before pushing in after her, putting on his best customer-service smile.

“Mornin’ folks! Welcome to the Straw Hats Cafe, where the coffee’s hot but the people are hotter — what can I get started for you, sweetheart?” he grins as he shoots you a wink and you flash him your best Colgate smile.

“Can I get a decaf latte with —”

“Oat milk, two pumps of caramel, and whipped cream on top? Oh — and a sprinkle of cinnamon cause you can’t have a fall latte without cinnamon, right?” Sanji finishes for you.

You nod, your cheeks flushed a bright, wind-kissed pink from the cold outside.

Behind you, a green-haired boy in a tight-fitting tee and no jacket scoffs under his breath, shaking his head.

“Yep! You know me so well,” you say, giggling and making a point to speak just a bit louder.

“Course I do, darlin’. It’s what I get paid for,” Sanji jots down your order and pushes it to the side where Nami’s already halfway done with making your drink.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite mosshead jock — lemme guess, double espresso, no sugar, no nothin’, right?” Sanji punches in the order just as Zoro makes his way up to the counter, his eyes narrowed.

“Yeah.”

Sanji grins, hiking an eyebrow, “Talkative as always, I see. Alright — that’d be —”

Zoro wordlessly slides a full punch card onto the counter and Sanji pauses.

“Ah — pardon me, I do believe that’s your free drink! You sure you wanna use it on an espresso? Maybe… you wanna try one of our seasonal specials? The maple spice latte’s one of our best —”

Zoro scoffs again, “I’m good. I like my coffee real, thanks.”

Down passed the pastries, you roll your eyes, making an exaggerated face as Nami hands you your drink with a grin.

“Y’know, if you guys just made out I feel like it would fix a lot of this unresolved tension,” she says, even as you nearly choke on your drink.

You’re still coughing when Zoro joins you by the finished drinks counter.

“I’d rather lose an eye than make out with someone who drinks decaf.”

Nami sighs, shooting you a meaningful look as she slides the double espresso toward Zoro.

You wipe your lips with a napkin before leveling him with a glare.

“Well I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than make out with someone who never grew out of his middle school emo-phase.”

“At least I don’t try to use sugar to fill the gaping hole in your life where a real personality should be.”

“At least I don’t make that gaping hole my entire personality.”

“Princess.”

“Edgelord.”

You turn resolutely away from Zoro and smile back at Nami and Sanji, both stealing glances at the pair of you even as they continue to handle the Monday morning rush.

“Thank you guys — I’m gonna be late for class.

Zoro tsks, taking a sip of his espresso.

“I’m gonna be late for practice.”

You huff, pivoting away from him towards the door, purposefully letting it swing shut behind you; Zoro swears as it almost makes him spill his coffee.

Back in the coffee shop, Sanji finishes another order just as Nami washes off her hands to take over at the cashier.

“One and a half weeks?” Sanji asks as he rolls up his sleeves and grabs a few metal cups for steamed milk.

“Yep,” Nami replies, shooting another look out the glass door where they can both still see your’s and Zoro’s silhouettes as you head towards the university campus, “Just about.”

“Alright then, you’re on.”

Nami’s smirk only grows, “Like I said — your funeral.”

two.

You’re fuming all the way to your first morning class — Bio-Organic Chemistry — that you don’t notice your friend Robin until she’s standing right next to you.

“Are you mad at your fencer-boy again?”

You roll your eyes, huffing out a breath, “He’s not my fencer-boy, and no. I’m not mad.”

Robin grins, “Your tone says different.”

You cast her a reproachful look, “I just… bumped into him at the coffee shop again.”

“Ah,” Robin says, her voice saturated with understanding.

You groan, “He just… pisses me off so much! Like, why’s he care how much sugar I put in my drinks or if I drink decaf? He’s just a muscle-head loser who thinks drinking espresso shots makes him somehow more manly or something. Ugh.”

Robin’s grin is amused when you turn to chance her a glance.

“Then… why do you care how he takes his coffee?” Her question is light, but you’ve known her for long enough to know when she’s teasing.

“I didn’t! At least… not until he made fun of my drink first. I mean, who does that anymore? We’re in college! Like, grow up!”

“Mm,” Robin hums, schooling her expression into one of careful consideration and marked compassion, “and of course, you’re just engaging in his… childish antics because he started it first, right?”

You sigh, cupping your very sugary latte between your palms as you both duck into the main lecture building, teaming with students shedding scarves and jackets, shaking off the late autumn chill.

“I know, I know it’s stupid but… he just… pisses me off so much!”

Robin chuckles, her smile distinctly sphinx-like as you press your lips into a pout.

“Well, we can talk about it after morning lecture, hm?”

You sigh and nod, waving her off as she heads down the hallway towards her Ancient Worlds class and you head upstairs for the sciences.

You spend the whole lecture in a mood and by the time you’re excused, your temples have started to throb.

But true to her word, you find Robin waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, a thick leather-bound book clutched to her chest. You give her a questioning look.

“Just some light reading,” she says. You roll your eyes.

“Just say you’re a gigantic nerd and go.”

At this Robin laughs, falling into step next to you as you both start to make your way towards the dining commons.

“Have I ever denied that I was?”

You let out a noncommittal grunt.

Luckily, the commons isn‘t as crowded as it usually is and you both quickly find a seat.

“So,” Robin says as she slides into the seat next to you, propping up her chin on the heel of her hand. There’s a low, lilting tone to her voice that tells you there’s no getting out of it this time.

You sigh again, pursing your lips, staring down at your açaí bowl.

“So what?”

“Tell me about him.”

You scoff, “Not really much to tell — he’s… one of the fencers on the national team. So obviously, he’s got his own head shoved so far up his ass he can probably watch his own lunch dige—“

“So he’s quite good at fencing then.” Robin keeps her voice neutral, taking a contemplative bite of a banana.

“I guess — I mean we’re the top feeder school for the Olympic team, aren’t we?” You jab your spoon into the yogurt, nearly splattering Robin’s new book. She gently tucks it into her bag and motions for you to continue.

“I dunno, there’s not much to tell after that… he’s an arrogant jock who judges people by how they take their coffee,” and at this, you shove a large spoonful of yogurt and açaí into your mouth, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Doesn’t your practical applications class look after the fencing team?”

Again, you grunt, sinking a bit further into your seat at the thought.

“Yeah, I’ve been dreading that all morning, and the class isn’t till Wednesday.”

Robin’s smile is almost too academic as she carefully finishes her banana and gets started on an egg salad sandwich.

“It can’t be that bad, can it?”

You sniff, swallowing another huge mouthful of yogurt.

“It can,” you say, grimacing, “You should see the number of times I’ve had to hold back from dislocating his shoulder on purpose.”

Robin laughs her tinkling, all-knowing laugh, “Every day, I wake up glad to be on your whitelist.”

Your lips twitch into a reluctant grin.

“I’d be nicer too if I were as tall and pretty as you are. But since I’m not one of god’s strongest soldiers, I’ve gotta find other ways of defending myself, y’know?”

“I’m not sure what you do can be called ‘self-defense’ in a court of law but…” she smiles, “You shouldn’t sell yourself short either.”

You cast her a deadpan look, “But I am short. It’s like where 90% of my rage and spite come from.”

Robin grins, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You make a rather childish face, but a comfortable warmth spreads from the center of your chest out towards all your extremities at Robin’s words. She cocks her head and continues.

“Plus… I’ve a creeping suspicion that your fencer-boy would agree that you’re prettier than you think.”

You freeze mid-swallow on your last spoonful of yogurt, eyes wide.

“Wait — what?”

Robin sighs, looking at you as if studying a particularly interesting monolith carved with all her favorite dead languages. You sit back, crossing your arms, feeling raw beneath her inquisitive gaze.

“You can’t still think that this little… feud you two have is purely based on a difference in coffee preference, can you?”

You realize you’re chewing on your bottom lip and force yourself to stop.

“I — I don’t know how it can be anything else though…” but even to your own ears, you sound distinctly unconvinced. Robin cocks her head.

“Think about it — when we were all little kids and running around on playground, which girls would get their pigtails pulled the most?”

Your frown deepens, “But we’re not kids anymore and this isn’t a play —“

“Yes, I know. Just humor me for a moment.”

You squirm in your seat, your heart thudding erratically in your rib cage, making you feel strangely breathless.

“It was… always the girls that the boys had a crush on,” you answer, your voice growing smaller with each word as the realization seeps into your skin like sunlight. And suddenly, it's too hot. The thought that Zoro might be doing this because he likes you isn’t something that’s crossed your mind. Or rather, it isn’t a thought you’d allowed to cross your mind.

“You know, boys aren’t technically considered ‘men’ until they’re in their mid-thirties,” Robin says, conversational and satisfied to have driven the point home to you. She leans back even as you reach up to press your face into the palms of your hands.

“But…” you try to grasp for some thread of logic that might be able to refute Robin’s claim but come up empty. She’s always been too smart for her own good. And yours.

When you finally lift your head again, it’s to find Robin still watching you, an oddly indulgent smile on her lips.

“C’mon,” she says, gathering her things, “don’t want you to be late for your next lecture.”

She has the audacity to wink as you hurriedly grab your stuff as well.

“Shut up,” you say, bumping her lightly with your elbow as you walk passed her, cheeks darkening with every step. Your next lecture, you both know, is the Nutrition of Sports — which is one of the few actual classes that you and Zoro actually share.

“Have fun in class!” Robin calls as you split ways outside the dining commons. You consider flipping her off but decide against it and opt to stick out your tongue at her instead.

Robin shakes her head, laughing quietly to herself. Really, she thinks, this is just starting to get interesting.

three.

You walk into Nutrition of Sports fully prepared to see Zoro slouched in his usual seat at the back of the class — except, he’s not there. You blink; he’s always been there, always early despite what others might assume of his punctuality. And yet.

“Lookin’ for me, Princess?”

You jump as you hear Zoro’s voice behind you, dangerously close to your ear. Jerking around, you find him smirking, arms crossed as he stares at you.

“N-no.”

“Tch.” He saunters into the room, his arm barely grazing yours as he drops into his seat, leaning back with a sort of damnable, feline grace, doing nothing to hide a huge, lethargic yawn. When he makes a show of stretching his arms over his head, you pause as you notice the way he winces, favoring his left side over his right.

You narrow your eyes.

“You’d be a shit poker player,” he says, grinning as he turns his eyes back towards you, catching you staring before you flush a deep purple and stomp towards your own seat, just one row ahead of him.

You noisily start setting up your supplies — an endless parade of jelly pens and perfectly coordinated sticky notes in aesthetically pleasing colors — pretending like you hadn’t heard him.

Thankfully, the professor hurries in soon after as the rest of the students file in.

Halfway through the lecture, you’re stifling the third yawn of the hour as you feel a small, crumpled something hit the back of your neck. You jerk around to find Zoro ducking behind his arms even as you spot the small wad of paper that he’d obviously just tossed at you.

You bend down to pick it up, only to find a note scribbled in slanted, uneven handwriting —

Sugar crash? Ha. Serves you right.

You nearly whip around but the professor clicks another slide and drones on. You huff, flipping the paper over to scribble on the back —

What happened to your arm?

You surreptitiously toss the note back to him and grin to yourself as you hear him sputtering behind you. The professor glances towards you. You flash him a winning smile as you continue to jot down notes; behind you, you hear the distinct sounds of Zoro scrambling to appear as if he’s paying attention.

The rest of the lecture goes by uninterrupted, though by the end, you swear that your hackles are raised from the way Zoro’s been staring at the back of your neck the entire time.

“What?” you ask, whipping around to face him.

Zoro, for his part, has the decency to look sheepish as he clears his throat and sighs, leaning back.

“There’s nothing wrong with my arm,” he says as he looks away, a slight darkness dusting the high of his cheeks. It’s not the first time you notice the bone-chiseled features of his face — like some gorgeous, careless god, rendered by the loving hands of a besotted Renaissance artist and preserved for the world to see — the way a constellation of freckles scatter across the bridge of his nose, the way his jaw is sharp enough to sting the imagination.

“Right. Fine. Sorry I asked.” You shove your notes and pens back into your bag, rolling your eyes as you shoulder your tote, “And… you’d be a shit poker player too.”

And with that, you turn and leave the room without a single backward glance.

You’re gone so quick that you don’t see the way Zoro stares after you, his own eyes narrowed into slits. You don’t see the way he frowns as one of his teammates nudges him with an elbow, reminding him that afternoon practice starts in 15 minutes.

four.

Tuesday night finds you slumped over a stack of books on the 3rd floor of the library, your entire body feeling odd and boneless. Hundreds of tiny flashcards are scattered across the top of the desk, each filled with a system you have to memorize before your test on Friday for your O-Chem course, when suddenly, a white paper cup appears in your field of vision, plopping onto the tiny slip of table still available between all your study materials.

“Hm?” you jerk up, blinking blearily up at a vaguely familiar green-haired figure even as he crosses his arms and sighs.

“There. Some real coffee. Looked like you need it,” Zoro says, glancing away the moment your eyes come into focus.

You stare at him for a solid ten seconds before looking back down at the cheap, watered-down cup of unsweetened coffee on the table before you.

Ew, you want to say, but somehow, “Thanks,” is what comes out of your mouth.

You reach for the cup, wincing slightly as you jerk your fingers back from the scalding exterior of the thin paper cup.

Zoro immediately leans down, snatching the cup from the table to blow on the surface. You watch him with wide, wondering eyes. It takes him a second to catch himself before he blushes a deep shade of maroon and clears his throat, quickly setting the cup back down on your desk, tucking both his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you.

“It’s — careful — I mean — it’s from the vending machine downstairs so it’s not as fancy as the stuff we get from the coffee shop —”

Maybe it’s because you’re truly too tired, or maybe because Robin’s been right since day one but — you reach for the cup, carefully cradling it between your palms as you take a tentative sip and grimace at the watery, bitter aftertaste.

“Gross,” you say, though without any malice, glancing up at him. Zoro scoffs, dragging out an empty seat across from you, turning it around to straddle the chair, propping both his arms on the back as he looks at you. Your eyes once more catch on the way he’s gentler with his right side.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” you ask again, taking another tentative sip of the truly awful coffee.

Zoro grimaces, “None of your business.”

You sigh, the will to snark back rather feeble as you consider the mountain of vocab you have to memorize before your Friday test.

“Right, sure — keep your secrets,” you drone as you set the paper cup down and nudge it further away from you, “be mysterious for the next —” you check your watch, “eighteen hours before Practical Applications when you’ll have to explain to Coach Mihawk why you've been lying about an obvious injury three weeks before your next —”

“Fuck — okay.”

You pause, looking up from collecting your flash cards.

Zoro digs his fingers into his right shoulder.

“I — I think I pulled it at the tournament last week.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Your tournament was on Thursday.”

Zoro shifts uncomfortably, “And?”

“And it’s now Tuesday.”

Zoro doesn’t answer this time, but you have to actively fight down the urge to throw the no-longer-scalding-but-still-very-hot-coffee at his face. You tell yourself that the only thing stopping you is professionalism and sportsmanship instead of an unwillingness to damage his Michaelangelo-sculpted features.

“It’s been five days!”

Zoro’s expression flatlines, “Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to count.”

You bite back a frustrated scream as you push away from your chair and round the table to stand behind him, not giving him enough time to be bewildered before you press a palm to his right shoulder, already focused on finding the tender spots.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

You run an expert palm over the width of his shoulders, focusing on his right, fingers digging into various muscle groups until he winces.

“Ow.”

You grin as you find a tender patch to the right of his spine, almost beneath his shoulder blade.

“You strained your Rhomboid.”

“Gesundheit.”

You roll your eyes and reach over his back for the cup of coffee. You feel his breath hitch as your front presses full against his back.

“Hold still,” you say, pressing the side of the warm cup to the sore muscle.

Zoro makes a choked moaning noise that he tries to bite off, but not soon enough. It sizzles down your spine to curl at the base of your belly, spreading heat through your body in a way you have no urge to examine at this current point in time.

You hold it there for a minute, and then two, till the coffee’s gone lukewarm.

“Here,” you say, tugging the cup away to offer it to him.

He stares at the cup before glancing up at you.

“Caffeine helps with muscle soreness and pain — it’s probably why you’re so addicted to espresso all the time,” you offer by way of an explanation, even as he opens his mouth to ask. He closes his mouth and takes the coffee, downing half of it in a single gulp.

Then, he sets it down on the table before digging a crumpled packet of sugar out of his pants pocket.

“It’s… probably not as sweet as you usually like it but…” he presses it into the palm of your hand, looking anywhere but at your face, “should help the bitterness.”

And then he’s gone, slouching off towards the elevator bank, leaving you gaping after him with the packet of sugar in your hand, your rapidly cooling coffee, and a mountain of revisions you’ve got no hope of finishing tonight.

five.

Wednesday finds you practically sprinting as you reach your Practical Applications course, clutching at your chest as you burst through the gym doors, gasping for breath. Professor Kureha quirks an inquiring eyebrow at you while Mihawk, the fencing instructor, slates you a sharp, rueful glare.

“— as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” his bright hawk-yellow eyes flash back over the fencing team, “regionals are quickly approaching and we need you in top form. So — warm-ups stretches, everyone. Pair up and get to it. Zoro, up here with me.”

You duck your head and hurry towards your normal spot along the bleachers, slowing as you notice what looks like a cup of coffee from the Straw Hats Cafe occupying the place where you normally sit. You pick up the cup — it’s still hot to the touch.

On the coffee slip is a single word — Princess.

And though it’s in Sanji’s familiar coffee shop scrawl, only one person has ever called you that.

Heat crests up your chest, prickling at your cheeks. You don’t have to taste it to know that it’s your order — your favorite order. Briefly, you wonder if Sanji made Zoro recite the entire thing before agreeing to put it down, or if he’d spared Zoro the pain of having to say the word ‘decaf’ unironically.

And then you wonder if Nami teased him at all, waiting for his own drink on top of yours.

“Chop chop,” Professor Kureha says, grinning too wide as she wanders over, peering at you over her John Lennon shades, “you heard old Hawk-eyes — time to pair up.”

You hurriedly drop your bag and take a quick sip of our drink, letting out a soft groan of appreciation as the caramel-cinnamon goodness seeps into your blood vessels. Some nameless freshman hopeful from the fencing team is your partner for stretches and you patiently walk him through all the major motions, pushing on his back and laughing kindly when he can’t quite reach his toes.

You feel the faint tingle on the back of your neck that tells you someone’s staring, and you privately think that you don’t need three guesses to figure out who it is. But you don’t give Zoro the satisfaction of looking over till you help the blushing freshman finish all his stretches, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, reaching up on tip-toe to ruffle his hair even though he’s got a solid four inches over you.

When finally, you glance over towards where Mihawk is putting Zoro through his paces, it’s to find him flickering through the motions — flashes of silver, lithe, fluid — and you find your breath held captive in your chest by the sight.

You’ve always known Zoro to be a graceful fencer, but grace has nothing on the way he flows from one move to the next, each muscle drawn like a bow-string, each intake of breath timed and perfect. His arms and legs move in tandem and there’s a bewitching rhythm to the way his body breaks and bends. It is beauty and strength, dance and magic — power and promise and the sword-tip’s whish of premonition.

When he finishes, you suck in a breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding.

You watch as Mihawk murmurs something to Zoro, who winces, looking chastened before Mihawk waves him away and Zoro sets down his epee, making his way over to you.

You open your mouth, about to make some snarky remark but Zoro reaches over his back with one hand and tugs his shirt off in a single, unbroken motion. You gulp, your voice failing you as your eyes settle on the strong ripple of his muscles as he tosses his shirt aside.

Zoro smirks, “Keep starin’ and I’m gonna have to start charging.”

You rip your eyes away, fire licking up the length of your torso as you reach into your bag for a roll of sports tape.

Zoro slumps down in the seat in front of you as you take stock of his sweat-slicked torso, your eyes still catching on the patch of swollen muscle beneath his shoulder blade. You reach forward and run a thumb along it, careful of the way he hisses.

“A hot-patch is only going to do so much,” you say, frowning as you drop the sports tape to focus on massaging the tender bit of skin.

Zoro groans, his eyes falling half shut as you slowly work at the various knots in his shoulders. Your fingers are slow and deliberate, applying just the right amount of pressure. And more than once, Zoro has to bite back what he’s sure would’ve been an indecent moan before it rolls out of his mouth at the way your soft palms press into the planes of his back, the tenseness of his shoulders.

“Keep moaning like that, I’m gonna have to start charging,” you say, much too close to his ear.

Zoro jerks, even as you pull back, laughing. The sound makes his skin prickle up with goosebumps and he doesn’t want to think about the myriad reasons why.

“I bought you coffee, twice,” he grumbles, cheeks pink, his mind still buzzing from the warmth of your palms.

You hum, your fingers flickering over his skin, pulling away for a second before he feels something wonderful and cool pressing against his sore, aching muscles.

“You’re right… you did buy me coffee twice. Even though the first time was horrible vending machine coffee and I used most of it as a heating pad for your injury.”

Zoro grunts, letting you manhandle him as you gently twist his right arm into an array of different stretches to test his range of mobility.

“Still counts.”

You put down his right arm to test his left. Zoro chooses not to think about the way his body tingles where your hands touch him, and especially not where you’re standing too close, your chest occasionally brushing against his shoulder. He chooses actively not to think about the way he can smell the soft, coconut milk fragrance of your lotion as you lean over him, rambling about doing the proper warm-up and cool-down exercises.

He grins as you reach over mid-sentence to finish your drink and you pause, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

He shrugs, “Nothin’… just that… seems like you liked your drink.”

Your eyes slingshot from his face to the nearly empty cup in your hands.

“I always like my —”

They widen when you realize that Zoro had in fact ordered a double shot of espresso in your usual drink instead of your normal decaf. And, that you’d been too distracted by him to notice.

“I — it — wh —”

Zoro languidly rises from his seat, grinning, “Thanks for the treatment, Princess. I owe you one — lemme buy you a coffee sometime, yeah?”

You stare after him as he makes his way across the room, back to the rest of the team for proper bouts. You force down another blush as you shove the now-empty coffee cup into the nearest trash can, your heart skidding to the rhythmic squeak of feet shuffling against the floors, the bell-like ting of epee blades, the murmur of the watching crowd.

six.

Thursday morning finds you ill-rested and grumpy as you join Robin in the quad, heading for the Straw Hats Cafe during free period.

“Trouble sleeping?” Robin asks, looking you over with mild concern.

You grunt, adjusting your bag, “Had coffee too late in the day.”

At this, Robin frowns, “But you only drink decaf.”

You grunt again, not looking at her, “Yeah, well.”

Robin blinks for a second before a knowing smile splits her lips, “Ah… so. Fencer-boy’s made his move.”

You round on her, fists clenched, “He has not! He just — he just bought me coffee!”

Robin remains infuriatingly unfazed as she stares at you, “Yes. And to most, that would constitute as ‘making a move’. And here I thought you were a fan of romance novels.”

You turn away from her, huffing even as your cheeks fill with color, “I — I am.”

“So?” she asks.

“So?” you echo, cursing yourself for sounding like a petulant child.

“So…” she continues, patient as always, “he bought you coffee.”

You crinkle your nose, your stomach a roiling mess as the pair of you make your way across the quad and duck into the cafe to Sanji’s bright, welcoming voice, your eyes scanning the queue even though you know that Zoro’s got morning practice. This does not go unnoticed by Robin, though she mercifully elects to not question you about it.

“Yes, he bought me coffee. But instead of decaf, he made it a double-shot.” You try very hard to make this sound like a personal affront, but Robin only dips her head.

“Ah,” she says again, and you feel the urge to run out of the building even as the pair of you shuffle towards the front of the line.

“Hi there, oh! I’ve got a special message for you,” Nami says as you get to the registers, her voice silken with glee as she reaches behind the counter to tug out what looks like a receipt. You glance down at the paper, confused, but she only winks as she moves to ask what Robin would like.

You inch to the side, distracted by this strange turn, your eyes dropping to the slip of paper, upon which is scribbled — Good luck on test tomorrow. Evening bout. Gym.

You stare at the cryptic message for a full minute before Robin ushers you toward the counter where Sanji is pumping out drinks, making girls blush as he winks at them each in turn.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite Decaf Princess — though… seems like your tastes are a-changin’ these days,” Sanji says, grinning wide as you get to the counter, pushing a steaming cup towards you. You frown at the drink — cinnamon sprinkled atop a perfectly placed dollop of whipped cream, underneath which you’re sure is your favorite drink order. You look back up at Sanji.

“A certain mosshead jock put in an advanced order for you — said to give you an extra shot of espresso for the test you’ve got tomorrow.”

You sputter as Robin laughs beside you, thanking Sanji for her own Long Black.

“You know, you could just be normal and call it an Americano,” you say as the pair of you make your way out of the cafe. Robin grins, sipping at her drink.

“I could… but where’s the fun in that?” she slates you a glance, “More importantly, are you going?”

“To what?” you ask, not meaning to sound so defensive, but you can’t help it, and even as Robin sighs, you know that it’s useless.

“To the bout,” she says, unruffled.

You hunch into your upturned collar and your thick, layered scarf, cradling your drink, the sweet scent of syrup and cinnamon wafting up to tickle your nose. You blush at the thought of Zoro’s voice, full of morning gravel, shy as he lists out all the extremities you like in your coffee order.

“Maybe. I mean… why not, right?”

Robin nods, humming as she takes another long drink, “Mhm — why not indeed.”

You nudge her; she nudges you back. You both laugh as a church bell rings out from across the quad, sending a flock of birds scattering through the misty, morning air.

seven.

Friday evening finds you pushing through the wide gym doors, pressing your hands over the skirt you’d painstakingly picked out, chewing on your bottom lip.

You silently curse at Robin for pulling out last minute, begging off to some Ancient Languages focus group.

“I bet it’s not even real…” you mutter to yourself as you slip into the front row of the bleachers, looking for an empty seat. You somehow manage to look up just as Zoro is about to go on, his mask under one arm, his blade in the other.

You raise your hand in a half wave before catching yourself and shoving it back down, scowling as Zoro’s lips pull into a lopsided grin. You drop into a seat just as Zoro tugs his helmet on and stretches his arms. You tense as you see the slight wince he twitches away as he tests the weight of his blade.

But you needn’t have worried — the bout is quick and decisive, Zoro scoring one point after another, his blade flashing through the air, bright as fish scales. And before you know it, the buzzer sounds, marking his victory. You leap to your feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd as Zoro tugs off his mask and pumps his fists.

You catch his eye and for a moment, the wild rumble of the screaming crowd fades to a dull, thumping baseline. He jerks his head towards the lockers and you nod, swallowing hard as you duck through the still-cheering crowd towards the back of the gym.

When you get there, it’s to find him methodically polishing his blade, his mask set to the side, his thick jacket pulled down to pool around his waist, the rest of his protective wear scattered in heaps on the ground around him. You have half a mind to scold him for being so careless with what you know is expensive gear but you can’t keep yourself from staring at the wide planes of back, curving up to his shoulders, the thick cords of muscle that flex up either side of his neck.

He looks up as you shuffle in, your skirt suddenly feeling a bit too short, too risque for the near-winter weather outside.

You clear your throat and cast your eyes about the empty lockers. You don’t miss the way his gaze skates up your bare legs, pausing at the place where your skirt brushes the top of your thighs.

“Uhm — how’s your shoulder?” your voice sounds too high, echoing strangely along the white-tiled walls.

Zoro licks his lips and puts down his blade, rolling his right shoulder.

“Better but… still not great. Mihawk’s making me to do PT.”

You nod, letting out a soft laugh, “I’m glad. You’d never do it otherwise.”

He scoffs, “You know what that means though, right?” There’s a raw, rolling tension beneath his words, a sort of thickened expectation as he stares at you with dark, meaningful eyes.

You purse your lips, your stomach tightening.

“I —”

Zoro gets to his feet, and you barely register the soft clatter of his blade as it rolls to the side on the bench. He closes the space between you in three quick steps and you find yourself marveling at his speed — wondering vaguely if this is how all his opponents feel when he slips forward, the tip of his blade digging into their shoulder or stomach or the bend of their hip.

“Means we’re stuck with each other. At least till you fix me for regionals in two weeks.”

Your back meets the icy chill of the locker doors and the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them —

“Bold of you to assume that you’re fixable in two weeks.”

Zoro quirks an eyebrow, even as you resist the urge to clap your hands to your mouth, cursing inwardly at whatever the hell made you say that out loud. Your heart thuds an insistent drumbeat inside your chest as Zoro leans casually against the lockers next to you. Like this, you can feel the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his long breaths as he looks you over with sharp, curious eyes.

You think you can taste the sweet, tepid weight of his breath. It smells faintly of coffee and mint and synthetically flavored protein bars.

“Then…” he drawls, propping an arm against the locker door right next to your face, his eyes flickering from your lips up to your eyes and back down again. Your gaze is unabashedly caught on the shape of his mouth, but when you finally force yourself to look up at his eyes, it’s to find them warm and amused.

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

You gulp, “To fix your shoulder?”

Zoro shrugs, “That and… whatever else you think needs to be fixed.”

You purse your lips, an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies erupting in your stomach at his words.

“Who knows? Might take three weeks… might take — forever —” your words cut off as he leans in to graze his lips against yours. And you’re momentarily caught between delight and bewilderment that you’re right — they do taste of coffee and mint and salt — but that they also taste of a dull, throbbing hunger as he leans in to kiss you proper. And then, the blooming realization that you’re just as desperate as he is, pushing in, fingers scrabbling against the skin of his chest as his skim along the sides of your ribs, the dip of your waist.

He kisses you so deep and so long that you’re actually gasping when he finally pulls away to suck a stinging hickey into the smooth of your collarbone, his fingers digging grooves into your thighs as he hoists you up to press you against the cold, hard metal of the lockers.

You let out a clipped moan at the same time he does, and his right arm twitches, though he makes no move to let you go.

Distantly, your mind registers the fact that he’s still technically injured, but the part of you that’s hungry and clawing at the base of your stomach with a fierce, immutable need refuses to listen to reason. It takes more effort than it logically should’ve done to extricate yourself from his grasp, to push him away despite his disgruntled sigh as he stumbles back and stares at you with dark, dangerous eyes.

“What —”

“Fuck —” you hiss, even as you let your head fall back against the lockers, the dull thunk pulling a wolfish grin to his lips.

“Yeah, well —”

“Wait — no —”

Zoro cocks his head, “No?”

You reach forward to tug him back, to kiss him as deeply and desperately as you dare, but you pull away before he can properly sink into the kiss and you pin him with a look.

“We — your shoulder —”

“Fuck my shoulder —”

You shake your head, almost delusional with the heat and want and the insanity of it all, “No! We can’t! We — we’ve gotta take care of it first!”

Zoro rolls his eyes, “It’ll get better if we just leave it alone —”

You shake your head again, laughing as he presses back in, slower this time, grazing his knuckles along the skin of your jaw, tilting you back towards him.

“It won’t,” you say, softly, letting him run a thumb along your lips, “but… if you let me take care of it. It will heal faster…” you trail off, letting the implications simmer beneath the surface of all your unsaid words, and it only takes a second for Zoro to consider before he lowers you to the floor and starts haphazardly gathering up his things.

You drag a hand across your lips, watching him.

“So…” you feel yourself blush as you muster up the words but Zoro scoffs, already impatient as he shoves his stuff into one of the larger lockers and slams the door.

“Mine. It’s closer.”

eight.

His, is — in fact — much closer than you’d thought. Only two blocks from the campus, and in one of the most expensive dorm buildings. You wonder how much he must be paying for it before you realize that he's on a sports scholarship, but you can’t even bring yourself to be bitter as he lets you into his spacious dorm, the giant living room scattered with game consoles and opened cereal boxes, leading to a short hallway that opens into his bedroom.

It’s cleaner than you’d imagined, with a set of light green linens drawn neatly over a full-sized bed, and two sets of pillows.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, sweeping some energy bar wrappers into the trash from his desk as he tosses down his duffle bag.

You shake your head, looking around, your eyes catching on the thick volumes of fencing books, the endless stacks of sports magazines, the huge set of free weights on a rack in the corner by the closet.

“Uh… do you want a drink?” he asks, suddenly awkward as he scratches at the back of his head.

You turn towards him with a grin, “No. But I do want you to take off your shirt.”

Zoro blinks before he smiles and moves towards the bed, tugging off his shirt and tossing it to the side. You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he leans back on the bed, his perfectly tanned stomach flexing beneath the slanted desk-light as he watches you through lazily hooded eyes.

“On your stomach,” you say, your voice light and surgical as you open your own bag and tug out a tub of medicated massage cream.

Zoro stares for a second before the smile slips off his face to be replaced by a dull, knowing scowl. Still, he doesn’t argue as he flips onto his stomach and sighs, pillowing his cheek on his arms as he pouts at the wall.

“Like I told you — we need to take care of your shoulder first. Regionals are in two weeks. We can’t have you performing like you did tonight.”

Zoro attempts a glare over his shoulder as you carefully maneuver over his back and straddle his hips, warming your palms with the massage cream before setting to work.

“I still won.”

His voice is tight and petulant. You nod, sighing as you work your thumbs into the dip beneath his shoulder blade where you know he’s still sore. He hisses, jerking away from you. You pin him in place with your free arm and continue to roll your thumb across the bundle of muscle.

Two minutes in, you press a bit harder and he lets out a pitched whine that makes you pause in your ministrations.

“F-fuck —” he buries his face in his pillow, thumping a fist against his bed as you laugh and continue the massage, though taking care to be a bit more careful around his injury.

Nearly twenty minutes later, you climb off the bed and wipe your hands. Zoro groans, shifting to watch you with half-lidded eyes and color-stained cheeks.

“I know,” you say, holding up your hands, “that really hurt but you feel much better now, right?”

Zoro grins, sleepy as he blinks slowly up at you, “Yeah. Whatever.”

And then, a long moment later —

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, flipping onto his side and shifting on the bed as if to make room for you, “stay.”

You freeze, almost unwilling to believe your own ears as you finish putting away your supplies. You glance at him with tight lips and hopeful eyes.

There’s a tiny grin threatening the corners of his lips as he sighs, making a show of yawning and stretching.

“It’s late… and I don’t really feel like walking you back.”

You fold your arms, “I could just call campus security to escort me.”

Zoro stills for a second but a moment later, he casts his eyes up at the ceiling, “Yeah… you could…”

You make no move to leave.

“But you still owe me coffee in the morning,” he says.

You frown, “Wait, what? How’s that?”

He glances at you, “I’ve bought you coffee twice.”

“Yeah, but I just gave you a free 30-minute medical massage treatment for your shoulder.”

“You would’ve had to do it anyway on Wednesday in Practical Applications.”

You narrow your eyes, “Professor Kureha might not have assigned me to you.”

At this, Zoro scoffs, “Yeah right. You’re the best, and so am I.”

“S-she might not have!” you say, though there’s no real conviction in your voice. You both know that he’s right.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He turns away from you, making as if to go to sleep.

You glare at his back, dropping your bag with a loud thump.

“If anything, you owe me coffee now. That massage was worth at least two coffees, if not more.” You plop down on the edge of his bed, scowling at the opposite wall.

Zoro is quiet for a beat too long and you chance a glance at him, only to find him peering you with a strangely indulgent look in his eyes. You blush, tearing your eyes away.

“How’s breakfast?” he asks, his voice once again going soft. Your skin prickles with heat.

“What about breakfast?”

“Coffee and breakfast. That enough to pay for the massage?”

You can’t help the smile that threatens to break across your lips as you glance back at him and catch his eyes.

“I…. guess.”

Zoro chuckles, the sound so low in his throat that it makes you shiver. Quick as anything, he reaches over to pull you down towards him, easily looping an arm around your middle and flipping you both so that you’re pinned beneath him. You barely have time to gasp before you find his lips on yours once more, slow and sweet and shockingly steady.

You kiss him back, letting him push you gently into the crumpled linens of his bed. His fingers are light as he slowly works your skirt down your legs, reaching behind your torso to loosen your bra and tug your shirt from you in a single, smooth motion.

You shiver beneath him and he pulls back to stare. You search his eyes, feeling suddenly uncertain.

“God, you’re gorgeous…”

Heat crests into your cheeks as you try to look away. But he tugs you back with his thumb and steals another kiss.

“It’s late…” he says, pulling away to press your foreheads.

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip. “Yeah, I know…”

“Let’s sleep in tomorrow.”

You laugh, shifting as he curls his body around you, tugging you easily against his chest and pulling the covers over you both. A moment later, the lights click off and you’re both thrown into darkness. You let yourself relax into his arms, wondering just how you’re going to explain this to Robin tomorrow.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Zoro’s voice murmurs into the nape of your neck.

You grin, nodding as you press further back into him and he grazes a soft kiss along your skin.

“That kinda thinking needs breakfast and coffee first,” you say, to which Zoro chuckles, nodding as he lets you hook your ankles between his, your bodies settling against each other, warm and perfect, the curves and bends meeting like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally, finally finding each other at last.

You don’t have long enough to ponder on the light, musk-salt-sweet of his skin or the way you can feel his heartbeat as it threads along your spine or the way that somehow, the shape of him doesn’t feel foreign against the shape of you, before you’re already falling asleep. And to him, he doesn’t have time to ponder the lovely silk of your hair, just as soft as he’d always imagined, or the way your waist feels perfect beneath his hands, or how he’s somehow he’s always known the rhythm of your breaths before he too is falling into the warm embrace of a dark, sweet, restful sleep as well.

nine.

Saturday morning finds you both tangled in each other, the winter sun bright and cold as it slates through the slits of Zoro’s bedroom window. He wakes up first, shifting to stretch until he feels the weight of you beside him. And then suddenly, he's somehow achingly awake and aware of his body against yours, of your paced breaths and his own rapidly increasing heartbeat. For one bewildering moment, he can’t quite remember what brought him here, and then the scenes from the night before — the bout, the lockers, the kiss — the way you’d tasted, how utterly irresistible you’d been, blushing in the dim light of his room, your skillful fingers digging into his tender, swollen flesh — his own rash promise of breakfast and coffee — it all comes rushing back. Zoro lets out a long breath and leans in to brush his lips along your forehead.

You let out a light groan as you shift in his arms, and when you turn, it’s to find him watching you.

“Oh… hey.”

Your voice is quiet, almost shy as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, and he finds himself more endeared than he has words to say.

He clears his throat.

“Morning. Uh… sleep well?”

You laugh, the warmth of your expelled breath ghosting across his clavicle in a way that makes him shiver.

“Mhm… pretty well… and you?”

Zoro clears his throat, “Yeah. Guess it wasn’t… bad.”

He resists the urge to roll away, if only because your cheek is still pillowed on his arm, and he can’t bring himself to pull away from you just yet. So instead, he drops his nose into your hair and takes in the milky scent of your coconut lotion. Tiny, pin-pricks of desire shoot through him, teasing goosebumps into the skin of his back and arms, but he forces himself to lie still as you snuggle against his chest with a contented sigh.

“So… breakfast and coffee?”

Zoro grunts, “Hn. I did promise.”

You smile, letting yourself sink into the thick and syrup of his sleep-deepened voice, his moss-green hair even more tousled than it normally is as he adjusts his head on his pillow.

“Hey,” you say, breathless as you look up at him beneath the sweep of your lashes, your eyes so big and dark and wide Zoro wonders if they might swallow him whole.

“Hey,” he answers, just as breathless, uncertainty creeping up the center of his chest as he stares down at you, lying in the glistening, mercurial light, the bend of your shoulder kissed by the morning sun, the shape of you limned in silver and gold.

You lean up to kiss him before he has the chance to second-guess himself, and though he was the more bold, self-assured one last night, you press in against him this morning, the languid sweep of your tongue along his lips making him groan, helpless, against you. He tastes the satisfied grin at the corner of your mouth as he opens his own, his mind frizzing into gorgeous, white static as you spend what feels like hours exploring the sweet depths of each other's mouths — all tongue and teeth and kiss-swollen lips.

When finally you pull apart, he is more breathless than he’d planned for, his body too warm for his liking, an urgent, pulsing something burning at the base of his stomach as he fights the urge to shove you back and sink his teeth into your skin, to hear you hiss, to make you gasp, to leave the indent of his fingers along the soft flesh of your hips and thighs, to mark you as his in every way he knows how.

But instead, he places a lingering kiss on your cheek and sits up, slowly stretching his arms.

“Careful…” you warn, pushing yourself up as well, watching him, “how’s it feel?”

Zoro tests his right side, drawing his arm up and then to the side, and then pulling it across his torso.

“Whoa… so much better.”

You smile, satisfied.

Zoro chuckles, “Guess I really do owe you breakfast. C’mon.”

He slips out of bed, tugging open a drawer to toss you a thick sweater and a pair of sweatpants. For himself, he only tugs on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, even as you frown, squinting at him from where you’re nearly swimming in his clothes.

“You’ll freeze.”

Zoro smirks as he looks you over, reaching over to pull the hood over your mussed tangle of hair, “Nah, I’m fine.”

You pout, jerking open the drawer to pull out a sweater and tossing it at him.

“You have to keep your right side warm so your muscles don’t just seize up again.”

Zoro stares at the sweater in his hand, looking reluctant before you press your lips into an exaggerated pout.

“C’mon… I worked so hard on getting it better last night… please?”

Zoro groans, rolling his eyes as he tugs on the sweater.

“Yeah, yeah — fine. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he extend his hand. But the pair of you walk elbow to elbow, hip against hip down the bright dorm room hallway, into the chilly Saturday morning air.

“Geez, if you’re gonna yell at me to keep warm —” Zoro reaches over to tug on the drawstrings of your sweater, frowning as he notices how much skin he can still see beneath the opening of the hoodie.

You blush, tugging at it as the pair of you make your way across the empty campus quad.

Halfway across the frost-kissed lawn, he wordlessly reaches out to catch your hand in his, tucking your entwined fingers into the depths of his pocket. You bite back a stupid, dopey grin as you duck your head, quickening your pace to keep up, your footsteps crunching in the dew-bitten grass, the freshly raked gravel.

ten.

There’s already a decent line at the Straw Hats Cafe, but when the pair of you walk in hand in hand, both Sanji and Nami pause for a second longer than usual. Sanji’s eyebrows jerk up his forehead while Nami’s lips curl into a much too satisfied grin as she turns back to the humming espresso machines.

You savor in the smell of freshly ground coffee, absently tracing your thumb over the back of Zoro’s hand.

When you both reach the front, Sanji looks between you expectantly.

“Well, well, well — I’d like to say I’m surprised but —” he shrugs, grinning cheekily, “Well then I’d be lying, wouldn’t I?”

Zoro clicks his tongue but you shoot him a sheepish smile, pursing your lips.

“So… the usual then?” Sanji asks, his fingers poised over the register.

“Yep,” Zoro says, curt as ever, though there’s a distinct blush on his cheeks that not even he can write off as anything else.

You nod as well, “Oh, but… I think I’ll try a non-decaf latte this time. Just one shot of espresso though, please and thank you.”

Sanji blinks at you for a second before letting out a startled laugh and nodding, punching in your order.

“Coming right up, sweet cheeks. Right then, that’d be 8.75 for the latte and 5.50 for the double espresso.”

Zoro reaches into his wallet and pulls out a 20, slipping it across the counter. Down the bar, Nami is humming, looking cheerier than you’ve ever seen her this early in the morning as she goes about making your drinks.

Sanji sighs as he shakes his head, handing Zoro his change.

Zoro narrows his eyes but Sanji cuts him off.

“Take it from me, fam. You don’t wanna know.”

You and Zoro share a puzzled look as you both shuffle down to the pick-up counter, where Nami is sliding your finished drinks toward you with a bright, knowing glint to her eyes. Zoro clears his throat and reaches over for a packet of sugar, nonchalantly tipping it into his drink before picking it up to take a sip.

You try not to gape as you grab your own drink, flashing Nami a quick smile before turning to follow Zoro.

He picks a table as far away from the counter as possible, tucked into a corner, nearly invisible to the rest of the shop. When you sit down, he frowns at your chair for a second before reaching out to tug you across the floor till your chair is next to his. He goes back to his drink without a single word.

It’s all you can do to blush and stare at your steaming cup.

“I thought we were getting coffee and breakfast,” you say after a brief moment of silence.

Zoro grunts, “We are. Coffee first.”

You nod, somewhat mollified as you take another sip of your drink. The warmth trickles down your chest to rest somewhere in the center of your stomach, spreading heat throughout your body in waves.

“We could just get a chocolate croissant,” you say, giving Zoro a sidelong look.

Zoro frowns, tapping his finger against the side of his cup, “Dessert isn’t breakfast.”

You scoff, “Says who?”

Zoro’s expression flatlines, “Says me. And I’m payin’ for it.”

You purse your lips, wondering if you should argue more before deciding against it. A few seconds later, Zoro sighs, casting his eyes about the cafe interior.

“We can have a croissant after real breakfast.”

You giggle into your drink, swallowing down the glee fluttering in your stomach, threatening to spill out of your still kiss-chapped lips.

“Kay, whatever you say.”

Zoro rolls his eyes and folds his arms, but his elbow presses against yours and he doesn’t make to move away.

Across the cafe, Nami leans to watch the pair of you, Sanji at her side, looking both stunned and somewhat pained.

“C’mon man, it’s not even been a week!”

Nami grins, rinsing out a few cups and placing them mouth down to dry before pivoting on her heels and holding out an expectant palm. Sanji sighs as Nami’s eyes glitter with mirth and a hard-won glee.

“Right. I think you owe me fifty bucks.”

Sanji narrows his eyes, glancing back at where you and Zoro are tucked into the corner of the cafe.

“Double or nothing on when they’ll have their first fight. I say… not till next week.”

Nami’s eyebrows twitch up. She looks back at where the pair of you are now bickering over where to have breakfast. A smirk teases at her lips.

She puts down her hand, “Alright then… but like I said — it’s your funeral, Sanji.”

Over in the corner, there’s the dull scrape of chair legs as you push yourself away from the table to fold your arms.

“— Belgian waffles are absolutely an acceptable meal for breakfast!”

Zoro rolls his eyes, though there’s still an amused spark behind his eyes.

“Breakfast without eggs ain’t real breakfast. And doesn’t count if it’s smothered in syrup either.”

You make an indignant noise, frowning even as Zoro tugs you back to press a napkin to your upper lip, where there’s a faint line of whipped cream residue.

Sanji backpedals immediately, “Uh — right so, I feel like we need to define what really constitutes a ‘fight’, yeah?”

Nami tuts, shaking her head, “Nope! A bet’s a bet. Now pay up.”

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